Chapter 1

The second chapter of my life started with a bus ride from Jacksonville to Fort Benning, Georgia. I won’t bore you with a lot of details, suffice it to say I went to basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia, and I did okay. I wasn’t the top trainee in our company, but I was in excellent physical condition and I knew what to expect; so it was no big deal. Some of the guys in my company reacted poorly to the constant close supervision of the Drill Sergeants. I sort of laughed at that because these guys never got an ass chewing from my grandfather. It was clear to me from day one that I’d made the right choice in enlisting. I was a squad leader in my training platoon, my empathy helped me in dealing with my squad.

I left basic with a promotion to Private E-2 and went to Fort Sam Houston for the Combat Medic Course. I learned a lot at Fort Sam. The medic course was more interesting than I thought it could ever be. I passed the sixteen-week course and went back to Benning for the Basic Airborne Course.

About two hours of Jump School was fun, the rest of it was an exercise in how much harassment I could stand, and then how much fear I could deal with. Any time I wasn’t double timing, I was ‘pushing up Georgia’ in the heat of a muggy late Spring. In between ground week, tower week and jump week, I think I did a million push ups. But after a week of pulling support, two weeks of training and a week of actual jumping, I was a paratrooper. My parents and grandparents were at my graduation and Papa pinned on my wings. How cool was that? Elaine came up with my parents. She said she was representing all the girl friends.

From Jump School I went to the Ranger Indoctrination Program (RIP). Rip was conducted by a Ranger Cadre, right there on Fort Benning. It took two tries, but I made it through RIP. RIP didn’t earn you a Ranger Tab. Rather, it qualified you to be in the Ranger Regiment. A private like me could be in the regiment without going to Ranger School but officers and NCOs had to be Ranger Course graduates to stay in the Regiment.

So how was it, you ask? Well, it sucked, big time; but it was at RIP that I learned to embrace the suck, and drive on. After graduation I was assigned to the Regiment’s Headquarters Company. I no sooner signed into my first duty unit than the Company First Sergeant sent for me. ‘Top’ (slang meaning Top Sergeant) looked me up and down and grunted.

“Welcome to the Regiment, Pulaski. Don’t get too comfortable because we are waiting on orders for you to attend SOCoM {Editor’s note: Special Operations Combat Medic Course}. Go see the Supply Sergeant and collect your beret, unit patches, and unit crests. And get the right rank insignia, PFC Pulaski. Don’t let me catch you out of uniform, again. Any questions?” he said.

“No, First Sergeant,” I replied half assed loudly.

“Good man,” he said. Then he added, “You are in the Regiment now, Pulaski, we have high standards and don’t tolerate assholes or fuckups. There are no second chances here. If you step on your dick, I’ll chop it off. Got it?”

Oh, yeah. I got it, loud and clear!

I’ll bet you are asking yourself, ‘if this idiot hates school, why did he volunteer for another thirty-six weeks of schooling after just finishing thirty-two weeks of training? Well, let me illuminate you by listing the reasons.

1. These schools were performance oriented; they weren’t all boring lectures.

2. The training was challenging and different every day.

3. I enjoyed the subjects I was being taught unlike the crap I endured in high school. For example, think emergency medicine vis-a-vis European History before 1700. Then compare Jumping out of an airplane versus jumping off a school bus.

See what I mean?

While waiting for my class at SOCoM to start, I volunteered to be a medic for every training exercise I could finagle my way onto. I got into the field three times as a support medic before my class start date arrived.

The SOCoM course was taught at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, home of the Army Special Forces (Green Berets) and the 82^nd Airborne Division. I enjoyed every minute I spent at the course. It was challenging and I received a top-notch medical education.

So, right in the middle of my second month of the SOCoM course, I had a different woman show up to spend the weekend with me for four weeks in a row. I became a minor celebrity when the twins and Cindi visited me one after the other, but I became a legend when Katrina breezed in for a visit.

