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Chapter 2 The Company Man and Flashback to Another War April 3, 1988

Jeremy Grant, the local CIA operative, had arranged for a shipment of American-made Stinger missiles. Grant was a veteran of the Afghanistan campaign. He had spent nearly three years hiking up and down the entire country. His reputation had grown by leaps and bound among the mujahidin because of his phenomenal strength and stature. His exploits were so remarkable that even the Soviets admired his great courage and had posted a reward of forty thousand rubles for his capture, dead or alive. By mujahidin standards, he was a giant, six-foot-five and 220 pounds of raw muscle and power. However, his nearly three years in-country had caused him to slim down from his usual 240 pounds to his current weight. Weekly bouts with dysentery and meager donkey rations had inevitably reduced his bulk.

Jeremy reflected on his current state of health and his slim new figure. He had unsuccessfully tried every known diet to man, but never lost those extra twenty pounds. He couldn’t help but laugh aloud, as he had the perfect new formula for instant weight loss, a cup of impure Afghan water and a slice of tired and overworked donkey meat. Jeremy laughingly thought of the many commercial possibilities of his new and effective weight-loss plan. As he laughed, before and after photos flashed through his head. Jeremy still resembled a professional football player. His physique hard and sinewy despite nearly twenty years of covert operations. His many years of martial arts training had assisted him in maintaining his trim figure, and also greatly enhanced his reputation with the muhajidin.

Grant had in fact, been an All-American football star at West Point. Had the Vietnam War not interrupted his plans, he very well could have been a pro-football player. However, two tours in Vietnam, one of which as a member of the Phoenix Program (CIA-sponsored infrastructure re-adjustment program for the VC), ended his dream of professional football.

His involvement with the CIA was due in part to the CIA’s interest in expanding its role in Southeast Asia. The need to expand the “Agency’s” (CIA) role in Vietnam had caused a great deal of consternation in Washington. Most politicians in power there were convinced that the military was capable of handling the Vietcong. It was felt that perhaps the CIA should restrict itself to collecting and producing good intelligence products and stay out of paramilitary operations. However, by mid-1967, the CIA had over one thousand agents in Southeast Asia and became actively involved in military operations.

This was Jeremy’s introduction to the real world of intelligence and war. As a Special Forces officer, he was given the opportunity to work closely with the CIA, and was actively involved in this phase. South Vietnamese Special Forces were trained to carry out missions for the CIA. Their objective was to locate and root out the entire Vietcong infrastructure and eliminate its leaders through “extreme prejudice.” Unfortunately, many South Vietnamese officials used this U.S.-led operation to settle personal scores and eliminate personal as well as political rivals. Many Vietcong leaders were killed, however, many innocent civilians were also exterminated by the South Vietnamese forces. Their ultimate goal was quite often unclear, and eventually led to their failure.

Jeremy was actively involved in the training of these “Special South Vietnamese cadres” and participated in several confirmed assassinations. It was during one of these raids that Grant’s pro-football and military careers vanished into thin air. He nearly lost his life when he was captured by the Vietcong during one of these raids. His team had been betrayed by a renegade South Vietnamese (ARVN) officer; his entire five-man team had been ambushed and taken captive. He was kept prisoner for ninety-seven days, under the harshest possible conditions. His fellow captives had been hideously tortured and beheaded. Their genitals were cut off and stuffed in their mouths; their heads were then speared on bamboo stakes and left near American forces as a sign of contempt, and as a reminder of their disregard for human lives.

It was during this ordeal in Vietnam that Grant developed an intense sense of survival that would help him twenty years later in Afghanistan.

Jeremy sat on the ground in front of his small tent and reviewed his current situation. Here he was on a high plateau in the mountains of Afghanistan trying to convince a bunch of fanatical Muslims to accept his help. Ten days of stressful evasion from the Soviets had worn his body down. The situation was both mentally and physically as exhausting as his capture by the Vietcong. His thoughts flashing back to a similar debilitating fatigue he’d endured during his escape from the VC, and of a sadistic little VC major two decades earlier.

His current sheer physical exhaustion and mental fatigue overpowered him and he promptly fell asleep. Although his memories of Vietnam were not pleasant ones, his mind seemed to force him to recall this episode in his life. Within a few seconds he was there, back in the stinking rice paddies and jungles of Vietnam.

