Welcome to My Worlds: A Bipolar Christian Tells All

[Written in 2007; update written in 2010]

A mother can only be as happy as her saddest child. When your eldest daughter’s a homeless methamphetamine addict, “happiness” isn’t in the dictionary.

I remember the first time I held The Free Spirit Child, Gina; in my arms; wiggled her tiny fingers; kissed her chubby cheeks. What would she be when she grew up? I wanted her to lead a happy, healthy life—not end up cold, alone, depressed … high. A tweaker, the name for meth or “ice” users.

I should’ve remembered my adolescence and warned her. When my parents divorced, it not only broke up our family, it broke me. Instead of turning to Jesus for comfort, I chose drugs. I did a stint on the streets: a month, although my addiction to cocaine and speed lasted longer.

My transformation came on a wicked [the bad wicked] night. I went on a cocaine binge and snorted so much, my mind and heart raced like I was driving my Mustang at NASCAR. I couldn’t stop shaking. My head pounded; I thought my skull was gonna explode. Every time I closed my eyes, the world spun in a terrifying whirlpool, ready to suck me under.

I prayed for rescue, and God came through. I used His help and my stubborn, bull-headed nature for a positive cause. No rehab, no therapy, no patch, no AA. I remembered my roots and went back to church. Victory in Jesus. Would there be the same for my baby, whom I hadn’t seen in years?

She followed my lead in all the wrong directions. What did I expect? I divorced her dad, starting her on the same Yellow Brick Road I ventured down. I know how she feels: we’re still looking for our, “Over the Rainbow.”

My thoughts stray to a stormy day when I got a call from Gina’s preschool teacher. They’d assembled the children in the auditorium because they couldn’t play out in the rain.

The kids sat in groups on the floor, coloring. Then, the lights went out. Many of the tots wailed in fear, among them, the kids in Gina’s group. To her teacher’s amazement, Gina stood up and said, “Don’t be scared. Jesus is here. He’ll protect us and keep us safe. Let’s hold hands and sing ‘Jesus Loves Me.’” And her voice rang out clear and strong, “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong. They are weak, but He is strong. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so.”

My eyes misted with joyful tears. The teacher added she’d like Gina to play the part of Mary in the school Christmas pageant. I have a picture tucked away somewhere of Gina dressed in that costume: a blue gown and head covering. I’d hunt for it, but anguished tears would come, and how would I stop them? I blamed myself. Like mother, like daughter.

When had the change occurred? I couldn’t specify a date, but I knew unhappiness was her BFF, and I was too busy trying to cope with my own problems. If my tank showed empty, how could I fill up hers? I still think I should’ve tried harder. [Can ya spell “guilt”?]

When she turned twelve, she asked to move to her dad’s in Texas. He wanted her to come, and I thought mayhap that’s what she needed. I gave my ex-husband and his wife three conditions: they’d keep Gina for at least one school year so he wouldn’t uproot her in the middle of a term; she had to be in some kind of counseling program; and Gina needed to attend church. Then I sent her away with a new wardrobe, clothes in shades of her favorite color: purple.

They shipped The Free Spirit Child home six months later. Her stepmother gave Gina’s father an ultimatum: either Gina left, or she would. She had a young daughter, and said Gina was a bad influence on her. Gina came home wearing all black, Gothic-style clothes. My little girl in lavender changed dramatically. She used to like country music; but grunge rock replaced Garth Brooks. [Actually, I don’t have a problem with that.] After playing Nancy Drew, I learned Gina never went to counseling, nor to church. O-for-three. [Thanks, Dad.]

Great. I could blame everything on my ex and the wicked stepmother. But I knew my daughter’s behavioral problems didn’t rest on their shoulders. I’d left her dad for greener pastures. I broke up the family, shattering Gina’s heart in the process. What a selfish thing to do, especially after knowing how I felt when it happened to me. I made some horrible choices, and boy, howdy; did they come back to haunt me.

Gina found a way to forget her tough life, same as me. Drugs are an enticing side dish, like creamy mashed potatoes. They allow the user to forget how miserable they are and travel to a better place. A place where one can’t feel. Having been in the same position, I saw the signs, but didn’t want to face them. Soon, I had no choice….

