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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781468575125 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 05/17/2012 |
| Pages: | 216 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.49(d) |
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CHUTES, BEER, & BULLETS
NOT YOUR GRANDPA'S WAR STORYBy Jesse C. Holder
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 Jesse C. HolderAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4685-7512-5
Chapter One
New Experiences
The door of the C-130 Hercules flew upwards as the hot Georgia air poured into my nervous lungs. The continuous bump of the aircraft was not helping the situation ... the sting of diesel nipping at my nostrils. The Black Hat yelled, "Thirty-Seconds," holding up his index finger and thumb. We all replied "thirty-seconds" as was taught to us for the past three weeks. I could feel my right hand tighten around the yellow rip cord. The only thought circulating through my head since I hooked up was, "Is the yellow cord really going to open this parachute that some nut packed?" This was by all means a new experience.
"Standby!" the Black Hat barked, and the number one jumper turned to face the rustling Georgia Pines, pissing his pants as he did so ... the Black Hat stepped back. I was the #4 jumper, or the fourth person that would jump from the plane. I was just close enough to the door to see the ground zipping by. The planes altitude hit 1,200ft and all I could think was, "What in THE HELL am I doing here?" "Green light go!" The Black Hat responds in a roar, and like ducks following a seemingly retarded mother, we all exited the aircraft.
What I confused for the wrath of God was actually the prop blast from our C-130, throwing my ragged body through the air much like your cat does with a cheap toy. I felt my T-10 Parachute opening, "Praise the Lord!" too bad Jesus didn't warn me of the opening shock on my gonads. The straps dug into my legs, and the risers were twisted behind my head. As I am bicycle kicking through the open air to untangle my straps, I see the Georgia clay approaching with terrifying speed. Which way am I supposed to pull the risers again?
As I am looking toward the horizon, I hear my 1st Lieutenant yell in agony accompanied by a sickening pop, which was his femur snapping. I try not to focus on the ground, staying as loose as possible. Feet and knees together! Then, as if the entire world is quiet except for the breeze though the pines ... I hit like a ton of bricks thrown from the Empire State Building. Hey that was easy; only four more jumps, and I'm a paratrooper!
After one more jump that day, we run back up to the Airborne barracks at Fort Benning, Georgia. I'm in Delta Company 1/507th. Having just graduated Infantry School on good ole Sand Hill, I am with at least a platoon size of my buddies. One in particular, Clark, is a character from Seattle, Washington. The guy had nothing better to do than join the Army and see where that took him. In between serving time for high-speed chases across Washington State, and almost getting killed by his own dad for walking into the family business un-announced (AHEM ... meth lab), he figured why not try something a little less dangerous.
Being from Georgia myself, I had my own vehicle there at Airborne School. A black 2002 Jeep Grand Cherokee named "darkie", my first ride. Clark and I often took it for a spin to my hometown on the weekend or around Columbus to see what kind of shit we could get in. Clark is notorious for getting to drunk and making outrageous claims about spaceships or how he can beat you in any event you think of. Plus, he likes to walk out on tabs ... so usually Captain Shitstorm finds us.
That evening we decided to go to The Chop house in Columbus. Clark and I frequented this establishment. I heard the food was amazing, but we went for the beverages. The bartender, whose name has slipped my mind, was a hipster kind of guy. He wore a red goatee and one of those damn hemp necklaces, and he drove a 1979 Blue Chevy. Mr. Barkeep claimed he obtained a degree in bartending from one of the wacko colleges that specializes in such things. The steak house was small and sat in the corner of strip mall across from the fabulous Sheraton Hotel, where I had vomited many times in the past and even jumped in the hot tub with my clothes on, but that's a different story.
Clark and I sat there drinking a beer. He preferred German beer; I'm a Coors Light man myself. A shot was sitting in front of us, Jaeger-bombs no doubt; Clark would stroke the side of his shot glass like some perverted serial killer until it was time to drop the Black Death into Red Bull. I swear God smites a kitten every time one of those is drunk. Conversation in the establishment was entertaining as usual. Clark was trying to hit on a waitress who was way out of his league, hell out of his division; Clark wasn't much of looker back then, even less so now.
An unusual cat sat down beside us with jet-black hair slicked back and stripped polo on. He obviously knows the bartender as they exchange words, slaps, punches, and play grab ass a little longer. Meanwhile Clark is eyeing me, like "If you so much as slide a hand on me that's going to be it!" I have been known to throw a few lisps on my words to make the gayest man seem straight. Rex, the gelled-Guido grab asser, turns to us and says, "What are you soldier-boys havin?" Now I may have looked young, 19 at the time, but Clark was by no means a boy. Clark, in his usual forward manner, "Well ... what are you buying?" I had another Coors, the grab-asser and Clark did shots of Johnny Walker ... talk about a lush.
