Scott A. Meehan's Blog, page 10
August 19, 2014
Love in the House of War
Excerpt:
Ron took aim and shot one of the guards behind the girl while Chris took care of the other one in like fashion. Shararah ran towards the back of the building next to the mosque. Suddenly, shots rang out from several buildings, all in the direction of Ron, Chris, and Mohaqeq, who went down with a shot to the leg.
“Come on!” Ron shouted. Both Ron and Chris ran towards Mohaqeq, firing their weapons, now on fully automatic, towards the areas where the firing seemed to originate. Chris stopped where Mohaqeq lay while Ron kept running towards Shararah, who had taken cover behind a wall, just ten feet from Khan. Chris began to lift Mohaqeq up when bullets seemed to be spraying all around them. Ron reached the girl and started to bring her back through the haze of bullets.
“No! I know a better way!” Shararah shouted in English. “Follow me!”
The two of them ran behind the building and across a field towards a wood line at the base of a mountain. She immediately led Ron up a path heading up the mountain leading south. Ron seemed hesitant. “Come, now!” Shararah shouted. “Those were Taliban who were hiding and waiting for you! There are many! It is a trap! I know where we can hide in safety for the moment.”
Ron heard an increase in popping sounds, many of which were from American M4s. Just when Chris thought that it couldn’t get any worse, a heavy volume of return fire came from other members of his team, along with Masood’s men. They were firing back at the hideouts where the Taliban were shooting from. Soon the gunfire stopped.
Ron began urging Shararah to return with him towards his team until six Taliban soldiers came running from the building towards their location. The imam, Atta Khan, was among them.
“Come now! Please hurry!” Ron decided not to shoot at the men but let off a quick spray of bullets in front of them causing them to take cover. Then, he followed Shararah up the path. She moved briskly with predetermined gusto, knowing her destination quite well. Ron kept up, surprised by her fast-pace, with an occasional glance over his shoulder to see how closely they were being pursued.
August 18, 2014
Excerpt from, Love in the House of War. The first meeting
Anticipating his next mission before him, Ron took in his surroundings. Donkeys were hauling loads of handmade bricks; men struggled on their wobbling bikes and women scurried along in their blue burkhas, avoiding any undue attention. His rucksack laid at his feet. It contained ammo for his M4 carbine, a compact version of the M16A2 rifle, with a collapsible stock, a flat-top upper receiver accessory rail and a detachable handle/rear aperture site assembly. The M4, designed for Urban warfare, enabled Ron and other soldiers to operate more efficiently in close quarters.
While taking in the sights, one particular visual caught Ron’s attention and stopped his thought process for a brief moment. One block away, standing near a small vaulted house made of mud and brick, Ron watched a small group of women wearing their powdered blue-colored burkhas. Although their faces were hidden beneath the fabric lining of their veils, he could tell that they were watching him as they talked excitedly and giggled amongst themselves. Ron smiled sheepishly and looked away as if he did not notice them.
To his astonishment, one of the six girls, who stood head and shoulders above the rest, beckoned him with her hand. “Come here!” The girl called out in English.
Startled, Ron looked to his left and right, wondering if any of the locals were watching, and then, looking back at the group, slowly shook his head sideways.
“Yes, please! It is okay! You are seeking the clinic?” The voice called out again. Ron could not tell who actually spoke, but her command of the English language impressed him.
Ron wondered. How could an Afghan girl out here in the middle of nowhere speak English, so well? I wonder what she knows about the clinic.
Although they were told not to speak to the women in public, Ron took a chance and after looking to his right and then his left once again, he walked over towards the group. The girls stood their ground as he approached, somewhat surprising him since he thought that they would disperse as he got closer.
Stopping a few feet away, Ron thought about what he might say. Looking at the tallest girl he began speaking in Dari. “Salam. Chetoori (Hello. How are you)?”
“Man khoobam, mersi (I’m fine thank you).”
“You speak English very well.” Ron added. “Where did you learn it?”
The tallest girl answered and said, “I can speak four languages, Dari, Pashto, English, and Russian.”
“That’s very impressive.”
“Please, I am a nurse here, and this is a clinic. Did you bring some spare medical supplies that you can provide for us? Did you come to help us?”
“Yes, in fact, we did come here to help you. This is the clinic?”
The other girls giggled because, according to the girl speaking to Ron, they had not heard English being spoken so fluently between two people.