I arrived home with Gina’s sister, Nicole [Nikki]. What a mess! Furniture broken and overturned, plants ripped up and scattered throughout the house, vandalism at every turn. But the worst?: Nikki’s room. Gina and her gang of “friends” ruined most of Nikki’s things. The place looked like Club Med for Satanists. Twine made into nooses held partially charred, mutilated dolls from the ceiling. Taped to the walls: pictures of Nikki, and in each, they stabbed her eyes out. They made warning signs, one of which read, “We’re going to kill you!”

I squeezed my eyelids closed. I couldn’t be seeing what I thought I saw. Impossible. When I peeked: reality. One daughter apparently lost, and one in danger. I had Gina in counseling, but obviously, it wasn’t working. I couldn’t “fix” my daughter either, so I prayed. I once heard the prayers of mothers for their children are special, and I didn’t stop. Then I made a tough call: to the police. When Gina sauntered in, they arrested her.

Nikki pleaded with me to send Gina away. What a horrid position for a mom to be in. I agreed, and drove Gina to her father’s, as he made a move to Central California.

Then Gina’s dad called with the news of her first pregnancy. I urged her to put her child up for adoption. Gina knew she couldn’t care for a baby, and said yes. But her father talked her out of it stating, “you don’t give away family.” So, Gina and her son bounced from place-to-place. Finally, she simply left the boy with his grandfather, and never went back.

The Free Spirit Child turned up crying on her godmother’s doorstep. She said she wanted her life back, and her son. She begged for help, and my family and friends gave it to her. We pitched in several thousand dollars for a beautiful, private rehab facility. Two weeks later, Gina found out she was pregnant again, and ditched rehab to move in with her boyfriend, another meth addict, but she didn’t stay long. Gina disappeared.

Months later, she called from the hospital. She had a healthy baby girl. [The doctors couldn’t assure us the baby wouldn’t have learning disabilities]. I begged Gina to give this baby up for adoption. But my daughter inherited my obstinate behavior, and said no. So, I called Child Protective Services and they took my granddaughter, Serenity. I lived six hours away and wasn’t able to drive to the hospital, and Gina took off to roam the streets again.

Then I got the call. “Mrs. Mortimer, we have a Jane Doe in the morgue who fits the description on the missing persons report we have for Gina Esteras.”

I tumbled into a pit of despair. “Yes,” I eeked out, “but in such a large county, you must have other missing girls who fit her description.” I held my breath.

His pause negated the need for words, but I got them anyway. “I’m sorry, we only have one report for a young female matching her characteristics.”

My heart curled into a little ball. “Do you need me to drive up there and I.D. the body?” Then a thought occurred to me. “Wait; just turn her over. Her entire back has a huge tattoo of a butterfly on it.”

Another pause. Now what?

“Actually, it’s been really hot here, and there were a lot of scavenging animals around. We only have bones and hair. But the skeleton measures to her height, and the hair is brown, coarse, and wavy.”

My knees gave way. She inherited the wavy hair from me. I’m not sure how I held onto the phone.

He continued. “We’d appreciate it if you could send dental records.”

I nodded, as if the man could see me. “We’ll overnight them to you. How soon will you know for sure?”

“Once we get the records, it won’t be long—less than a week.”

I mumbled a quick thank you, and hung up. Then I got to work. I called my childhood best friend, who served as Gina and Nikki’s godmother, and she’d take care of the dental records. Next, I put out the word to all my family and friends to pray for strength.

I phoned the coroner again, and again. Each time they had an excuse, telling me to check back the following week. [Note to all: don’t get lost in Fresno.] Once they even remarked, “Oh, the anthropologist took the skull, so we can’t check the teeth.” [Don’t know if I’ve ever wanted to commit murder more.][Sorry.] Nearly six excruciating weeks later, the answer came: the skeleton wasn’t The Free Spirit Child’s. I thanked God, relief flooding me.

Still have no idea if Gina is okay. All I can do is trust in the Lord to deliver her, as He delivered me. I heard her voice on Christmas day, 2006 on my message machine. She said, “Merry Christmas, Mimi. I miss you. Tell everyone I love them.” [Sigh. As refreshing as a cool gulp of mountain water on a blistering day.]

I don’t know where Gina is, but each night I pray she remembers I love her more than I can express—and Jesus loves her even more than that.

Update – 2010

Gina is alive and well. Now sober, she’s one of the sweetest and most compassionate people I know. She’s 28, has tons of piercings and tats, has custody of her son, met a man in rehab who looks like a skinhead [and whom I adore], and they have a baby girl. [Dori is the first of my three granddaughters we get to keep.] Gina attends church, and often counsels others on the dangers of abusing drugs, and how the love of Jesus can deliver every lost soul—no matter how far away they are.