His sleep was deep, yet restless. Throughout his ordeal as a P.O.W. in Vietnam, Jeremy was segregated from the rest of the prisoners, and only learned of the atrocities perpetrated against his fellow team-members from a verbose guard. Upon hearing of these atrocities, Jeremy was horrified and shocked at the monstrous hate of his enemies. He reflected on a very “apropos” quotation that he had learned while at West Point, “Communism has nothing to do with love. Communism is an excellent hammer which we use to destroy our enemy (Mao Tse Tung).” The VC soldiers who had committed these atrocities were mere instruments in the overall communist strategy. Jeremy’s dream continued. Although, Grant was now fast asleep on the ground in Afghanistan, his thoughts were far away in Vietnam.

Still dreaming, Grant relived his entire Vietnam capture. While in this deep sleep, Grant began to realize that his life was only valuable as long the VC needed him. When his usefulness ended, so would his life. He was but a pawn in their propaganda campaign and he feared for his well-being. The Vietcong were particularly proud of the fact that they had captured an intelligence officer, even worse, a possible CIA-sponsored “Phoenix” team member. The local VC commander, a foul-mouthed dwarf named Van Trang Dong, considered Grant his personal property, and was determined to march him up and down the entire country to prove his merit as a tactical commander. Although the vicious little major had nothing to do with their capture, he went around bragging of his cunning and stealth in capturing these vicious “Imperialistic American Dogs.”

Grant often wondered why major Dong had such a particular dislike for Caucasian officers, especially intelligence officers. One month into his captivity, major Dong called Jeremy into his rundown office for another one of his torture and questioning sessions. The slimy little major began to interrogate him.

“Grant, you will talk now!”

“You will tell me everything you know; I am tired of hearing your excuses, CPT Grant.”

“The Vietnamese people deeply love independence, freedom and peace. But in the face of United States aggression, they have risen up, united as one man.” “Do you know who said this?” Major Dong asked, his voice increasing in pitch.

“Of course not, you wouldn’t,” shouted the small major. “Our great leader, Ho Chi Minh. I feel the same way,” screamed Dong, in a hysterical manner, his small dark eyes bulging like a small bulldog giving birth to a St. Bernard.

“Your negative attitude has forced me to pursue a course of questioning, which you will long remember.”

“Major Dong, you already have all the information you want. You know I can’t tell you anything else, even if you kill me,” Jeremy stated.

“Oh, no! Death is too easy for you, I guarantee you will talk and you will suffer.” Major Dong’s eyes had a habit of bulging out of his head when he got excited.

Major Dong suddenly began screaming French, German and Arab obscenities at him.

“Espese de con,” “Salopar,” “Enculez,” “Aschloch,” and “Anta keebir haloof, “Zub anta”, in Arabic, (Asshole, bastard, faggot, big pig, up your ass).

Grant looked at major Dong in total amazement, not understanding, nor knowing what was said to him. Jeremy waited patiently not comprehending, and awaited an explanation. Dong finally calmed down long enough to blurt out, his lips quivering with hate, “You filthy white trash.”

“I will show you what real pain is! You think you are invincible, don’t you?” Dong screamed.

Still dreaming, Jeremy slowly looked up and pondered whether or not he should challenge this madman. While reflecting on his delicate, and dangerous situation, Grant’s thoughts once again wandered in a desperate attempt to escape this horrible predicament, a dream within a dream. These experiences had been so traumatic that he was able to escape the horrors by shutting off reality. His favorite means of doing this was closing his eyes, and drifting off the planet. Escaping the reality within a dream by falling asleep in his dream and escaping his torturer.

Once again his eyes slowly closed, as he inwardly shuddered at the thought of this little maniac. Jeremy desperately wanted to forget his current circumstance. He forced himself to recall another of the many famous quotes his history professor had taught him at West Point. It was, as usual, a very good quote. His history professor had forced the entire class to memorize dozens of these small gems, and perhaps now it would keep him alive. Remembering these often antagonistic quotes kept him from losing his sanity. Grant was fascinated by the fact that after all these years he was still able to recite these quotations by heart.

“A communist is a like a crocodile, when it opens its mouth you cannot tell whether it is trying to smile or preparing to eat you up.” (Winston Churchill).

One of Major Dong’s sudden outbursts brought Jeremy back to reality. Nah, he thought, this guy is too crazy and he didn’t feel like ending up in the soup pan for dinner.

