Roland Cheek's Blog - Posts Tagged "new-guinea"
Please Take A Seat
THE DOGGED AND THE DAMNED
ONE SOLDIER'S WAR AT HOME
Eventually, this title will be released to Amazon’s Kindle Store with the nearby new cover, an additional chapter, modest editing changes, and marketing that will depict what the book is really all about: an adventure thriller based-on-events that occurred in the town where I came to manhood. The story is filled with World War II battle scenes and an ex-soldier suffering from the effects of psychological war scars; a tragic hero who only wishes to be left alone and, who repeatedly escapes detention in order to live by his wits in the wilds. Unfortunately, neither the Veterans hospital system or a media-hungry county sheriff agrees. That’s when they discover just how “crazy” the former jungle fighter really is!
We hope you’ll enjoy this rendition of Roland’s finest book in its thrice-weekly (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday) installments. Tune in regularly to follow the succeeding adventures of a suffering ex-soldier determined to regain his freedom.
And now . . . .
1)
“Today, we’ll talk about Buna, Michael. Please take a seat.”
The patient did as instructed, glancing out the office window where a steady drizzle fell; a drizzle he’d watched for hours from his own room’s window.
The psychiatrist continued to shuffle through a stack of papers, pausing from time to time to read a passage or study a diagram. Michael stared at the man, through him, to another place and time….
This drizzle, steady though it might be, is only the drip of a leaky faucet compared to what constantly beat down on us in New Guinea.
Private Mikhail Baranovitch flew into the jungle airstrip at Wanigela on October 16, one soldier among a compliment of replacements for the 128th Regiment of the 32nd Infantry Division; a division depleted by malaria and dengue fever and yellow jaundice. The flight over the mountains from Port Moresby was quick, during a break in the weather, no more than an hour. Private Baranovitch wished he could’ve had a window to view all the mountains towering from lift-off to touch-down. Fortunately, he was crammed into a space alongside the B-17’s port waist turret and the gunner let him take a quick glance out. In the hazy distance was a lofty peak tipped in white. He asked the gunner if the white was snow or limestone, but the man merely shook his head before shoving Michael back to his seat so the airman could reassume his post at the twin 50-calibers.
“All right Michael,” the doctor said as he laid the papers to his desk, “tell me about Buna. Were you transported by troop ship?”
The patient’s laugh was a sharp bark. “That came later. Actually, the next day.”
“The day after what, Michael?”
“The day after we flew in.”
“I see. So you arrived in New Guinea by air.”
“No.”
“Michael, I’m trying to help you. You say you flew in to New Guinea, but you never arrived by air. How could that be?”
“We went to Port Moresby by ship, then flew across to Wanigela in a B-17.”
“I see. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Then they put us on small ships they called trawlers to go to this place called Pongani.”
The doctor rifled through the papers on his desk, found the one he searched for, then began to read. As he did, Michael’s mind spun backward: We marched from Wanigela to the sea carrying duffel bags and weapons. From the beach, we loaded into outrigger canoes paddled by Papuan natives who took us out to two trawlers anchored offshore. Me and fifty-five other men boarded the King John. Forty-six additional replacements were shoe-horned into a smaller sister ship, the Timoshenko.
The trawlers coasted along what he overheard an officer say was uncharted waters off Cape Nelson. All afternoon and most of the night, they coasted. It was during the night, while he watched the phosphorescent water curling from the King John’s bow that the newspaper guy said, “Where’re you from soldier?”
He turned to see this gruff old guy somebody said was a reporter from the New York Times standing at his side. The reporter was as tall as Michael and quite a bit beefier. He said, “Butte, sir. Montana.”
“You don’t need to ‘sir’ me, soldier. My war was the last one and I never rose far enough in rank for anyone to do it then, either.”
Michael said nothing to that, so the reporter asked, “Why you here, son?”
The young solder saw the man had out a notebook and a stub of pencil. He didn’t know what the guy wanted to hear, so he said, “Same reason the rest of ’em are, I suppose.”
The Times guy smiled. “How old are you?”
“Comin’ twenty.”
He smiled again. “Nineteen. How long you been nineteen, private?”
“A month. A month and a week, more or less.”
“So you weren’t drafted, were you?”
“No.”
“When did you join?”
“Last January.”