And me? I accepted God’s forgiveness, and I’m making sure my youngest, The Genius Child, grows up with two parents who love her, and each other. Sometimes, there is a happy ending.

Welcome to My Worlds.

[Nikki, Gina, Michaela]

Sal’s hard gaze flew from his friend to the front of the cave. The silhouette of several men, rifles in hand, caused his eyes to widen and his chest to constrict. Then came the whispers of North Korean soldiers. A man crept toward them, cautiously moving forward about three feet. Another two and no question about it: discovery, torture, death.

Sal prayed. But would God be sick of hearing his requests by now? His glance riveted to the enemy, closing in on their position in the shadows. Then the North Korean stopped and cocked an ear. Sal didn’t dare breath. His now clammy hand clamped over the boy’s mouth. The soldier took a step, then turned, and exited.

Is their any limit to God’s grace?

“Let’s get back to camp,” Sal said, wiping sweat from his brow.

The boy scampered off, and he and Neal trudged down the mountain.

Sal retired to the canvas tent he shared with fourteen other men. He slept fitfully, waking with a start, chills sweeping through him. His gaze flew to the opening flap. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and then he saw it: a thin wisp of smoke creeping through the canvas. It slithered like a snake up the seam of the tent, pausing where the side met the ceiling, then drifting toward him with agonizing slowness.

His breath caught in his throat. He slammed his eyelids closed, whispering a prayer the vapor would disappear, then opened his eyes. The death-mist inched closer. His limbs froze, then shook as if his body was a rattle in the hands of a baby. Heinous pictures of war flashed in his mind like vacation slides.

Sal ducked his head under the protection of his sleeping bag, fists clenched, head thrashing side-to-side. He knew what would happen if he uncovered his face, but an unseen force seemed to pull him back into the open, and the filmy smoke attacked his skin, invading his flaring nostrils. He shrieked like a prisoner in the throes of agonizing torture.

The smell of the dead seeped into his pores, permeating his senses. He slapped at the air, but couldn’t bat the mist away. Another high-pitched scream tore from his throat. Then another.

He couldn’t escape.

They sent him to a hospital ship anchored in the harbor, diagnosing him with battle fatigue. The area onboard consisted of rows of narrow bunks stacked three high, covered with thin mattresses. He inhabited one of the penthouses.

Sal lay there listening to another man beneath him and across the way. “Jesu, Jesu, Jesu,” he mumbled in Spanish.

Sal looked down to see him, but swung his head away and toward the wall. That guy has no chance. The dying man’s insides were in clear view, the skin of his stomach peeled back like the lid on a tin can. Sal considered himself fortunate. He added his own prayer: that God would take the suffering Marine home.

October waned, and General MacArthur announced the war neared an end. Sal’d “rested” for two weeks. They were about to ship out for R & R in Japan.

Sal asked to see his C.O. “Sir, I need to go back to my unit.”

“I hear what you need is rest.”

“Respectfully, I can’t go to Japan. My place is with the men, sir.”

He sighed. “Permission granted.”

***

Orders arrived that would prove costly. President Truman discounted vital information stating the Chinese would intervene. So, Truman sent the troops north of the 38^th Parallel to supposedly crush the remnants of the North Koreans and unify the country.

Sal and the 5^th sailed to the West Coast, landing in Wonson at the bottom of the entry to the Chosin Reservoir.

But the Chinese did join the fray. They feigned east, sneaking behind the Marines.

Ice covered the top of Sal’s helmet and light parka. If Hell had a spot the opposite of blazing hot, this place had to be it. In cold so deep it seeped through his skin to chill his bones, he manned a trench with the rest of his company in the most dismal of conditions.

Hunger gnawed at his empty stomach; his vigor ebbed like the departing daylight. He reached for a ration, then tossed it, ignoring the thud it made when it landed. Frozen solid, like everything else. He cupped shaking hands into the snow and swallowed it, desperate to keep hydrated, even though he knew his core temperature would fall to scary depths.

Engines of Chinese planes roared overhead, then the sky rained paper. Flyers fell all around him. He grabbed one and read: We will annihilate the 1^st Marine Division; the flower of the UN fighting force.

A hopeless situation. He glanced at the others. Some couldn’t walk from the pain of their frostbitten feet, some pockets remained empty, as the men manning them died at the hands of the Chinese.