“This is wonderful that you can come. Please, get your things and come inside. We will be very happy for you to help us, and it is wonderful if you could spare anything at all. We are always in such great need of supplies.”
“Sure, let me get my partner and my supplies and we’ll be back.”
“Yes, thank you so much! Hurry please.”
Just then a local man dressed in a traditional mix of clothing that included a large white cotton-fabric head-dress, emerged from the bazaar. He wore a collarless, lightweight cotton, loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt that hung down over his wide trousers gathered on a drawstring. A fine embroidered design covered portions of his shirt on the front. Two to three others joined him wearing similar clothing.
Ron sensed a little trouble as the group of girls scattered into the clinic, disappearing quickly from sight. The one who spoke with Ron allowed all of the other girls to go inside first as she stood in the doorway.
Ron watched them disappear into the building and began to walk away when the girl suddenly removed her veil from her face and said, “My name is Shararah. Please come back with supplies as soon as you can.” Then, she stood there for a brief moment smiling at him as if leaving him a reason to come back with the medical supplies.
Stunned, Ron stopped dead in his tracks, speechless by both her unsuspecting beauty and her apparent intelligence. Her almond shaped eyes sparkled through her smooth, nearly perfect light skin and painted eyelashes. Her quick smile exposed flawless, shiny white teeth, lined in perfect rows like a picket fence surrounding a beautiful garden.
New Day
This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it (Psalm 118:24). I will seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously (at least try), and he will give me everything I need (Matthew 6:33). I will rejoice in the Lord always… (Philippians 4:4) and not fear bad news; I confidently trust the Lord to care for me (Psalm 112:7). http://almscott.weebly.com
July 13, 2014
Love in the House of War
Trailer: http://youtu.be/esaITzjHYhg
April 14, 2014
Eternal Eye
David scanned the television screen and was both fascinated and confused by what he saw as revealing signs to his dilemma. He surmised that he was either going through a very weird real-like dream, or else, somehow had slipped back into the past. Maybe, I quite simply, died and gone to heaven! David discounted his last option because he grew up believing that Jesus would meet him and usher him into paradise, and Walter Reed was no paradise.
Sherry walked back into the hospital room. “I found the latest Time magazine in the waiting area.”
David snatched it from her hand, leaving her a bit bewildered. The magazine cover showed a young girl, looking like she was in her late teens or early twenties holding a one-year-old girl on her shoulders. The caption read, “The Gift of Love: Story of Miracles and Moral Dilemmas.”
More astonishing to David was the date on the cover, June 17, 1991! He opened the first page to read the contents. One sub title caught his eye immediately. America’s Postwar Mood: Making sure of the Storm.
Sherry could see the expression on David’s face. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“You said that this is the latest edition of Time?”
“Yes, I think so, why?” She snatched it back from him, with a smile, to look over the cover. “Yes, see?” She said thrusting it back in his face while pointing at the date.
David swallowed hard. He could no longer deny that something very strange and unexplainable occurred. Details of the plane crash he just experienced in the year 2003 AD would not escape him; the pain he felt, the screams he heard, the body parts he saw, the taste of Iraqi sand in his mouth, were all very real. Somehow he must have survived but if he did…David could not rationalize his current condition. Maybe I am still in a coma, somewhere in limbo between life on earth and eternity in heaven. How much should I try to understand? How much explanation should I search? How much-?
“Honey? Are you okay?” Sherry asked with grave concern.
June 13, 2013
Bogota, Colombia-1976
The horrific blasting sound jolted me wide awake in seconds. My eyes struggled to focus in the darkness of the small, simple, white room on the second floor of the apartment. In the twin bed against the wall, I wondered how a noise in my dreams could have had such an effect. I shrugged it off sleepily, desiring to find sound sleep back in the rack beneath the covers.
While attempting my reentry into dreamland, I began hearing jumbled sounds of people outside my door. I perked up and listened intently, trying to hear what was being said. When I heard the word, FIRE! I reacted. It started with a burst of motion starting with my feet hitting the floor, blue jeans zipped around my waist, shirt flung over my head, boots shoved onto my feet and my hand on the door knob, all in a matter of seconds! I fumbled for the lock and once found, stumbled into the hallway. Chaos surrounded me. I got up so fast that my blood rushed to my head causing dizziness. Feeling faint, I leaned against the wall, wondered if my time was up.