He jotted something else down. “Well, private,” he said, “despite what you say, you’re not like most of these soldiers. Most of them were drafted. So you joined because of ‘Pearl’?”
“No, I joined because of my coach. And my papa.”
The Times guy didn’t seem to hear. Or maybe didn’t care. Instead he stared down at the purling bow wave and asked, “Are you scared?”
Michael chuckled. “Scared? Of what? So far, I got to spend most of the winter outdoors in boot camp at Fort Lewis. Then I got a train ride to Frisco, took a pleasure cruise to Australia, a ferry ride to Port Moresby, then caught a plane to Wanigela. After Wanigela, natives paddled me around in an outrigger canoe; now I’m on a slow boat coasting over green coral reefs and into deep bluewater bays in the South Pacific. Over yonder is Tahiti and overhead every star in the whole universe sprinkles down. And to top it off, all the guys on this boat—every one of which seem nice—will do to go on a camp-out with. Frankly, Mister …”
“Durham. Barnaby Durham.”
“… I ain’t never had it so good, and never would’ve, or even could’ve if I’da stayed in Butte, Montana. Hell, this is an adventure. A south seas adventure.”
Barnaby Durham scribbled for quite a while. He still stood by Michael’s side, but the journalist wasn’t paying any attention to the bow wave or reef colors in the moonlight. The young soldier wasn’t even sure if the guy knew when the trawler crew cut the engines and dropped anchor. But …
“Michael, I asked you a question.”
Michael’s eyes cleared and there was Dr. Henderson with eyebrows arched and chewing on a lip. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“I asked why they took you to Pongani?”
“They didn’t.”
“I thought you said that was where your outfit was going.”
“Was. But I didn’t get there.”
The doctor shook his head, puzzled. “So your outfit never got to Pongani. So where …”
“The outfit—most of ’em anyway—got there. I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you get to Pongani, Michael?”
“Got blowed off the boat. Had to swim for shore. Barney didn’t make it to Pongani, either. He didn’t make it home, either. Shell fragment in the head, I was told.”
We hope you’ll enjoy this rendition of Roland’s finest book in its thrice-weekly (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday) installments. Tune in regularly to follow the succeeding adventures of a suffering ex-soldier determined to regain his freedom.
ONE SOLDIER'S WAR AT HOME
Eventually, this title will be released to Amazon’s Kindle Store with the nearby new cover, an additional chapter, modest editing changes, and marketing that will depict what the book is really all about: an adventure thriller based-on-events that occurred in the town where I came to manhood. The story is filled with World War II battle scenes and an ex-soldier suffering from the effects of psychological war scars; a tragic hero who only wishes to be left alone and, who repeatedly escapes detention in order to live by his wits in the wilds. Unfortunately, neither the Veterans hospital system or a media-hungry county sheriff agrees. That’s when they discover just how “crazy” the former jungle fighter really is!
We hope you’ll enjoy this rendition of Roland’s finest book in its thrice-weekly (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday) installments. Tune in regularly to follow the succeeding adventures of a suffering ex-soldier determined to regain his freedom.
And now . . . .
1)
“Today, we’ll talk about Buna, Michael. Please take a seat.”
The patient did as instructed, glancing out the office window where a steady drizzle fell; a drizzle he’d watched for hours from his own room’s window.
The psychiatrist continued to shuffle through a stack of papers, pausing from time to time to read a passage or study a diagram. Michael stared at the man, through him, to another place and time….
This drizzle, steady though it might be, is only the drip of a leaky faucet compared to what constantly beat down on us in New Guinea.
Private Mikhail Baranovitch flew into the jungle airstrip at Wanigela on October 16, one soldier among a compliment of replacements for the 128th Regiment of the 32nd Infantry Division; a division depleted by malaria and dengue fever and yellow jaundice. The flight over the mountains from Port Moresby was quick, during a break in the weather, no more than an hour. Private Baranovitch wished he could’ve had a window to view all the mountains towering from lift-off to touch-down. Fortunately, he was crammed into a space alongside the B-17’s port waist turret and the gunner let him take a quick glance out. In the hazy distance was a lofty peak tipped in white. He asked the gunner if the white was snow or limestone, but the man merely shook his head before shoving Michael back to his seat so the airman could reassume his post at the twin 50-calibers.