“Well, everyone talks eventually, and you will, too,” Dong shouted.

“CPT Grant, you probably think you have been mistreated? Don’t you?” shouted Dong.

“You now will suffer, the way the French made me suffer. The French tried to break me! Oh how they tried!” He whimpered.

Major Dong seemed to lose control of his body and slowly sank to his knees. His face was twisted in a hideous mask of pain and grief. The entire room was shocked by this display of weakness. Twenty seconds slowly ticked away, before the small major quietly regained his composure and resumed his ferocious attack on Jeremy.

“Yes, I fought the French at Dien Bien Phu. You, like them, will lose this war! You do not have the spirit or strength for your cause. You cannot defeat our people,” ranted Dong, only pausing for breath.

“I was captured by members of the 5th Parachute Regiment of the French Foreign Legion,” shouted Major Dong.

“I was leading a small reconnaissance patrol near one of their outposts, when members of the “Green Frogs” (nickname of the French Legionnaire Parachutist Regiment) savagely attacked our unit, killing everyone, but me.”

Major Dong spoke slowly and deliberately, as if trying to recall every detail; his evil little face contorting like a hideous mask.

“General Ho Chi Minh, our great leader, had entrusted me with this important mission and sent my patrol to scout the main runway at Dien Bien Phu,” continued Dong with menace in his voice.

The little major spoke as if he had an audience of attentive school children; his gnome-like features creased in anticipation of applause from his invisible audience. The major continued in a barely audible whisper.

“All French Legionnaires were worthless scum, they mistreated and abused my people and all Vietminh!” “Ha!” shouted Major Dong.

“I got my revenge, and they still remember me, “Sal maudit Legionnaire,” (Dirty cursed—), he continued with fervor.

“Insolent and stubborn, at first. But, even their Germanic pride was no match for me. Did you know, CPT Grant, that many of these legionnaires, were, in fact, former SS soldiers?” He asked, the still silent Jeremy.

“But I showed them how to crawl and beg for mercy. At the end, they all begged for mercy,” screamed Dong.

He seemed to slip in and out of consciousness and reverted back and forth between French and English, his lips contorting and twitching. His eyes were glazed and dark. He suddenly shouted: “Those Legionnaires were foreign mercenaries fighting for an imperialistic power. They fought in Morocco and Algeria and developed many interesting torture techniques. You are lucky, CPT Grant, I will personally introduce you to some of the more enjoyable Ones!” leered Dong, at the stoic Grant.

Although Jeremy was dreaming, his entire Vietnam experience unfurled within his now sleeping brain.

Major Dong’s threats had Jeremy suddenly feeling a cold chill throughout his body, and he visibly shrank into a tight ball. Grant didn’t really care about Major Dong’s sad experience with the French Foreign Legion. He only hoped that he could survive this new form of torture. Grant’s only wish was to get his hands around Dong’s throat and squeeze until all of his rotten beetle-juice-stained teeth popped out.

Jeremy was then paraded from camp to camp throughout Vietnam. However, Grant noted that the VC always seem to be heading in a northerly direction, and he had no intention of ending up a P.O.W. in North Vietnam.

After the strange episode, Major Dong took particular pleasure in torturing and abusing Grant. Dong felt as if he had shamed himself in front of his men and blamed Jeremy for his Faux-pas (mistake). He took singular delight in running a six-foot length of bamboo behind Grant’s back, and tying Grant’s hands in such a fashion that any downward movement would cause excruciating pain. Dong would then fasten another rope around his neck and ankles causing him to choke whenever he fell. Jeremy had endured this abuse for over three months; his mind was becoming a blur of green hell, pain and agony. Grant knew that if he allowed his mind to wander too much, he would never escape this inferno. At this point, Jeremy did not know which part of his dream he was in. The violent thoughts rolled into each other in his hapless brain. His torment continued as he relived his capture by Major Dong.

One remote VC camp after another became a nightmare of renewed hell and abuse. Grant tried in vain to maintain his sanity by using every trick in the book. Focusing on one subject, he had found, helped his concentration. He repeatedly recited poetry or verses, and found that a poignant verse he had written during his first tour caused him to temporarily forget the pain.