At the bottom of the stairway a twisted pile of broken, splintered wood, blocked our path. The front, once enclosed by a metal entrance door and two-car garage door, and separated by a brick partition, was now fully exposed to the street. A gaping hole across the building front opened to the gathering Colombian crowd in the glass-shattered streets staring at the carnage before them. A young American girl, maybe 13 or 14, stood in terror, her wide blue eyes piercing through her strands of hair, gazed at the carnage before her. She clutched a blanket and pillow and seemed to be in shock.
Read full story: http://www.amazon.com/Stone-Sling-Soldiers-Journey-ebook/dp/B005A981GG
May 29, 2013
Over Baghdad
The interior of the Blackhawk helicopter was dark except for the pilot and co-pilot’s glowing control panel. The door-gunners scanned the shadows below. Night observation devices (NODS) were attached to their helmets and lowered over their eyes emitting a fluorescent glow against the black night.
Thawap thawap thawap. The droning sound of the rotor blades seemed deafening as we cruised above the city lights and streets of Baghdad. Tiny green and blue lights glared eerily back from the instrument panel like watchful eyes. The two door-gunners, one on each side of the chopper, sat behind their .249 caliber machine guns with their hands holding on, protected by leather suede gloves. They searched for anything out-of-place, such as the silhouetted shape of a rocket-propelled grenade (RPG) tube aiming skyward.
I sat toward the tail, facing the front, in a row of four passengers packed in tightly, knee-to-knee, with duffel bags piled to the top on our laps. Across from us sat two other soldiers and a pair of civilian contractors. I was wedged between two men wearing Army Combat Uniforms, or ACUs, beneath their flak vests, and it struck me that I was the odd one, wearing civilian attire in a combat zone for the first time.
The high-pitched whining of the rotors cutting through the thick, night air was still loud, even with our yellow-foamed earplugs jammed in our ears. For me, the noise alternated from being a nerve-racking distraction to a hypnotic entrancement that was causing drowsiness. Whenever the aircraft took a sudden bounce I continued to breathe steadily; the tremors were common and no cause for panic. I looked at the sleeping men around me with their heads bobbing limply back and forth with each bump.
We were on a northeastern course from Camp Victory, on the southwest side of Baghdad, to Forward Operating Base (FOB) Warhorse, which was just outside of Baqouba. The plan was to make a pit stop there before turning northwest across the desert to our final destination at Camp Speicher, near Tikrit. Camp Speicher would be my new home base where I was to conduct operations there for at least a year for my new employer– my first full-time civilian job since 1980.
I glanced at my watch. 1 a.m. We were over the Shi’a section of the city, considered hostile territory. What wasn’t in Iraq? I wondered. My eyelids drooped heavily, and I thought back to my other two deployments to Iraq as an Army officer. Why had I allowed myself to return to this God-forsaken place; the money? Made good sense to me at the time. The pay would certainly be more than I ever made!
Serving at Camp Anaconda from 2003 to 2004 was one of the longest years of my life. I swore to myself and anyone who would listen that I’d never go back to Iraq. And yet, just a year later, I headed to the Green Zone in Baghdad. That time, I had vowed, would be the final time. I fully intended to come home to my family and retire. Here I was, for the third time.
My eyes opened to the flickering lights out the window. Baghdad’s sprawling city faded and brightened with varying degrees of intensity below us. Baghdad. Sighing, I let my eyes close again. Lord, did I hear you right on this one?
Leaving my wife, Trena, was never easy no matter how many times I left. The first time was in 1991, and the pain was crushing. I kept a journal where I could unload my feelings and fears about leaving her and my two children – ages six and eight. I was unaware of what was in store for me when heading to Saudi Arabia to face the 4th largest Army in the world at the time. I never realized, until later, what it was like for Trena to kiss a husband goodbye and not know if I would ever return.
Years later, during Operation Iraqi Freedom, the kids were fully grown and moving forward with their own lives. I thought that leaving would have been easier but the emptiness remained. I still thought about all missed opportunities of being there for my family.
Going back to Iraq after retirement had not been in the original plan. I was thinking more in line with lying in a hammock strung up between two palm trees, watching the waves of the sea and setting sun, with a cool drink and protruding curved straw. But, it was impossible to ignore the salary I was offered. Trena and I discussed the advantages and disadvantages of accepting the job offer and in the end, it was a simple matter of economics and following what we believed to be God’s will for us.
BANG! My eyes snapped open. Heads jerked up around me. A loud crash erupted on the pilot’s side of the helicopter! In seconds, the door-gunners swung into firing posture.
