I must have been away, it seems, for such a long long time.

I came back home to yesterdays but none were there to find.

Running from the fields of youth, our colors turned to gray;

before our time we went to war and youth just went away.

I close my eyes and gaze again upon our innocence;

memories of grander days with grander covenants.

Now hopes and plans and promises lie broken all around;

the boys we were, and dreams we dreamed, are buried in the ground.

Those were God blessed times, old friend, before came Vietnam

where we set out to save the world, from those we saved it from.

Now I walk this hallowed ground where fallen heroes lie

and remember when we were boys again, before you had to die.

So I salute this marble cross that marks the honored dead;

I plant the Lilies of the Field as a crown upon your head.

And I'll stand here and talk about how good things used to be;

I know you hear, my stalwart friend. I feel you here with me.

I'll sing your song and tell your tales and pray your prayers for you.

I'll not forsake your suckling babe; I'll see your battles through.

The boy I was lies there with you; there are no fields to roam.

The man I am cries here with you and tries to go back home.

11 December, 1939

My name is Jacob Ardemus Monroe, being 69 years old, born on July 18, 1868 of Thaddeus and Katherine Monroe in my father’s cabin in the settlement of Locust Fork on the Black Warrior River in the County of Cahaba, in the state of Alabama. The Jacob part of my name comes from the Bible which my father read to us every night, while Ardemus was the name of my great-grand father, and of his grandfather. It is a name that has served me well over the years.

When I was a young boy I seemed to be more a dreamer of dreams than I was a doer of things. Growing up among the hills and hollows of my home, my soul would stir restless at the rustling of the wind or at the echo of a Whippoorwill’s song late on a summer's night and my mind would search for truth in every passing cloud and in every starlit night. It was a time of want without reason, of need without purpose and of knowledge without wisdom, a time of yearning for what was not and for dreaming of what might be. I knew there were many truths to be learned far from the land and river that had sustained me, and many questions yet to be asked.

And so came to pass.

On the 25th day of March in my 25th year, after a lifetime of waiting and a week of goodbyes, I left Locust Fork to find whatever else there was to find, to see and feel and know what the world had to offer outside of the only home I'd ever known.

Know that some of what I tell you will bring you tears of happiness, while others will bring tears of sadness. That is one truth of life I come to know far too well.

Jacob Ardemus Monroe,

Adventurer

Chapter 1 – The Adventure Begins

As the shores of the Black Warrior river disappeared behind me and the sounds of the water rushing past Bear Rock gave way to the sounds of the woodland I felt a freedom like I hadn’t felt before and a sadness I didn’t expect. The roots that bound me to my home ran deep and long across four generations of the Monroe family, back to my great-grandfather Ardemus who settled in Locust Fork in the spring of 1826, having traveled to Alabama from North Carolina with only his horse and two pack mules and a desire to see and do things he had not dared before.

My journey from Locust Fork wasn’t going to last forever. I knew would return one day, hopefully as a wiser and richer man. I didn't know when or how. The same fate and circumstance that determined my path of leaving would one day determine the path of my return.

I had little money and just a few belongings. My horse's name was named Ahoti, a name given to him by my father. It was an Indian name that means restless one but those times had long since passed him by. Now he was getting along in years and his back had become more swayed and his pace had slowed but he was still a good horse that wouldn’t abandon me in times of trouble although he had a natural fear of mountain lions and bears and every kind of snake, or anything that resembled a snake.

In Ahoti's saddlebags I had $43, a U.S. Cavalry compass, two boxes of shells for my Henry rifle, one box of 45 caliber shells for my pistol, and a Bowie knife that my father gave to me on my sixteenth birthday. It was my father that taught me the skills needed for survival in the wilderness. He believed them necessary knowledge for a boy becoming a man. It’s something I’d thank him for many times in the months and years to come. Other supplies were strapped to Ahoti’s back along with a blanket to sleep on.

I couldn’t imagine being more prepared to face the world.

The first part of my journey was going to take me to Cheaha Mountain some ten days northeast of Locust Fork. The town of Ft. Payne was a former cavalry post and was nestled at the base of Cheaha. I planned to spend a day or so there to buy supplies and enjoy the last of civilization I'd see before heading up the mountain. Beyond that, I had no plans.

It would be several hours before I stopped to rest. I followed an old wagon trail for the first two hours but eventually took to my own trail, choosing to cross over Sadler’s Ridge and not go around it. After an hour’s climb to the top and another hour of resting on the cool ground under the shade of a Sycamore tree, Ahoti and I headed north with the mid-afternoon sun to our left and the breeze to our back. Sunset was still a few hours away and I wanted to put more miles behind us before making camp.