Katrina showed up unexpectedly at the end of the duty day on a Friday. I had changed into civvies before heading over to the chow hall for supper. Ellen had been there until last Sunday, and I wasn’t looking forward to being a bachelor again for the weekend. As I exited the barracks, there stood Katrina with her halo of short golden hair atop her beautiful face. Her six-foot tall swimsuit model body was wrapped in ‘painted on’ Daisy Duke’s, a cropped black t-shirt — with a yellow Ranger Tab emblazoned across her chest that I’d sent her from Fort Benning — and Under Armor running shoes. Three of my classmates were chatting with her when she saw me.

“Sorry, guys. Gotta go, ‘cause there’s my man,” I heard her say.

She ran towards me.

“Johnny!” she squealed as she flung herself on me.

Every inch of her was pressed against every millimeter of me. Then she whispered something in my ear. I cracked up at what she said.

“I told them I worked at Hooters in Daytona, and invited them down,” she confided.

We shared a room at the Raddison out by I-95. We stayed on the side of Fayetteville away from Fort Bragg so we could avoid my classmates. I didn’t know how successful I’d be keeping the fact that she was my sister a secret. We shared a room and a king-sized bed, but we kept it tame. It was tame because she was interested in one of her classmates. Katrina went on and on about this guy. She made him seem as if he were the second coming.

I don’t know how I felt about that, I was hung on the horns of antinomy. On the one hand I was happy for Katrina, she deserved a guy with whom she could have a future. On the other hand, I was jealous and didn’t want to lose what she and I had together. I chose the high road.

“That’s great, Trina!” I forced myself to say.

“Thanks, Johnny. One reason I like him is because he is a lot like you. We haven’t been intimate yet because there just hasn’t been time to do it right. The Academy doesn’t exactly forbid relationships between Cadets, they just make it difficult. Anyway, we just started seeing each other. We’ll see how we feel next May, when we graduate.”

I spent my nineteenth birthday reviewing for a critical performance exam in module six (the peripheral nervous system). I was just over halfway through the course. I passed the exam and the next Friday night some of my buddies took me to the All-Ranks Club to celebrate my big one-nine. Of course, I was the only one in the group not old enough to drink legally. Consequently, I was at the bar nursing a club soda with lime while they were shooting pool and drinking beer. I was about to call it a night when a thirtyish female walked up to the bar next to me and ordered an Appletini. I’d never heard of an Appletini, so I asked about it.

“Excuse me, Ma’am, but what’s an Appletini?” I asked.

She looked me up and down before replying.

“That’s not a very good pick-up line, young man,” she said with a laugh.

I laughed too, “You are definitely worth chatting up, and that was coming next; but it was a legit question,” I replied.

“Then it’s a Martini made with apple flavored Schnapps, Vodka and apple juice. You want one?” she asked.

“No thanks, I don’t drink,” I said, and that was true enough.

Then I stuck out my hand, “Johnny Pulaski, at your service.”

When she took my hand a jolt of energy shot up my arm then reversed up hers. Her eyes fluttered and she swayed a little. I put my other hand on her other forearm to steady her and the same thing happened.

“Maybe you don’t need that Appletini,” I joked.

She gave me a speculative look and licked her lips.

“That was weird,” she said, then followed up with, “Becky Jordan, pleased to meet you.”

Becky Jordan wasn’t a petite woman. She was about five-feet-seven-inches tall and weighed about one-fifty. She was attractive but not beautiful, but she had that spark of something that I found attractive. The bartender brought her drink in a Martini glass garnished with a wedge of Granny Smith apple. She took a sip then turned her attention to me. Intelligence radiated through her expressive hazel eyes behind black framed glasses and her short hair was dark brown and curly. She was dressed in black slacks and a long red sweater.

“You are not my usual type, but you intrigue me. What’s your story, Johnny Pulaski?” she asked.

I shrugged, “Not much to tell really. I’m a student at SOCoM here from the Ranger Regiment. I was born and raised in Palmdale, Florida. I don’t want you to think of me as a creep, but you are my type. I like smart, witty women with a sense of humor and I’m betting you are one of those.”