A bright orange and white light burst with a blinding flashed around us on the left side contrasting brilliantly against the black sky. For a brief second, the interior of the chopper lit up like a strobe light. The soldiers’ faces around were clear as day.
Intense heat licked my face and arms and I gripped my seat firmly as the Blackhawk dove sharply to the right. The streetlights grew closer to the window and the mud-walled dwellings loomed larger and larger.
Go to http://www.amzn.to/LhVAPL for full story
March 5, 2013
Waiting For A Girl Like You-part 2: Forever
It was during this time that Trena left for a 3-day visit to one of the mission’s remote tribes, the Secoya village of San Pablo. She would be visiting an American couple working with translation. About the same time, my dad asked me if I wanted to go on an excursion to a different tribe. The purpose for our trip was to inspect a recently hacked out (with machete) airstrip. My dad would determine if the strip was suitable for landing and subsequent frequent airlifts into and out of that village.
The Waoranis tribal people lived in the Quiwado village. They were once referred to as the Aucas because of their reputation of being head-hunters. In fact, these were the natives who martyred five American missionaries in the late 50’s. In 1965, a Wycliffe missionary came home on furlough in Baltimore and spoke to the church congregation about missions. My dad, a Baltimore County police officer at the time became interested. The missionary, George gardner, gave my dad a book called, “Jungle Pilot,” a story about Nate Saint, one of the murdered missionaries who was also a jungle pilot.
Our trip would involve an overnight in a nearby village and then an early morning start towards the Quiwado village. It was during this first night away from Trena when I realized I could not get her image out of my mind. I did not even I want to. As I lay on my mat on the dirt floor inside a mud hut, waiting to find some sleep, I attempted to sort through my feelings about her.
What was it about this girl? She’s really got me now. Was I in love? It had been a long time since I’d had a relationship with a girl that was meaningful.
The next morning, my dad and I, along with two native guides began our hike through the jungle on our way to the Quiwado village. Having recently completed Phase I of SF training, I hiked with ease, staying with the lead guide, step-by-step. After all, there was no 100 lb. ruck on my back this time; no M-16 or M60 to haul around either. I wore hiking shoes, a long-sleeved T-shirt, blue jeans and was armed with a small hunting rifle.
I felt like I was flying through the jungle but the only living creatures that were flying were quite beautiful to behold. Both varieties of the large Macaw parrots flew in small flocks above us on more than one occasion. I was enthralled by the Blue and Gold as well as the bright red birds.
I was able to enjoy the surroundings more than my dad since the lead guide and I had to stop frequently to wait for him and the rear guide helping him. The ground was wet and slippery with mud in some spots, dry in others. Long vines drooped from the tall trees. Water dripped from the leaves after a short cloud burst of rain. The hike through the Amazon jungle, which included a large river crossing on a balsa wood raft that the guides hacked out in 30 minutes, took four hours. By then, I was used to the sounds of the insects constant chirping and buzzing.
As we approached the village, we were greeted by the native women who brought us a bowl of Chicha. My dad warned about this drink ahead of time but he also told me to just drink it and don’t think about it. Chicha consisted of “chewed” bananas that were spit back into a community boiling pot over an open fire that helped ferment the warm brew. I took a gulp. I thought about something else.
The villagers bathed in the nearby river, the men and then the women, separated. The water was cool and refreshing. Our first night at the village consisted of bathing, communications, eating dinner and sleeping on the hard floor made of sticks. With no electricity, this all began with the sinking of the sun below the jungle canopy. It was my second night away from Trena, and I still couldn’t get her out of my head. I did not sleep well.
We had breakfast the next morning prepared by the villagers and then we began the task of inspecting the airstrip from one end to the other and everything in-between. Dad made the call to Danny Rose and told him it looked good and we would wait for him to pick us up.
While waiting, I pre-occupied myself by taking photos of the local villagers, and made friends with many of the children. The day wore on until we all heard the distant buzz of the Helio propeller ripping through the sky with its distinct sound. Many of the villagers ran onto the airstrip to watch the plane land but were quickly chased away by the chief and my dad and re-directed to a vantage point off of the strip.
I snapped a picture as the plane touched down and as it sped past us, the villagers rushed out onto the strip after the plane as if a group of college students would rush the basketball court after a last-second victory. The aircraft taxied to a stop and Danny was quickly surrounded by a lot of village people. He was the first pilot to ever land on Quiwado strip. Danny got out of the plane and started shaking hands with everyone as if he was a president. Then, he and my dad broke away and began walking the airstrip together discussing all of the technical intricacies.