The next few hours was pretty uneventful other than coming within eyesight of a small black bear that nearly made Ahoti jump out of his skin. Some two hours before sunset I made camp beneath an overhanging rock near the bottom of a shallow ravine at the edge of a deep forest. It would provide a good shelter and, from its smoke-darkened appearance and drawings on the rock face, it looked to have provided shelter for many others before me.

At the time I was not aware that another human called these woods home, a displaced Frenchman by the name of Etienne Marceau. As I soon found out, Etienne was very aware of my presence and he was not happy that I was there.

Chapter 2 – Jacob and Etienne

The sun was less than an hour from disappearing behind Sadler’s Ridge when the Frenchman first made himself known to me. I turned around to reach for my canteen and there he stood, setting sun at his back. I couldn’t tell much about him other than he was big. My pistol, my knife and my rifle were all with Ahoti, a mistake I would not make again. I picked up a rock to defend myself.

Only, he didn’t come at me. He just stood his ground and after a long moment, he spoke.

“Monsieur, you have been tramping through my woods for half a day. You have scared away every beast, grand et petit, for kilometers. Tell me why I should not kill you.”

I could barely make out his outline against the sun but I could see no weapon and he didn’t sound as angry as he would have me believe. I shaded my eyes with my forearm hoping to see his face but I could not.

He pressed the point. “Monsieur, I am awaiting your response and I am losing my patience quickly with you.”

The sun was blinding me. I turned my face to the ground only to see a timber rattler that had crawled to within six feet of me. He was well disguised and practically covered with leaves. I kept my eyes on him as I spoke. “Bon monsieur Frenchman. There is no reason to kill me, mon ami.” I had just used every word of French that I knew. “I am just a tired traveler passing through, hoping to rest for the night. I didn’t know you were here or I would have gone on a little further.”

“I have heard you and smelled you for many hours. You make the noise of ten men. Perhaps a man of your grace should not venture into the woods. There are many dangers here -- mountain lions, bear, wolf. However...” he paused and took one step forward “in this forest, not all danger walks on four legs. Do you understand me well, monsieur?”

“Yes. I do understand you Frenchman. And I know all about the dangers of the forest, even more than I’d like to about right now. My name is Monroe, Jacob Ardemus Monroe. If you aren’t going to kill me right away, would you mind doing something about that rattlesnake that's about to crawl across my boot?”

The cold steel of his blade flashed briefly as it flew through the air with deadly accuracy and nearly severed the rattler’s head. “I have been watching him. Now I have food to eat. Perhaps I will wait and kill you on a full stomach.” He came toward me and picked up the rattler by its tail. It was even larger than I’d thought. He pulled his blade from the ground, cut the snake’s rattles off and tossed them onto the ground at my feet. “Those will serve you well, weary traveler, if you survive the night. Even the bear fears the rattlesnake. Do you know the way to properly prepare snake?”

“Yes, I do. I know how to prepare snakes and rabbits and just about any other kind of animal you might find around these parts.” There was an uneasy pause for a moment as we stared at each other. Even though he was just a few feet away from me, in the shadows I still could not see him clearly. “I told you my name, Frenchman. How about you telling me yours?”

“You wish to know the name of your executioner, eh?” He took out a leather strop from a deerskin pouch and sharpened the blade of his knife across it as he spoke. “Very well. I am Etienne Gerard Marceau the First, Emperor and ruler of this very forest in which we stand, son of Rene Philippe Marceau -- a thief and a scoundrel that was guillotined by the Emperor Napoleon III in the courtyard at Versailles when I was but a small boy.  I witnessed it with my own eyes.” He paused and looked at me again. It was the first time I could glimpse his face. It was so weathered that I couldn’t tell his age. He had a beard and wore a black beret and there was a scar running from his left ear down his neck. “It is my father’s blood that is coursing through my veins.”

“My father is a farmer and it his blood that flows in my veins. Perhaps we are not so different.”

“Perhaps. Before the night has passed, we will know more of each other, yes?”

I picked up the rattles of the snake and looked them over. “This snake will be good enough for supper, Etienne, but there are other things for us to eat around here – mushrooms, roots, berries, other plants.” Etienne didn't respond. “I can probably find some snails if you want escargot."

He laughed as he wiped the blade of his knife across his buckskin pants and placed it in a scabbard that was strapped across his shoulder like a quiver. “Perhaps you can also find truffles.” He looked at me again, longer this time. “Go and find your plants and roots. I will prepare the snake for cooking. ” He paused again. “You are a lucky man today, monsieur. Do not be foolish.”