Grant’s mind wandered. His thoughts drifted like a butterfly on LSD. His soul floated between the stark realism of Vietnam, and the pleasant thoughts of a long-lost past, and the current events in Afghanistan. His dreams switched between the reality of his existing situation, and events which occurred over twenty years ago. During this particularly troublesome situation, Jeremy had difficulty in sorting out his dreams. His restless spirit would stray between dreams, and he seemed to lose touch with reality.

Although he was asleep, he continuously tried to focus on events and occurrences that were of particular significance to him. His mind was being continually torn apart by conflicting emotions and feelings. Even in his sleep, he was so confused that he was usually unable to achieve a deep REM state. After many hours of troubling dreams, finally succumbing to mental exhaustion, he fell into a deep REM sleep. His mind drifted into a semi-hypnotic trance.

Jeremy gradually escaped his torturer, and began dreaming and focusing on a training class that he had taken at Ft. Bragg, years earlier as a young second lieutenant. For some unknown reason his entire mental capacity was now concentrated on this event which took place so many years ago. Pleasant experiences were replacing the traumatic ones with Major Dong.

His Escape and Evasion class (E&E) had started routinely enough, but one idea clearly stuck in Grant’s mind, “S.U.R.V.I.V.A.L. and Repetition.” Grant’s sole thought was now concentrated on his former instructor, and what he had taught him.

“One of the paramount experiences that hundreds of servicemen learned during WWII and Korea was that SURVIVAL was a matter of mental outlook. If you had the will to survive, you would do so! Another valuable tool was repetition and concentration. Be obstinate and more determined than the enemy and you will win the battle of wills!”

His instructor, Sergeant First Class (SFC) Donald Glenn Murchison, AKA “DG” (Dead Guy), a second-generation Scotsman from Dumfries, Scotland, had instructed his students to attempt and focus on one subject, and keep repeating this thought over and over and over. SFC Murchison had drummed into their heads that every soldier might experience emotional problems resulting from fear, anxiety, loneliness and boredom. Not only would they experience these mental problems, but they might also be subject to hunger, pain, severe wounds, and thirst. This combination of mental and physical torture could possibly overcome their strongest intentions. The words SURVIVAL and REPETITION kept appearing in Jeremy’s thoughts. Jeremy kept hearing SFC Murchison scream at them, “SURVIVAL is spelled:

S ize up the situation

U ndue haste makes waste

R emember where you are

V anquish fear and panic

I mprovise

V alue living

A ct like the natives

L earn basic skills

“You will forget the, “New Testament,” and memorize the Department of the Army Field Manual, FM 21-76, SURVIVAL. Is that understood, gentlemen?” Jeremy’s dreams were so realistic that he was transported back over and over again to Fort Bragg.

Grant’s memories of SFC Murchison were always full of great esteem and respect. His time spent there now appeared like stories in a DC Comic book, short stories full of action and adventure. Jeremy’s exhausted mind played tricks on him. Just when things were getting good or bad, the story line would shift. After a series of flashbacks his dream finally settled into an epic adventure.

“DG’s” war stories were almost like an act of contrition. A price had to be paid in time, beer and hangovers. Jeremy fondly remembered their last encounter in the Senior NCO Club at Ft. Bragg. Another senior NCO had also been present at their table, and he loudly proclaimed that “DG” had to be the greatest escape artist in the history of the United States Army.

“Hey, lieutenant, how in the hell were you allowed in this club? We don’t allow no Shavetails in here!” proclaimed Sergeant Major (SGM), Richard “Bunny” Howard, a close colleague of “DG’s.”

“Well, huhh, you know, I was invited by “DG” to come along, and I hope I am not offending anyone,” Grant said, hoping not to piss-off the drunken Sergeant Major.

“Naahh, that’s okay, lieutenant, any friend of “DG’s” is a friend of mine. Did you know why he was called “DG”? Huh?” stuttered “Bunny.”

“No, I didn’t, but I am sure if I buy you another beer you just might tell me! Right?” replied the young second lieutenant.

“Your damn right I will, but it’s going to take more than just a little beer to get me to talk about ‘DG.’ How much time do you have, LT.? All night I hope, because I feel like getting drunk!” SGM Howard proclaimed in a loud voice. With that last remark he started rattling off like an out of control M-60 machinegun.

