Chapter 1

Getting old is hell. I'm not even that old, but so many times lately, I can hardly move when I get out of bed. The good news is, I can limber up and be able to move around reasonably within half an hour or so.

For this tale to be interesting, you need to know who I am and how I came to be out in the sticks. Call them hills, mountains, or backwoods, they're still sticks. I am here by choice, so it isn't a forced thing. It's something I wanted and needed to find in order to get some mental peace. I kept thinking I wanted to be a recluse.

You see, I was only thirty-eight years old; not really part of that wonderful group of people known as Baby Boomers. I am a product of that era, but wished I was a part of my grandparents' Greatest Generation. Their values kept the country together against devastating odds. My generation? The jury's still out: a little cloudy, but full of good people.

Because there was no way for me or my family to afford college, I joined the Army the day after I graduated from high school. At that time, academic scholarships only went to kids who lived in a large metropolitan area; there were none for farm or small town kids. I wasn't all that disappointed, since I really wanted the excitement of the military.

I would have joined the Marines, or maybe even considered the Navy, except the Army recruiter came to the school several times and was able to paint a great picture of men, real men and women, learning to be more than anyone could expect them to be. All that, and a seventeen year old kid is easily influenced by a good looking babe in a uniform with a bunch of stripes, ribbons, medals, and an 82nd Airborne patch. I always wished she would tell us about each of those little ribbons she wore. She had one of those parachute insignias, so she wasn't a pushover. She did say she wasn't allowed to fight in the infantry, but could be, and was trained to be, an infantry medic. She had served in Desert Storm and was now recruiting young men and women into the most advanced and proficient army in the world.

This babe, and I do mean a babe, was not that much older than I was, probably about twenty-five, and she had a bunch of stripes and medals to attest to her service. I wanted that. I wanted the excitement this lady described.

Because I was only seventeen, my dad had to sign for me and constantly cautioned me to follow orders and learn as much as I could. My dad was proud that I wanted to join the Army, as he was a Viet Nam vet.

Before my induction, I took an exam that seemed as if it should be given to eighth graders. The Specialist proctoring the test told me that I had scored the highest he had ever seen and I would be eligible for any job I wanted. My dad told me the truth though, as he said, "Depends what they need at the moment you're sworn in. They put all of the available schools and positions into a big jar and reach in for yours." He did tell me that I could attend another school for something else after my initial training.

My twenty years were interesting. I requested about every school there was, and I was sent to another infantry or airborne unit after each one, until it was time to spend many tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. The one incident that would influence the rest of my life was when I got blown off course during a training jump. I was with a dozen other men who ended up being blown against a cliff, and dropped a hundred feet to a rocky river below. I broke my left leg in two places, my hip, right arm, and my clavicle. It took me almost six months to heal, but heal I did. One guy died, and another six were medically retired. I knew a couple who could have continued to serve, but they thought the accident was a golden opportunity. I felt as if it was just one more way to keep me from the excitement the Army promised.

I spent a lot of time in the Middle East, and after the first tour I was sent to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey to learn Farsi. I seemed to have a talent for it, and as soon as a commanding officer knew I could do it, I would have to sit in on every briefing with an Arabic translator. They were always afraid they were being bull-shitted. They were right a number of times.

So what did this mean? It meant that I didn't go out on patrol often. I was shown to a chair outside a CO's office, or given a small desk in the corner of a dayroom. They found out I could type and I typed a ton of forms. That's one thing the military has a bunch of, forms. Most are now on a computer, but they still have loads of them that have to be typed. They didn't let me use a computer until the last rotation, but it didn't matter. They were all the same forms. I did do a lot of exit interviews with soldiers. You know, closing out their DD-214s, figuring their unused leave time, etc. I tried to talk every one of them into re-enlisting, but wasn't that successful. A lot of guys were tired of the sand and its extreme heat or cold. Having to live within a compound, with no real outside contact, isn't much fun either. At the time I retired, it looked like Afghanistan would last another twenty years.

I kept telling the officers that I was not a clerk, I was airborne infantry. I would do this pointing at my infantry and airborne badges for emphasis. The old salty master sergeants and sergeant majors kept telling me to keep quiet, but I didn't like what I was doing. It did have some benefit, as my efficiency reports were always top notch, and every time I went back stateside, I had first pick for the good schools. I was promoted to E-7, Sergeant First Class, the first time before the promotion board, partly due to the college degree I managed to get in evening classes. The next time I rotated back to the states I went through DI school. Being a Drill Instructor was one of the best ways to get promotion points. As much as I had hated the DI's in airborne training, I was now one of the sadistic bastards.

Now when I went back to the combat zone, I was too valuable a resource to send on risky patrols. I was a member of the command staff and spent my time in the headquarters doing paperwork and monitoring translators. I made Master Sergeant on the first try with seventeen years of service and three years left on this enlistment. I was getting so tired of the politics prevalent in the headquarters areas, that when the reenlistment officer put the pen in my hand, I balked. I didn't necessarily want to get out, but I was so bored and tired of all the bull that I really needed to do something else. My combat experience was limited, even though my class A's had hash marks up and down both sleeves. There had been some street fighting in Iraq, but it was really tame stuff compared to what I had seen others go through, those who were always in the field.

During my twenty years in the Army, my father had passed away and Mom sold the farm. She was now in a small over fifty-five park, where she had a lot of friends to visit and play cards with. She was always happy for me to stay with her for a while on the few short leaves I took, but I think she was happy when I left.