After two days away from Limoncocha and a memorable hike through the jungle topped off with Chicha, Danny, my dad, and I boarded the plane and safely took off, leaving the waving villagers behind. My thought turned to other matters.
Realizing that my time in Ecuador would only last another 10 days, I had to think of ways to expedite my strategic plan of winning Trena over. I had no idea how she felt about me, but it was time to find out.
I made it a point to visit her after dinner that first evening back. Trying to keep my cool and playing hard to get, I made the excuse that I wanted to read the up-to-date Newsweek magazines she had laying around the table in her little dwelling. With a nice comfortable hammock strung up next to the stack, I thought of this as a good place to start. I wanted to stay abreast of the situation in El Salvador, especially since I could very well end up there within a year. I also wanted to read the sad story about one of my friends, Chet Bitterman, who had been kidnapped and then had been executed by the M-19, the same guerilla faction that had nearly blown me up four years earlier.
Grabbing the Newsweek from Trena’s table, I made my way to the local handmade hammock. I then settled in and buried my face in the magazine, flipping pages, and trying to carry on a conversation as she was completing her dishwashing.
Okay Lord, if she’s the one, something has to happen. Then I pondered a way to make a move without making a fool of myself. Various scenarios began to run through my mind.
Bam! Suddenly, the impact of a rubber ball against the magazine in my hand slapped like a gunshot. Stunned at first, I reacted with lightning quick reflexes, spinning to take cover. Then I realized that not only had Trena thrown a ball at me, but she was moving quickly to retrieve it. Nothing doing, I thought. I rolled out of the hammock quickly, and scrambled in the direction the ball had rolled. Prevention of another attack was on my mind as both of us reached for the ball instantaneously.
“Ah-hah!” I grunted while grabbing the ball.
“Not fast enough, slow poke!” Trena laughed back as she viciously began prying it out of my tight grip. Before I knew the full gist of what was happening, I realized that we were involved in a semi-wrestling match. Within moments our arms were twisted together trying to get the ball out of the others hand.
Trena struggled to turn, trying to pull away, but I was no match. As she spun, with one final thrust, I reached out, caught her hand, drew it back towards me and we suddenly found ourselves face-to-face within inches from each other. I caught my best glimpse yet of her gorgeous green eyes. They were only about three inches away. We both momentarily froze.
I couldn’t help but to stare deeply into her entrancing eyes that had me so mesmerized. I did not want to move an inch. Then, slowly, without any apparent decision or plan, we simultaneously inched closer towards each other until our lips softly touched and stayed together for about four seconds. We released our tight grip on each other’s hands but kept them together as we moved towards each other again, this time for a longer lasting kiss. I must admit that I did feel a riveting surge sweep over my whole body. Why not? I was in the midst of enjoying a lasting kiss with the knockout girl that had captivated me, both with her beauty and with her friendship. I wanted our first kiss to be one to remember a lifetime!
Seven months after our first kiss, October of 1981, we were married in a small church in Salem, Virginia nestled within the colorful autumn leaves, which was typical of the Shenandoah Valley. A cool, brisk wind was blowing that night, the night never to forget.
She was absolutely stunning when she came down the aisle in her wedding dress, escorted by her father. The ceremony was a daze, but I distinctly remember staring into Trena’s beautiful green eyes as they were transfixed on mine. She had the look of love and admiration and as we stood hand-in-hand on the altar, I felt with heart-felt sincerity that I would love her until the day I die.
So long
I’ve been looking too hard, I’ve waiting too long
Sometimes I don’t know what I will find
I only know it’s a matter of time
When you love someone
When you love someone
I’ve been waiting for a girl like you
To come into my life
I’ve been waiting for a girl like you
A love that will survive
I’ve been waiting for someone new
To make me feel alive
Yeah, waiting for a girl like you
To come into my life-Foreigner
~SaM~
February 28, 2013
Waiting For A Girl Like You-Part 1: Amazon Emeralds
March, 1981
I was in another world, far removed from the intense training of Fort Bragg and Camp MacKall, North Carolina. I stared out the window of the Helio Courier, a light Short Take-Off and Landing (STOL) utility aircraft. The all-aluminum airframe features a welded 15G steel-tube center section fuselage, with shoulder harnesses to protect the occupants in an emergency. This aircraft was designed to maintain control at speeds as low as 27 miles per hour.