Surrounded, Sal and the few survivors able to fight engaged 120,000 Chinese soldiers who kept comin’. Even when wounded, the Chinese advanced due to the opium balls they ingested. Apparently, they felt no pain. Sal wished he could say the same.

The combat ignited again. Starving, strength sapped, fingertips a nice shade of blue; Sal ignored the forty-below weather and concentrated on destroying the enemy, including the soldier who’d slipped on the bank while trying to kill him.

Lord, give me strength.

Heat surged into his veins, infusing him with power. He continued to battle as men dropped all around him. Was there any way to emerge victorious? He fired off another round, then remembered a Bible verse: With God, all things are possible. Mark 10:27.

He’d hang on, and he’d make it out alive.

I have God’s word on it.

***

Early December, 1950

The remaining troops of the 5^th and 7^th held out against heavy attacks. They mounted a bitter assault and against all odds, broke from the reservoir, sheer force of will driving them. These brave men earned the title: The Chosin Few. Some within the ranks lovingly dubbed them, The Frozen Chosin.

The Chinese suffered massive losses at the reservoir, gaining only a hollow, pyrrhic victory.

***

Christmas Eve, 1950

Sal watched the campfires on the hills above Wonsan Harbor from a LSD. Now a scant 128 pounds, he waited in line for what would be his first hot meal in weeks. Every man had to get a shot before they received their chow, and he hated needles, but ignored the minor prick as his mouth watered. Too bad his cramping stomach couldn’t keep the food down.

I’ll get over this. I’ll go on. That’s what I have to do. That’s what I will do. So help me God.

Sal paced a path in the dirt. The ship’d made him stir-crazy, and now the camp penned him in again. He decided to take a chance and escape his confines for an evening, sure the North Koreans weren’t on the prowl this time.

He and Neal finally made it to the Black Cat Inn, settling in an upstairs room to kick off

their shoes and relax. They played dominoes and for a few fleeting hours, forgot they were on foreign soil fighting a brutal war.

Then the thud of doors slamming and men yelling vibrated the thin walls. Sal looked at Neal. “I bet it’s the Army MPs raidin’ the place. Sounds like a whole battalion is floodin’ in.”

Neal scratched his head. “How we gonna sneak back into camp?”

“We’ve only got one shot,” Sal said, glancing at the lone window on the opposite wall.

They sprinted over, tugged the widow open, and hung their heads out to see how far the drop would be.

Sal moaned, then said, “Anything but that.”

Below them rested a huge vat of what stank like liquid fertilizer.

Sal gave Neal a shrug. “I’ll go first.”

With parka and shoes held over his head, Sal leapt from the second story with Neal following. They emerged stinking worse than a pile of steaming manure, but put on their boots and barreled back to camp.

Sal and Neal shimmied up the fence and dropped to the other side.

Neal suppressed a laugh. “Man, your hair has spikes of smelly icicles standing straight up.”

“Shh. Lower your voice.” Sal touched his head. “I guess that’s what happens when this stuff dries. Like you look any better. C’mon; let’s go.”

They used the rows of tents for cover. Crouching, then moving. Crouching; moving. A blast of light blinded Sal. “What the….” He put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare.

When focus returned, he stood in front of Major Treadwell. Sal’s stomach lurched.

Their superior officer looked them up and down, stroked his curling mustache, and said in a smooth Alabama drawl, “Nice of you gentlemen to join us.”

***

May 26, 1951

Corporal Sal Gottuso was the first Marine to disembark the U.S.S. General Hase in San Francisco, California. A Navy “wave” [a cute gal assigned to welcome them home] waited at the bottom of the gangplank to greet him and pose for a picture. But he sped by her and into the arms of a tiny woman who’d ducked around the Marines holding the crowd back.

“Mama, I’m home!” Sal embraced his mother, who smacked his cheek with a kiss as his sister-in-law stood behind the pair weeping tears of joy. Thankfully, the photographer snapped that shot, which Sal saw in the next morning’s paper.

“God brought me through each trial; answered every one of my prayers, Mama. And I kept Him busy.”

His mother’s eyes glistened as she looked at him. “I had feelings some days, and I knew you were in trouble, Salvy. Your father prayed. I prayed—told everyone to pray.”

Sal produced a shining grin. “Thanks, Mama. It worked.”

***

…This wasn’t the end of my dad’s military career. For his service in Korea, he made Sergeant. He also entered an MP outfit, never losing a prisoner.

When his service was up, his superior encouraged him to attend Officer’s Candidate School to become a second lieutenant, writing him every three months to convince him to come back.