“All right Michael,” the doctor said as he laid the papers to his desk, “tell me about Buna. Were you transported by troop ship?”
The patient’s laugh was a sharp bark. “That came later. Actually, the next day.”
“The day after what, Michael?”
“The day after we flew in.”
“I see. So you arrived in New Guinea by air.”
“No.”
“Michael, I’m trying to help you. You say you flew in to New Guinea, but you never arrived by air. How could that be?”
“We went to Port Moresby by ship, then flew across to Wanigela in a B-17.”
“I see. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“Then they put us on small ships they called trawlers to go to this place called Pongani.”
The doctor rifled through the papers on his desk, found the one he searched for, then began to read. As he did, Michael’s mind spun backward: We marched from Wanigela to the sea carrying duffel bags and weapons. From the beach, we loaded into outrigger canoes paddled by Papuan natives who took us out to two trawlers anchored offshore. Me and fifty-five other men boarded the King John. Forty-six additional replacements were shoe-horned into a smaller sister ship, the Timoshenko.
The trawlers coasted along what he overheard an officer say was uncharted waters off Cape Nelson. All afternoon and most of the night, they coasted. It was during the night, while he watched the phosphorescent water curling from the King John’s bow that the newspaper guy said, “Where’re you from soldier?”
He turned to see this gruff old guy somebody said was a reporter from the New York Times standing at his side. The reporter was as tall as Michael and quite a bit beefier. He said, “Butte, sir. Montana.”
“You don’t need to ‘sir’ me, soldier. My war was the last one and I never rose far enough in rank for anyone to do it then, either.”
Michael said nothing to that, so the reporter asked, “Why you here, son?”
The young solder saw the man had out a notebook and a stub of pencil. He didn’t know what the guy wanted to hear, so he said, “Same reason the rest of ’em are, I suppose.”
The Times guy smiled. “How old are you?”
“Comin’ twenty.”
He smiled again. “Nineteen. How long you been nineteen, private?”
“A month. A month and a week, more or less.”
“So you weren’t drafted, were you?”
“No.”
“When did you join?”
“Last January.”
He jotted something else down. “Well, private,” he said, “despite what you say, you’re not like most of these soldiers. Most of them were drafted. So you joined because of ‘Pearl’?”
“No, I joined because of my coach. And my papa.”
The Times guy didn’t seem to hear. Or maybe didn’t care. Instead he stared down at the purling bow wave and asked, “Are you scared?”
Michael chuckled. “Scared? Of what? So far, I got to spend most of the winter outdoors in boot camp at Fort Lewis. Then I got a train ride to Frisco, took a pleasure cruise to Australia, a ferry ride to Port Moresby, then caught a plane to Wanigela. After Wanigela, natives paddled me around in an outrigger canoe; now I’m on a slow boat coasting over green coral reefs and into deep bluewater bays in the South Pacific. Over yonder is Tahiti and overhead every star in the whole universe sprinkles down. And to top it off, all the guys on this boat—every one of which seem nice—will do to go on a camp-out with. Frankly, Mister …”
“Durham. Barnaby Durham.”
“… I ain’t never had it so good, and never would’ve, or even could’ve if I’da stayed in Butte, Montana. Hell, this is an adventure. A south seas adventure.”
Barnaby Durham scribbled for quite a while. He still stood by Michael’s side, but the journalist wasn’t paying any attention to the bow wave or reef colors in the moonlight. The young soldier wasn’t even sure if the guy knew when the trawler crew cut the engines and dropped anchor. But …
“Michael, I asked you a question.”
Michael’s eyes cleared and there was Dr. Henderson with eyebrows arched and chewing on a lip. “I’m sorry, what was the question?”
“I asked why they took you to Pongani?”
“They didn’t.”
“I thought you said that was where your outfit was going.”
“Was. But I didn’t get there.”
The doctor shook his head, puzzled. “So your outfit never got to Pongani. So where …”
“The outfit—most of ’em anyway—got there. I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you get to Pongani, Michael?”
“Got blowed off the boat. Had to swim for shore. Barney didn’t make it to Pongani, either. He didn’t make it home, either. Shell fragment in the head, I was told.”
We hope you’ll enjoy this rendition of Roland’s finest book in its thrice-weekly (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday) installments. Tune in regularly to follow the succeeding adventures of a suffering ex-soldier determined to regain his freedom.