The view below was inundated with long brown rivers slithering like snakes through the thick green jungle canopy that resembled an enormous Broccoli patch. The pilot, Danny Rose, was my dad’s friend and colleague and like my dad, he lacked hair on most all of his scalp. When out of the plane, he stood about 5’ 10 and though not considered to be overweight, he was stout.
Our destination was a tiny enclave of sporadic houses making up a missionary base known as Limoncocha. The dozen or so homes at the edge of a lemon-shaped lake were deep in the amazon jungle of Ecuador. It surrounded a grassy runway, long enough for a McDonald Douglas DC-3 to easily land and take off.
Many thoughts went through my mind as I looked out across the thick, vegetated and mostly uninhabited land. Those however, were interrupted by our descent onto the base airstrip, plenty long enough for the single-engine craft.
The plane taxied to a stop in front of the open-bay hangar that stood next to a wooden shack that served as the passenger terminal. Once the engine stopped, Danny gave me the thumbs up and I unbuckled my seatbelt and shoulder harness, opened the door and stepped out into the thick air. The humidity was worse than I remembered, far worse than it was at Fort Benning, Georgia during Airborne school when the temperature stood at 100 degrees for nearly two straight weeks. Sweat poured down my cheeks before I could exert any motion. My designer shades slid down my nose.
My father came out to greet me from the hangar. He was the primary factor in my decision in joining the Army 15 months earlier. I had not seen him since then, when together we talked to the recruiters from all branches of service. He and my mother were in Venice, Florida for the Holidays and to celebrate my grandparent’s 50th wedding anniversary. They traveled back to Ecuador about a day before I went back to the Army recruiter and asked about joining the Special Forces.
My mother arrived to the hangar on her Honda 100 with our dog, Smokey, tagging along behind. Even he was excited to see me, expressed by his knack for bowling people to the ground. I held my ground however, prepared for his manner of greeting. I traveled lightly so I grabbed my bag and took over the bike and headed home. I was in a hurry to make a change of clothes.
After braking to a stop at the front of the house, I bounded up the steps into the open, screened, wooden frame built about three feet off the ground. With the sweltering heat attacking me, I wasted little time shedding my traveling threads and donning a pair of cut-off jeans and sleeveless T-shirt. With no air conditioning available, that would have to do.
While in the back bedroom changing, I heard my mother talking to someone from the kitchen. “Yeah, he’s here,” I heard her yell.
I was finished changing so I headed to the front area of the house to see who was behind the other female voice I was hearing. When I emerged from the back bedroom, I saw this pretty young lady. There she stood in the doorway, looking at me with those mesmeric eyes. She was indeed “a green-eyed lady, lovely lady!”
“Hi!” She greeted me with a radiant smile.
“Hello,” I answered back, trying to hide my gawking towards such a good-looking woman.
“How was your trip?”
“It wasn’t too bad; a bit lengthy.” She certainly is attractive, I thought.
“You remember Trena, don’t you?” my mother asked.
I remembered meeting her briefly once before at a restaurant, “The Oyster Bar” in St. Petersburg, Florida. That was when several people from Ecuador were stateside during the Holidays, including the time my parents were in Florida. I also remembered that we probably had not spoken more than a dozen words to each other the whole night. Although I would steal a glance in her direction whenever I thought her attention was somewhere else and I could get away with it, I don’t believe she was the least bit interested in me.
Why would she have been? I had just dropped out of my first attempt of college and my hair was shoulder length. Trena, on the other hand, already had her Master’s Degree.
“Yes, at that restaurant in Florida, I believe.”
“Yep, I remember,” she said. Well, good seeing you again. I just got off work and need to go change but I’ll be back.”
Okay,” is all I could manage to say.
Trena had just finished teaching the missionary kids at the base school. “She comes over now and then so we’ll probably see her shortly,” my mother mentioned.
I was glad to hear that. Sure enough, maybe 30 minutes later, she was back. This time, she was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of shorts that revealed her nicely bronzed legs. I was impressed, to say the least. Trena sat down and began what seemed to be a routine chat with my mother. It may have been my imagination, but she seemed more interested in looking at me this time around. My appearance had certainly changed. I just completed Army Basic training, airborne school, and Phase I of the Special Forces (SF) training. My hair was much shorter and my frame more muscular.
I chimed in on the conversation occasionally, mainly trying not to let it appear too obvious that I was watching her with admiration. Trena was tall and slim, at least five foot, eight inches, and her dark brown hair was shoulder length. But it was the glow of her effervescent smile and the sparkling green emerald eyes that captured my undivided attention. I was in trouble. Although I was definitely attracted to her, I needed to hide those feelings, at least for the time being. I certainly didn’t want to say or do anything that might chase her away.