After some interesting conversation, we found out that Rex was a geologist for some institute that was going out of business, and I thought the business of being a rock whisperer was booming! Of course Clark in his infinite wisdom knew all there was to know about geology from volcanic ash to the sand in his vagina. Then as if Gabriel himself blew the golden trumpet, Rex and Mr. Barkeep looked at each other and wink. Rex turns to us, "Hey ... do you guys play poker?" Now I am a hell of a rummy player, I use to beat one of my best buds every Sunday afternoon but I have never played poker; much less gambled for it. As I am sure you are imagining now, Clark once again in his most matter-a-factual tone, "Oh I'll murder ya ... my knowledge of the game and the quickness of my hands ... c'mon." I sat there pondering on the meaning of Clark's statement. It was too late though, the gauntlet had been thrown. "Well come on over, Mr. Barkeep will be joining us. I have ten beers and Kevin will be there too." Rex informs us.
I don't know who keeps the count of beers in their fridge, or who the hell Kevin is but before I could swipe my handy-dandy debit card, we were out the door, already at a BP gas station picking up a twenty-four pack of Bud Light; neither one of us keeping in mind that we have to do two maybe three more jumps tomorrow. No that never occurred to us. What a grave miscalculation.
Clark and I arrive at Rex's one-story brick suburban home. One of the older models you saw built in the 70' and 80's, a nice home for a Guido bachelor. The back door opened up into the outdated kitchen, a large wooden dining room table was in the dining room to my immediate right. The table should have given Rex plenty of room to count his beer on. Speaking of beer, low and behold, ten nicely arranged Bud Lights in the refrigerator. I'm no doctor, but I think someone had a touch of O.C.D. Only about five minutes had passed when Mr. Barkeep arrived. Rex had given Clark and me the grand tour of his lair, surprisingly not brandishing a plate of Fava beans and a nice bottle of Chianti.
Again, Rex mentioned this Kevin character as Mr. Barkeep was walking in, but he did so a little more excitedly now. Luckily the movie Hostel had not hit the market at this time, or I would have been out of there Clark or no Clark. We sat around the dining room table, fresh beers in hand (down to six now in the fridge oh no!) and Clark asks, "Well ... are we waiting on Kevin and his playing partner?" "No my friend, Kevin is already here," Rex replies. By now the anthem for the movie Halloween was repeating in my mind, and I thought that either I have lost my mind or Rex has run off the reservation with his horse and all. Then ... we see Kevin is not a person at all. Kevin is cocaine, ladies and gentlemen- a lot of cocaine.
Clark, being the former delinquent that he is, nearly bursts into tears of joy, along with the other two aficionados. Now, I'm no drug addict, hadn't even really smoked pot in high school, but I've never been a fan of wasting free blow either. After all this was a week of new experiences! The cards began to shuffle from one game to another, lines and straws were being passed quicker than offering plates in a Southern Baptist church. Next thing I know is its 3 a.m. and I am down $50, all the while remembering that we have to be in formation in an hour for our next jump. "CLARK" I yell. "We have got to go man, we have formation in an hour and it's a thirty minute drive, not counting I have no idea where we are!"
Clark replied, in his laid back manner as usual, "Well I guess it is about that time." I'd say we were so jacked though that jumping was the last thing on our minds. What about not dying of a heart-attack? We quickly thank our host as they have now taken about $75 of our money. But we inhaled at least $100 worth of cocaine so I guess it evens out. Jumping in my Jeep we are too high to remember which way is the way out. Naturally I find it without the help of Mr. Navigator beside me. "Oh my God ... bro I am soooo jacked!" Clark exclaims and beats on the dash board, "Let's go jump out of a freakin plane!" I can't help but laugh at this. What were we thinking, not only do we have to be in formation in thirty minutes, but we have to run down to the hangar and learn how to rig up our parachutes. Then sit in a harness for God knows how long. I have found that "what the hell was I thinking" is not an uncommon question at the conclusion of an experience with cocaine.
The canopy of my T-10 parachute opens with as much fury as ever. Fifth jump ... I am now a United States Army Paratrooper, now to land this thing! If you have ever jumped in Airborne school, then you know there is a long creek right smack dab in the middle of the drop zone. Pulling my risers to avoid the creek, and the inevitable slop that it entails, I lifted my legs to clear it ... this did not make for a proper PLF. My fall was overshadowed by the curse which came from the creek about 100 meters from me. You guessed it, our trusty pal Clark covered in enough Georgia clay and mud to make an Indian Mound. Victory is mine!
In Airborne School you go through about one solid week of learning how to land properly (Week 1—Ground Week). In a perfect world the five points of contact should touch the ground in this order: balls of the feet, calf, thigh, buttocks, and the pull-up muscle (lateral muscle) but this is never the case. Usually it goes feet, ass, and head. In the case of my final jump my heels hit the side of the embankment which put me right on my head. No worries, I'm not the one the entire drop zone can hear can bitching about being drug through the creek! With Clark wet and whining like a cat two things were cast iron. One, Clark and I were United States Army Paratroopers. Two, the United States Army had just given us a free roundtrip ticket to the adventure of our lives; first stop ... Italy.