She smiled when I said that last bit and, surprisingly, she was wearing braces on her teeth. Since she was smiling at me, I turned the conversation around.

“How about you?” I asked, “Come here often? What’s your sign? Your place or mine? If I told you...”

Before I could regurgitate any more corny pick-up lines, she started laughing and hit me on the arm.

“Okay, okay, that’s enough. You are officially the biggest goofball I’ve ever met,” she said, still chuckling.

Then she turned serious.

“I’m at least ten years older than you, Johnny, and I’m an officer to boot; but what the hell, meet me outside in ten minutes and we’ll go to dinner off base.”

I agreed. She drained her Appletini and walked out of the club. I went to the bathroom then told my buds I was shoving off and thanked them for thinking of me. They grumbled about me abandoning them, but when I tossed a fifty-dollar bill on the pool table and said, “the next round’s on me,” they all smiled and waved goodbye.

I ambled out of the club and towards the parking lot wondering how I was supposed to link up with Becky when a pair of headlights flashed on and off in the middle of the second row of cars. In minutes we were on Bragg Boulevard headed towards Fayetteville (North Carolina). We ended up in a small intimate Chinese Restaurant attached to a motel out on Raeford Road.

We were led to a quiet booth by a decidedly non-Asian, Rubenesque waitress with a thick southern drawl. I looked around at the shabby ‘chic’ decor and gave Becky a curious arched eyebrow look. She shrugged.

“This place has the best Chinese food in town,” she said in explanation.

We ordered hot tea and made conversation while we waited for our tea service.

“How old are you, Johnny?” Was the first thing she asked.

She sat back in the booth in surprise when I replied, “Thursday was my birthday, I’m nineteen.”

“Jesus!” she exclaimed. Then she looked around in embarrassment at her outburst.

No one was paying us any attention, so she leaned towards me and in a lowered voice said, “I was almost fourteen when you were born! Technically, I’m old enough to be your mother.”

I reached across the table and put my hand on hers, beamed her calm and trust, and said, “But you’re not my mother, and we’re having a meal together, not eloping.”

Whatever she had to say next was delayed by the waitress arriving with two cups with saucers and an ornate tea pot. The waitress filled our cups and then whipped out an order pad.

“Y’all make a cute couple. Whatcha havin’, Sugar?” she asked Becky.

Becky blushed but didn’t remove her hand from under mine. She ordered Beef with Broccoli and the waitress turned to me.

“How ‘bout you, Honey?”

I ordered what I always order: Sweet and Sour Chicken, Pork Fried Rice, and an egg roll.

“Beef with Broccoli and a special number six, I’ll put that right in,” the waitress said, and then she sashayed away.

When we were alone again, I nonchalantly let go of Becky’s hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” I apologized.

“No problem, Johnny,” she said.

We yakked while waiting for our food then yakked some more while we ate. Our conversation was all over the place as we got to know each other. Thank goodness my girlfriends insisted I stay up on current events and world affairs because Becky was well informed. Turns out that Becky (short for Rebecca) Jordan was a Signal Corp Captain, and she was the 18^th Airborne Corp Cyber Security Officer. She was from some small town in Iowa and attended MIT on a STEM scholarship {Science, Technology, Engineering, and Mathematics} awarded by Orville Redenbacher of all people. Imagine that! She had a master’s degree in electrical engineering and computer science from MIT and she was sitting here scarfing down Chinese food with a guy who thought high school was too much academia!

For all our differences we had an excellent chat and found plenty of common ground. Surprisingly, music was one of them. Seems Captain Jordan was a serious AC/DC fan. She had even seen them live in Boston while she was at MIT. The subject of girlfriends came up and I truthfully answered every question she asked about girls back home. She was very curious about my relationship with them and rather than explain everything I just dialed Elaine’s cell phone.

Elaine answered with, “I’ll call you back, Johnny I’m on the phone with Aunt Nina.”

I replied, “Make it half an hour, okay?”

Of course, the call just made Becky more curious.

“What was that all about?” Becky asked.

“That is the person smart enough to explain my relationships to you,” I said.