Trena definitely was not one of the SF camp groupies that hung around at the barracks, nor was she one of the girls that frequented the clubs. In fact, she was considered by many to be an overachiever, blowing first through High School in three years followed by a mere three more to complete her BA. Her master’s degree was completed shortly after that, while she was teaching in Clearwater at the age of 22!
The granddaughter of a Nansemond Indian Chief of the Powhatan Empire, Trena attacked everything with grit and determination. She was not only driven but dedicated. How else could one explain the presence of a young, beautiful woman doing mission work in the middle of the Amazon jungle?
Trena’s sharp cheekbones curved smoothly into a lovely face framed by dark brown hair. Those exquisite, oval, emerald green eyes seemed to sparkle with intelligence, delight, and just a touch of mischief. I was definitely enamored by her striking features.
If I ever stood a chance with this appealing young lady I would need to develop a strategic plan to earn her affections. I needed a plan that would include developing a deep friendship, if that was possible in three weeks, and one that would avoid any “chest-pounding,” self-bravado and machismo.
Since our conversations began with simple small talk surrounding common interests, my strategy was starting off in the right direction. I intended on not telling her anything about my training unless she asked. I figured that my mother already took care of all that anyway. Our mutual friendship continued along this path for 10 days but I was okay with it because I simply enjoyed being around her.
February 13, 2013
Everybody wants to rule the world-Part 3: Mission Accomplished
The following morning was crisp, the sun poking through the gliding smoke-colored clouds. Alex had me meet him in a slightly different location on Friedrichstraße, closer to the S-Bahn station. The first contact routine was the same, a visual acknowledgment followed by a 5 to 10 meter distance following until we were in East Berlin. Nobody seemed to be paying particular attention to us throughout the ride. We exited the train onto the same platform as the previous night. There were only about three Soviet guards at the bottom of the steps.
Sergei was waiting for us with the Lada Samara’s engine running. The interior was nice and warm. This time, we did not wave through back streets but instead went towards the center of East Berlin. It was nearing the lunch hour, with breakfast being my own responsibility at the hotel.
Alex and I were left off at the end if a long winding sidewalk leading through a park.
“This is Treptower Park,” he announced proudly.
Treptower was a popular park located along the river Spree in the Treptow-Köpenick district. Besides having a Soviet War Memorial it contained a military cemetery that commemorated 5,000 of the 80,000 Soviet soldiers who fell in the Battle of Berlin in April–May 1945. It opened four years after the war ended on May 8, 1949. Not long after President Reagan gave his famous speech, “Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall,” the park was used for a rock concert by the British Rock Band Barclay James Harvest on 14 July 1987. It marked the first ever open-air concert by a Western Rock Band in the German Democratic Republic.
A small brown wooden shack stood along the walkway about 100 meters from where we were. Across from it was a park bench. A man in his early sixties was in the stand behind a counter containing several food items to choose from. Alex and I had some steamy currywurst, one of the traditional snacks in the area. The white-haired man served us the sliced pork sausage swimming in a curry-tomato sauce and gave us each some white bread to go with it.
Sauntering over to the park bench, we observed a young couple pushing a stroller with an 18-month old, all bundled up from the cold. Based on the color of the clothes and buggy, I assumed the baby was a boy. The couple glanced at us briefly but moved along without altering their pace.
Alex reviewed the procedures with me from the previous evening, concerning the invisible letters. I chuckled a bit and every time that I did so, he replied, “You must not laugh, why; because…” and then he would proceed to explain why I shouldn’t be laughing. He wanted me to make sure that I believed him when he explained how prosperous I could be if everything went according to plan.
I replied back that I wasn’t really laughing but was simply overwhelmed by this whole experience. He understood, or so he said. After we finished eating, we walked a little further so that Alex could show me The Soviet War Memorial.
Our brief meeting on the park bench was followed by a drive through the city and to the Potsdam’s Museum “Im Güldenen Arm,” a baroque style building that dominated during the reign of Frederick William I. The museum’s exhibition included civil development, documents of the garrison period, and special exhibitions on Potsdam´s history. We spent a few hours here.
It was starting to get dark as 5:00 PM approached during the winter month of December. I remembered that during the summer month of July, it was quite the opposite with the sun rising around 5:30 AM and setting around 10:30 PM.