I have a brother and sister who live near Mom, but they are both married with kids. Me? I never seemed to hook up with women. My sister always told me that I was good looking, and a couple of Army type women said I was handsome, but no one ever tripped me or set off that hunger you're supposed to have.

One of the things I had accomplished while in the Army was finishing a degree from the University of Maryland. I even took leave and paid for my mom to come to my graduation. I was proud of that as I was this lowly farm kid who was now a college graduate. I think I was a Staff Sergeant E-6 at the time and made pretty good money. If you listened, my peers thought I was weird. I didn't drink much, but did drink a beer when it was available. I liked some other booze too, but was too cheap to pay for it.

When I was back in the States, I looked at the guys who went with the local bar girls for a twenty around payday, or ten just before payday, with a jaundiced eye. Most of the B-girls were scary, as all I could think of was all the men they serviced every day. Whew, what a mental picture.

Hey, there were some round-heeled USO cuties that probably wanted to hook up with a Sergeant to possibly get separate rations, the benefits, and access to the wonderful (not) PX. I enjoyed them the same as most smart troops, but when the opportunity arose, you can be sure I suited up. I let the clean ones teach me, and ran from those that smelled bad.

Anyway, Mom wanted me to get married and settle down like my siblings did, but I still had a sense of wanderlust.

To summarize, I was a thirty-eight year old retired Master Sergeant. In addition to my retirement, I was evaluated as being thirty percent disabled. Like a dummy, I disagreed and fought with the doctors who thought they were doing me a favor. They didn't want to change their decision, so it became a losing battle. Shut up or you could find yourself reduced in rank. Not me, no way, I had not even received an Article 15. I was the fair-haired boy everywhere I served. I did what my dad said; I obeyed and responded when directed or ordered.

Oh yeah, my name is Mike Grayson, and if Mom is hollering at me for doing something stupid, it's Michael Allen Grayson.

So what was I to do? Mom suggested that I find a nice apartment in the nearby city, but I couldn't see myself as a cliff dweller among thousands of people. I didn't have any appreciable or employable skills, unless it was as a sharpshooter or damaged airplane jumper. I could type, but I didn't know anything about computers except how to use them. I had no marketable skills at all.

I really didn't need a job, since I was receiving, or going to receive, a nice chunk of change every month. I kept thinking that what I needed was some place away from people, but not that far away. Someplace that I could become a recluse, but still able to go into the city every once in a while to get my fix of people. I would have to hunt for this place.

I knew it wasn't going to be around Cincinnati or the small community north of Cincinnati where Mom lived. Kentucky was just across the river, and the secluded place where I wanted to spend my life might be there. I had rented a car for a week and the turn-in day was in three days. I needed to find myself some form of transportation.

With my laptop, I shopped for cars, SUVs really, but none were what I wanted. I was thinking about something a little more rugged, something like a Humvee or Jeep. I was scanning through various four wheel drive vehicles for sale, when a picture of an older Dodge four wheel drive pickup showed up. The price was really cheap, and that made me wonder what could be the matter with it. Then I decided there was no sense in wondering, why not find out?

I called the number in the ad, and an older sounding lady answered. When I told her I was calling about the Dodge pickup, she said, "Oh please, I need to sell that thing. My brother passed away, and it has been sitting here for nearly six months. It's kind of ugly, but he loved it. I don't think it has a lot of miles on it, so please come to look at it."

Right up my alley. Something I could use that someone else wanted to get rid of. It only took half an hour to get to the older Cincinnati neighborhood. The little house was what you pictured when you said you wanted a house with a porch and white picket fence. There wasn't much lawn in front, but it had a driveway leading to a detached garage behind the house.

It only took seconds for the door to open after I knocked. A beautiful old lady (aren't they all beautiful) smiled at me. "Are you the person who called about Manny's truck?"

"Yes Ma'am, I'm the guy."

She came out of the house and waved, "Follow me."

We went to the back of the house where a big Dodge pickup was sitting. The thing was a rather ugly yellow-orange, so it didn't have a lot of curb appeal. I really didn't care what it looked like, but I did want to know how it ran.

The lady handed me the keys, "Start it up. I start it and let it run a couple of times a month. Every time someone calls about the truck, they ask what color it is or what kind of engine it has. I can tell them the color, but not the engine and transmission and the callers lose interest real fast."

I started the truck, and listened to the big Cummins 6 cylinder diesel make the usual noises. I checked the glove box for a book and found the original. The truck was a 2000 Ram 2500 with a turbo-diesel engine and a six speed transmission. The odometer said there were only 33,412 miles. The interior and body looked it. I noticed the tires had just been changed, so the mileage should be correct. After the truck warmed up, I easily slipped it into gear and let it rock forward. The clutch felt good. I did the same in reverse and was convinced the truck was probably in good shape.

The little gray-haired lady was standing in the doorway. "What do you think? I know this truck has always been noisy, but Manny said it was because it was a diesel. I imagine the truck isn't worth as much if you can't use gasoline in it."

I shut the truck off and told the lady, "This truck should be worth more than a lot of gasoline trucks, as it probably gets better mileage. I'm not sure, but I think that is probably correct. Regardless, what do you want for the truck?"

"I want to get rid of it. What will you give me?"

This was a dilemma, since I wanted to buy it cheap, but I couldn't justify cheating an old lady out of money. I had looked the truck up on the net to see what it would be worth, but all of the ones listed had over a hundred thousand miles, and this was a diesel. I showed the list of trucks to the lady and she pointed at one that was a 2000 that had 190,000 miles on it. She said, "Give me half of what they want for that one and we have a deal."