Chapter Two
Xavier
Upon completing Airborne School, there is a pinning ceremony where you get your wings. Your wings are more or less an emblem you wear on the left side of your chest that say, "Why yes ... I am a paratrooper ... you're not?" You can pick who you would like to pin you, whether it be a Black Hat, friend, or family member. I picked my dad. He liked that I was doing what he wished he could have done. You can't pick what you're drafted into though; all of you draftees out there have my respect. Of course when my family came, being that we all live in Georgia, all of my family came including my some-what autistic, One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest cousin ... Xavier. Now I am going to back track here, to explain what is going on with Xavier. It will be worth every word ... I promise.
Picture, if you will the two of us as young boys, walking through the newly logged Georgia woods. It's Thanksgiving, and the air is a cool 45 degrees. The sun is breaking through the trees and the spider webs have the brilliant dew glow. Both us boys are carrying BB guns and have just come onto a grey dirt road. I turn right to follow the dirt road away from the swamp to the left; apparently Xavier does not like this, which he, in no way, shape or form, let me know. So to break the silence, he shoots me. Oh, yeah ... right in the left calf. Of course I don't know what the hell happen! I thought I had messed with a sleepy rattlesnakes slumber; maybe even knocked over his morning coffee and suffered his wrath!
As I turn on my right leg, hopping around like a fairy, I see Xavier's gun pointed towards my leg in all its smoking glory. Between the tears and shock, "Xavier did you just shoot me?!" Now I am thinking this cannot be! Both our dads and (I am sure yours as well) taught us that guns are not to be played with! Never ever do you point a gun at something you do not wish to kill ... apparently Xavier was a slow learner. "Yeah I did" Xavier says calmly. To add onto that, "Hey do you want to shoot me back?" Do I what!?!? Did he just ask me if I wanted to shoot him back? Is it just me or is this guy suffering from dementia at eight years of age?
Regaining my composure from this shocking event, ceasing with my River dancing, I do what anyone else would, "Why the heck did you shoot me Xavier?" I think you'd agree that a normal reply should go something like this, "Jesse I'm so sorry ... I tripped over this log, or stick, or rattle snake drinking his coffee, and it just went off ... let's go back to the house and tell our parents, and I'll fess up to what I did." Oh no ... not from this guy. Xavier turns to me, as if nothing ever happened, and says, "Ya know ... I really didn't want to go that way. I kind of wanted to check out the swamp to see if there were any ducks down there."
You what?!?! Now I know that this guy, my cousin for Pete's sake, is off his rocker at this young age. Stepping back and being extra cautious, now that I am with the next "Son of Sam". "Hey, how about we head back." "Are you going to tell on me?" Xavier protests. Fearing my life, I say no. Two weeks later my left leg is swollen like a softball and infected with damn near Gangrene. The doctor pokes the swollenness to uncover a geyser of puss and greenness from the depths of hell itself. Surgery recovers our secret, a shining lead BB, squatting out in my leg for two weeks now. That was my last hunting trip with Xavier ... but not his.
A few years later, Xavier is living in Roanoke, VA. My aunt, in her infinite wisdom decides to take Xavier off of his happy pills around the same time he is entering puberty. We all know puberty brings enough changes itself. At the moment I would say unleashing the beast is not the best idea in history. Hey, it wasn't my call. Xavier shoots to a good 6'4, 250lbs in the matter of a year. Now the beast not only is unstable ... but he is an unstable bus.
Xavier decides to flip a switch again ... this time locking himself in his house with a five-gallon can of gasoline. "Oh my", you say ... oh it gets better. To talk him out of the house my uncle calls upon the expertise of his next door neighbor, a local Roanoke police officer. By this time the officer has called for backup, more officers arrive. They finally appease the mad man. The next day, Xavier decides to load up a couple of shot guns, steal my aunts car, and spin it out in the ditch in a nearby neighborhood; one of the kind police officer's neighborhood.
Xavier walks down the street, like one of The Crazies, shooting out lights on light posts, and taking out aggression on mail boxes. Can we say we're now getting Federal? Xavier walks up to the police officer's house (the kind neighbor that just helped him calm down) and takes aim. Xavier unloads on this benevolent gentleman's garage and house. I know you are thinking, "Where are the police to stop this lunatic?" They're on the way, and arrive just as Xavier unloads the last shell into one of the neighbor's cars.
My uncle is with the officers. Talking him down again, Xavier says he will go peacefully to the police station if ... IF ... he can ride with his father. This is a bad idea man, really bad idea. The officers agree. Squad car in front, squad car in back of my uncle's truck; the convoy starts toward the police station. Xavier flips a switch ... deciding to tuck and roll out of the truck on the highway and sprint towards nearby brush. Now he's running from police officers. We've all seen COPS, they usually get you. Being 6'4 250lbs and in poor shape, you're not going to out run an officer, especially four of them.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from CHUTES, BEER, & BULLETS by Jesse C. Holder Copyright © 2012 by Jesse C. Holder. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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