“Are you getting hungry?” Alex asked.
“Yes, I am.”
Our paced picked up and we made our way to the waiting Lada. Alex said something to Sergei in Russian and he replied, “Да!” We drove back through the city, talking about anything, everything, and nothing. Then Sergei left us off at a familiar place. It was Hotel Moskau in Karl Marx Allee. This was one restaurant that Americans were allowed to eat whenever they traveled to the East. I was a bit apprehensive that I would run into somebody that I knew until the two of us were quickly ushered to a different section of the restaurant that I had not seen before. It was decorated nicely and surround by thick red curtains. Alex and I had the whole room and long table for ourselves.
The food, a 5-course meal, with vodka, served by 4 waiters, was very delicious. It seemed to be a combined Cornish hen with a small beef rump smothered in some sort of wine sauce. Our conversation centered on social and political topics, carefully avoiding anything to do with the business at hand.
Throughout the meal, I looked for an opportunity to tell Alex that I had a special gift for him in the car with our bags. That moment came when things were quiet and we waited for the bill. Alex had a gratifying look on his face, as if he had just finished a feast.
“Alex, do you remember last year when we were together with our wives and you told everyone that maybe 5% of you believed in a God because your grandmother taught you when you were 6-years old?”
He smiled, “Yes, of course. But I can’t believe that you remembered.”
“Yes, I do, and I have something to give you that your grandmother would want you to have.”
“That is very kind of you. I shall look forward to receiving this.”
Shortly afterwards, we turned in our tokens at desk to retrieve our winter coats and then went out the front door where Sergei was waiting for us, engine running, the interior, nice and warm. On our way to the S-Bahn station where I would say my farewell to Alex and head back to the West and then to the USA the following day, I pulled the new hard-cover NIV Bible out of my bag. Then I held it out towards Alex and said, “This is what your grandmother would want you to have.”
Alex appeared deeply moved as he clutched the green-colored Bible with both hands. Then he looked at the cover, held it up to his chest and said, “Thank you very much. I always wanted one of these to read.”
Alex placed the Bible in his bag and pulled a Russian book out for me in another gift exchange. When Sergei dropped us off near the S-Bahn station, Alex took me inside a small shop before moving towards the stairwell. It was a quaint little shop with a variety of knick-knacks. Alex pointed out a few pieces of china that were setting against the back wall.
“Do you like any of those china sets?”
“They are all nice,” I replied.
“Which do you like the best?”
I pointed one out and said, “That one looks especially artistic.”
The next thing I know, Alex is purchasing the set and had it boxed and tied together with string. Alex grabbed the box from the gray-haired woman in her mid-sixties and exchanged a few words with her. Then we darted out the door and up the stairs past the young Soviet guards and onto the snow-covered platform. The flurries were coming down harder as the evening wore on. We stood together until the rickety train clanked down the tracks from the east.
As it approached the platform where we were standing, Alex handed me the box and said, “Please give this to Trena from me.”
“Thank you very much, Alex. I’m sure she will greatly appreciate this!”
I turned to shake his hand as the train screeched to a halt but Alex grabbed me in a big bear-hug instead.
“Take care my friend and stay safe.”
“Good-bye Alex. Thank you for your hospitality today and for Trena’s gift.” I always knew that he was fond of her because when we all met the year before, he insisted on carrying her fireman style in front of him when we came to a large puddle of water. He did not want her to get her stylish boots wet.
“You better get aboard.”
I entered the last car, placed the brown box at my feet and held onto the vertical silver pole. Then I faced outside in Alex’s direction before the door closed. He remained where I left him. The train jerked forward, causing me to hold on to the pole with a tighter grip and we began slowly moving away from the platform. Alex stood with his hands buried in his coat pockets for a brief period and then lifted one of them to wave farewell. I waved back and then looked for an empty seat.
I found one facing the front and as I sat down, I thought I heard a voice whisper in my ear, “Well done thy faithful servant. Mission accomplished.”
I had a feeling then that I would never see Alex again. This turned out to be true. I never saw him again.
Two years later, the Berlin wall was torn down by the people and the Soviets moved away from Berlin. It was during my last semester of college while doing an internship, teaching high school social studies at Hardee High. I told the students, “I never thought I would see this day.”
There’s a room where the light won’t find you
Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down
When they do I’ll be right behind you
So glad we’ve almost made it
So sad they had to fade it
Everybody wants to rule the world- Tears for Fears
~SaM~