“‘DG’ Murchison is a highly-decorated combat veteran of both W.W. II and Korea. ‘DG’ has the distinct fame of having been taken prisoner in both wars, and therefore is an expert on the subject of escape and evasion. ‘DG’ got his nickname during the Battle of the Bulge. His position was overrun by the hard-charging 5th SS Panzer Division of Oberst (Colonel/later General) Joachim Peiper. Peiper was the former commander of Hitler’s own 1st Leibstandarte Panzer Regiment and led the spearhead during the Battle of the Bulge. He was also responsible for the Malmedy massacre, in which unarmed American soldiers were shot down in cold blood.

‘DG’ was severely wounded and left for dead by his comrades. SGM Howard blurted out that last paragraph with hardly a breath between words. He continued after slowly taking a long swig of beer.

“Even his parents received a telegram from the Department of the Army, listing him as ‘Missing in Action’ (MIA). They were, of course, both surprised and elated when he turned up a few months later alive and kicking. His younger brother, Frank, had exclaimed, ‘Hey, you’re suppose to be a Dead-Guy.’

“Are you listening to me, LT?” “Bunny” barked!

“Yes, I am Sergeant Major. Please continue,” Grant replied, his youthful voice breaking at the harsh bark of the drunken Sergeant Major.

“Well, the nickname stuck, from then on it became ‘DG’, replied Howard in a matter-of-fact voice.” Twenty-six beers had finally taken their toll on the drunken soldier. His head hit the table with a loud ‘Thonk’ and Jeremy knew the story was over for tonight.

The next day both Jeremy, the Sergeant Major and DG had a terrible hangover. But, from then on, Jeremy was more prone to paying attention to SFC Murchison. Although ‘DG’ continually yelled obscenities at his class of less than enthusiastic young second lieutenants. Jeremy Grant was one of the few avidly taking notes and listening to this grizzled combat veteran. Jeremy hoped that he would never need to know any of this stuff, but he felt it might come in handy one day.

Although Jeremy was dreaming, these vivid memories of a distant past life reinforced his determination to survive at all costs. In his dream and in reality, CPT Jeremy Grant had formulated a plan to defeat any attempts at coercion and torture. Repetition, hypnotic repetition! Grant snapped back to reality in his dream, and realized that he was now sitting on his muddy cell floor, in a rotten little corner of Vietnam. A sudden feeling of anguish and loneliness seized his heart, and he abruptly felt very alone and vulnerable. His mind willed him to be strong, but his soul was aching for companionship.

At various times during the night, Jeremy woke to find himself sitting in front of his tent in Afghanistan. This added to the confusion. At times he was unable to tell the difference between reality, Vietnam or Afghanistan. Flashbacks of another war kept muddying the dreams. Jeremy had never used drugs, but he was sure that this must be what all the veterans called “flashbacks.”

As the night progressed back in Afghanistan, Jeremy crawled inside his tent and immediately fell fast asleep. It was as if his mind was pre-programmed for certain channels, and he wanted to continue watching the Vietnam Horror Channel (VHC). As soon as his head hit the rolled-up prayer blanket, Jeremy was back in Vietnam in his cell.

Jeremy dreamt that a green millipede slowly crawled across the floor. The creature scurried as fast as its tiny legs could propel it. He curiously watched the hundreds of little black legs wriggle in unison in a fascinating snakelike motion. Jeremy slowly reached out with his right hand and picked up the still-moving insect; carefully observed the strange colored markings on its belly and popped it in his mouth without further thought. Survival was one of the words that ‘DG’ had pounded in his head, and by God he was going to survive!

The deeper his sleep got the more vivid the memories were of Vietnam. In his dream, he was determined to maintain his sanity, and win the mind game with Major Dong. However, his protein starved and exhausted body kept shifting into the hibernation mode. Although his mind attempted to fight the urge, his physical collapse forced him to continually drift in and out of reality. In both his conscious and unconscious dream his exhausted body longed for sleep. No matter how hard he tried, his battered frame floated into deeper sleep. Once again, Jeremy slowly drifted into a state of hibernation. At first, his tortured thoughts screamed with despair and agony, but eventually his dreams became less violent in nature, and they quietly focused on his first visit to San Francisco. Jeremy felt himself transported thousand of miles, and thousands of hours away. He was suddenly there, landing at the airport, his memories and consciousness virtually alive. It later seemed to him like a child’s dream of flying, floating in the air, but not really flying or touching the ground. He was aware of the floating sensation, but somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain he longed for terra firma.