I retrieved my knife from Ahoti’s saddlebags and went deeper into the woods. When I returned to the camp the sun was soon to disappear behind the ridge. Etienne had already skinned the snake and started a fire. “It is good that you have returned before the darkness was upon us, mon ami. You would not wish to be captured by la bête.”

“La bête, Etienne? Is that another Frenchman? Why would he want with me? I'm just a man looking for someplace else.”

Etienne sliced the snake into pieces and placed them on a thin flat rock he had staked above the fire. “La bête -- the beast. The beast is no man, mon ami.”

“The beast? Do you mean a bear or a mountain lion? I've heard stories about ogres but I never believed in them.”

Etienne turned his head slowly to face me. “Le bête is not those things you speak of mon ami. There are many things to be feared in these woods, especially when the sun is gone. Even I, Etienne, Emperor of this very forest, do not venture far into the night. I wish someday to go back to France or maybe go north to Quebec. It would not serve me well to be dead.” Etienne's eyes glowed like embers in the firelight. “In the forest, it is what you do not believe to be true that will get you killed. You will be dead, and no one will ever know of you again.”

Then, he laughed again.

There’s something there in dark of night --

lying low, avoiding light.

My shadow now I cannot see

though darkened shadows follow me.

What be that ghostly sound I hear

awakening primordial fear?

It’s just the wind. It cannot be

something evil stalking me.

A scream! A caterwauling cat?

No cat of mine e’er sounded that….

It’s colder now; I know not why

but I’m too young a man to die.

I quick my pace against the dark

and quickly I must cross the park;

I need to rest, though I not dare.

Deep in the night there’s…something there

12 August, 2003

I was visiting an old friend at his home two years ago this week. I’d been there for just a few hours. We were sitting in his den sipping our third or fourth Remy XO and enjoying a Carlos Toraño Double Corona. Dave was not one to cut corners on things he enjoyed. He wasn’t rich but he wasn’t cheap. He’d moved to Gulf Shores here in Alabama back in ’93 from Blackduck, Minnesota. He’d finally grown weary of the hard and long winters and “loaded up my wagon and headed south” as he told it, and he didn’t stop until he’d gone about as far south as a man could go without a boat. He’d spent pretty much his whole life in and around Blackduck except for his stint in the army. We’d known each other since the Vietnam although that subject itself was one that rarely came up. We only talked about ‘them days’ when we felt a need, which was never – at least not anymore. I don’t think we’d brought it up in half a dozen years, maybe more.

But that was about to change.

It was close to midnight when the phone rang. Dave stood slowly and walked over to where the cordless was charging in its stand. That the telephone even rang at all seemed a little odd; everyone that knows Dave calls him on his cell phone. Dave glanced at me. “Probably somebody looking for the Bay Lounge; our numbers are nearly the same.” Instead of putting down his Remy and picking up the receiver, Dave just turned on the speakerphone.

I remember the conversation like it was yesterday.

“Hello…?” Dave shook his head. No response. He started to hang up but tried one more time. “HELLO?”

“Hello, sir. I’m sorry, sir. You’re breaking up a little bit. Is this Captain Miliken?”

Dave dropped his Remy on the floor. Captain Miliken was a name neither of us thought we’d ever hear again, or prayed that we would not.

Dave didn’t answer the caller’s question. You’ll understand why.

I closed my eyes and old memories flooded my brain, exploding inside my head like mortar shells. Suddenly there was jungle all around me. I could feel the heat, taste the fear, hear myself gasping for air, praying that the V.C. wouldn’t hear my heart pounding in my chest. I shook my head to try and chase the nightmares to the back of my mind where they belonged. But they are always there.

The silence was again broken by the voice on the phone.

“Sir…? SIR! It’s me, sir. Corporal Bertram. Corporal Max Bertram. You know, Hotrod, from ’nam…. Are you there, Captain? Can’t you hear me?” This time the words were louder, more emphatic -- more statement than question.

Dave wouldn’t let Bertram know how badly he had rattled him. It was a matter of his pride and an oath he had taken, I had taken, Bertram had taken.

“Yes…I can hear you now, Hotrod. I can hear you. It’s been a lot of long years since I’ve heard your voice. A lot of years. How have you be…”

“Thirty-four years, sir. Thirty four years, eight months and three weeks if you want to be more exact. Of course, that’s from the end of it all, when the six of us split up and went our separate ways. How long was it we were together, sir? Five weeks? Five weeks in hell? Cambodia was hell alright. I know you’d agree with me on that, sir. It was bloody hell, the pits of hell.”

“How’d you find me, Hotrod? I’ve not spoken to anyone from our patrol since we left Cam Ranh Bay. Not a soul. Why are you calling me now?”

“Sir? Aren’t you glad to hear from me, sir? We saved each other’s asses more than once.” Bertram laughed, softly. “Hey! You remember that one Charlie that hid under the…”

“Bertram! Hotrod! Listen to me.”

“Yes sir.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. None of what you’ve said so far ever happened. You know as well as I do. We were not in Cambodia. We spent five weeks together in survival training in the Central Highlands of Qui Nhon province. Nothing else. It was hell all right, but it was meant to be hell.”

“Private Mallard is dead, sir. So is Lt. Batson. I thought you’d want to know.”

Dave sat down. “Batson died? And Mallard? How, Hotrod? When? Wait! Never mind. Don’t tell me. We all have to go sometimes. I truly hate it for their families but I put that life behind me. I had to. I figured we all had. That’s how we were trained.”

“Yes sir. I know very well how we were trained. Very well. Anyway, Lt. Batson died 11 months ago…a bad car wreck. The papers said he’d had too much to drink. His car crashed through a guardrail in Oregon and fell 150 feet into a ravine. It was a real bad way to go.”

Dave shook his head sadly. “That’s too bad. Batson was a good man…and a good soldier.”

“Yes sir, he was. I got to talk to him, though, just a few days before he died. I was real glad about that. I stayed for his funeral but I stayed to myself, away from everybody else. I didn’t talk to anybody there. I wouldn’t…well, you know sir. I wouldn’t tell anybody anything. I’ve been going crazy all these years, wanting to talk about what happened then but there was nobody I could talk to. That’s when I decided to look for the rest of the squad. But, do you know sir; I couldn’t find anybody that was in our patrol? Not a soul. Not a body. Not at first anyway. I only found Batson by luck. I was passing through Coos Bay about an hour south of Portland and picked up a town newspaper and there he was, big as day. He’d been elected to the city council. Only, sir…now I know that his name wasn’t really Batson, and he wasn’t a Lieutenant either. Yes sir, we had us a real good talk before he died. He must have wanted to get things off his chest in a bad kind of way. Once he started talking he wouldn’t hardly stop. He knew about Private Mallard being killed. Only…well, Mallard wasn’t a private, sir, and his name wasn’t really Mallard. Imagine my surprise, Captain Miliken – Batson and Mallard, neither who they said they were. But now they’re both dead sir; so their secrets died with them. Except for, well, I know and you know. Don’t you see, sir? That’s why I couldn’t find anybody. I contacted the army and filled out forms and did everything I was asked to do but they said they never heard of any of you. I figured it was just a screw up. As screwed up as things were when we left ’nam, I can imagine a lot of records got lost. Can’t you, sir?”

My gut was wrenching. I sat down on the sofa. Dave stayed put, trying to keep up his demeanor. “Then…I guess you might also know about….”

“About you sir? Yes sir. Batson was a real encyclopedia of information. I know you weren’t a Captain. You were a Colonel. Col. David R. McCoy, Third Army Postal Unit. At least, that’s what your Army records say. But we both know it’s a lie sir. Your army record is a lie. Yes sir, we both know that. Said you were a captain for seven years. Not a very distinguished career, though. Never got into trouble, never saw any combat. If that weren’t so sad it would be funny. Wouldn’t it sir?”

“Look, Bertram, my Army records are…”

“My name’s not Bertram, sir. You probably know that by now. I still get called Hotrod ever now and then though, by a few of my family and the one or two friends I have left. My commander, he gave me the name Bertram just before I left to meet up with the rest of the patrol in Cambodia…you know sir, two clicks north of Kampong Ro. He said it was important that I remained anonymous. Those were his exact words. I just didn’t know he meant forever, sir. I surely didn’t know that.”

“Your commander…”

“He’s dead too, sir. Died in his sleep at a cheap hotel in Louisiana 21 months ago. Sudden heart attack…at least that’s what the paper said happened. But what do they know, huh? Nothing. They don’t know nothing.”

“Sounds like our numbers are thinning out, Hotrod.”

“Yes, sir. I like the name Hotrod. Or, I used to…now, I’m not so sure. Now, whenever I hear it, I think about…well you know sir. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about…what we did. I think you gave me that name, didn’t you sir? Hotrod?”

“It’s possible. I gave nicknames to a lot of soldiers in my time.”

“What about Sgt. Gilbert?”

“Gilbert? I haven’t seen him….”

“Sir!”

“Yes, Corporal?”

“Isn’t he there with you now? I stopped by his place in Birmingham. I met some of his neighbors. Sgt. Gilbert, can’t you say hello to an old army buddy? I’ll bet you haven’t been called Gilbert in a while, have you? Mind if I call you Sgt. Jackson? Are you listening, Sgt. Jackson? Your neighbor across the street…Mrs. Peterson…a real nice lady…when I told her I was an old army buddy from Vietnam, she told me you were coming down here. People surely are nicer to us Vietnam vets these days than they were when we first came home. Aren’t they, sir? Anyway, Sergeant, I hope you’re doing well. It’s good that you’re here.”

“What’s this all about, Hotrod?” Dave glanced my way but did not acknowledge Bertram’s statement and I didn’t respond.

“Nothing, sir. I just wanted to talk to you and the sergeant about the time we spent together in Cambodia….”

“Well, Hotrod, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can say about something that didn’t happen. We never got to within 20 kilometers of Cambodia. You know that’s….

“Know what, sir? The truth? Yes sir, I know the truth. Just like you and Sgt. Jackson know the truth. Just like Batson and Mallard and my commander knew the truth.”

“Corporal, why don’t we meet tomorrow for breakfast? It’ll be on me. It’s getting kind of late and I want to get some shuteye. I’m not as young as I once was.”

“Sir, I’ve seen you go three days without sleep. You, too, Sgt. Jackson. I guess when your life is on the line you can do things you never thought you could. Things like we did to that village in Cambodia.”

I had to say something. This conversation needed to end. “It wasn’t a village, Corporal. It was a V.C. compound.” I could hear my words but it was as if someone else were talking…like I was just watching a stage show or a movie. “That compound had been supplying the Viet Cong for weeks. We had to take it out or lose more soldiers. We couldn’t let a border stop us.”

“Hello, Sgt. Jackson. I was beginning to think you were going to ignore me. No sir, we couldn’t let a border stop us. How do you explain the young boys, sir? Screaming, dying. How do you explain that? How do you live with those memories, sir?”

“There were no young boys there, Hotrod. They were all carrying AK-47’s or grenade launchers or worse. The V.C. made them soldiers. We couldn’t do anything other than what we did. You know that’s true, Bertram. It was them or us. They would have killed us all and never blinked an eye.”

“That’s the best way to die, Sergeant. Isn’t it? In the blink of an eye? I’ve been dying inside for thirty-four long years. But, I’m not long for this world now, Sgt. Jackson. Somebody’s out to get us all.”

“What do you mean, corporal? You think somebody’s out to kill us?” I was beginning to lose patience, not to mention my Remy needed refreshing. That was my way of dealing with the memories. “I think you need to go get some sleep, Hotrod. I’m going to do just that myself. Why would anybody want to kill us after all this time? It doesn’t make sense.”

“It all adds up Sgt Jackson. The commander’s wife told me he was the picture of health. The picture of health. He shouldn’t have a heart attack like that. Those were her exact words, not mine. And Batson was a member of A.A. He told me he hadn’t had a drink in over ten years. Why do you think he fell off the wagon, sir? Why do you think he fell off the wagon and drove his car into a ravine?”

“Things happen, Hotrod. Life is like that. Now, I’ve got to go.”

“You never asked me how Private Mallard died, Sgt. Jackson.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, he was murdered. Plain and simple. No question about that. One shot through the head from 300 yards with a 5.56 mm round 15 months ago.”

“How do you know all of that, Hotrod?”

“Well, sir…do you see that red dot on Dave’s head?

“DAVE!!! WATCH OU…..” The glass shattered and Dave fell to the floor, dead. I dove to carpet and waited for the next shot but it never came. One shot was all there was. After half an hour I called the police from the phone in Dave’s bedroom. They scoured the area, brought in helicopters with searchlights, but nothing turned up. I told them the story like I’ve told you but with a lot less detail. I didn’t tell them anything about the war, just that Dave got a call from Corporal Max Bertram who apparently shot him. Of course, Corporal Max Bertram was not his real name. I never learned his real name. So, a few hours later the police were through with me and I was in my car heading toward home. But, I didn’t go home, not for a long while. Bertram was still out there somewhere and there were only two names left on the list – mine and his.

But it's been two years now, two very long years, and I’ve not heard from him again. Maybe he killed himself. Maybe he left me alive so someone could tell his story.

But, that won't ever happen. Ever.