Dad considered the offer, but after twelve months of careful thought, he declined, although he never stopped loving the Marine Corps. He eventually married my mother, Doreen, and had us three children.

Years later, the horrors of war continued to haunt him. He woke many nights in a cold

sweat, staring at the bedroom closet. The doors jiggled, and he surmised the mist swirled there, desperately trying to free itself.

His doctor’d told him to face his fears. So, he’d rise and pull the sliding door back with a flourish, then scream as the vapor rushed to envelope him. Invade him. Smother him.

It carried the rotting stench of the dead. Still.

When I asked my dad what he remembered most about the war, he replied, “There was tension all the time; it never let-up. I lost a lot of good friends over there, and I never prayed so much in all my life.”

My dad: Bronze Star nominee, undefeated Marine Corps boxer [the original pound-for-pound Italian Stallion], passed away on March 27, 2006. Cancer accomplished what the Chinese army couldn’t. My dad’s in heaven now, but I’ll see him again. Until then: Semper Fi, Daddy. You’ll always be my hero.

Author’s Note: My dad wanted everyone to know when I interviewed him his memory wasn’t what it used to be. If any of the statements written as fact are incorrect, he wanted to apologize. [Rest easy, Daddy. You’re forgiven.]

This is probably one of the few serious works of mine you’ll get to read. In honor of all Veterans. Better late than never….

November 27, 1950

Lord, help me—or I’m gonna die.

Corporal Salvatore Frank Gottuso stared at the Chinese soldier bearing down on him. Snow crunched under the booted feet of the enemy. Dawn broke the horizon, highlighting the soldier’s silhouette as the odor of spent mortars clung to the icy air. There wasn’t time to react. The Chinese combatant unfurled his pike, ready to thrust.

Looked like the freezing foxhole in the Chosin Reservoir could be—probably would be—Sal’s grave. He’d never leave Korea. He held his breath, reciting another silent prayer as time seemed suspended.

Kettledrums beat in the distance, releasing their eerie tones amidst the screaming men and discharging weapons. Sal stayed in a crouch, frozen into position. The sharpened point of the pike had a clean shot at his exposed chest. No time to fire his M-1 rifle. This was it. Dead at nineteen. He’d never know what married life might be like, never have children, never feel the welcoming hugs of his parents or nine siblings again.

It’s all over.

The Chinese soldier lunged at Sal, but miraculously, slipped on the bank. Sal instinctively raised his weapon, his bayonet sinking into his enemy’s heart, killing him instantly.

Thank you, God, for your protection. For answering my prayer.

Mixed emotions flowed through him: relief he’d be alive to fight another day, and sorrow at taking another man’s life. His first kill in hand-to-hand combat.

But victory wasn’t sweet.

***

…I’ll be forever grateful God kept Sal Gottuso from harm. I’m his youngest child, Kelly. My siblings, Carl and Gina, and I, wouldn’t be here today if God hadn’t been faithful to my dad.

This was a tough story to write. I cringed as my dad related the harrowing details to me: stories of escape from certain death on several occasions as he served his tour of duty in Korea. I’ll start at the beginning, and pray I do his words justice.

***

Albany, New York - September 8, 1948

Sal strode to the officer. ”Sir, I’d like to enlist.”

The man handed him a clipboard and pen, then smiled. “Son, you don’t look old enough, or strong enough for what you may face.”

“I’m seventeen. Be eighteen on January 7^th. I’m old enough. As for strong, you try figthin’ seven brothers, with a few sisters thrown in on occasion.”

The officer read the form. “Salvatore Frank Gottuso. Five-feet seven; 135 pounds.” He glanced up. “So, we’ve got a scrappy Italian in the United States Marine Corps?”

“Yes, sir. You do.”

“Why the Marines, son?”

Sal spoke without pause. “I wanted to be in the toughest branch of the military, sir. I may not be the biggest Marine, but no one has more heart, and I trust God to take care of me.”

“Very good, then. We’re proud to have you.”

***

July, 1950

Sal emerged from boot camp in Honor Platoon 217, one stripe already on his shoulder.

After intense training in amphibious assault conducted on Guam and at Camp Pendleton, he headed for Korea with the 1^st Provisional Marine Brigade, 5^th Marines. My unit.

The sky shown bright orange and dark gray when the Landing Ship Dock (LSD) pulled into Pusan Harbor as evening stole over southeast Korea. Sal glanced at the land, then at his friends Neal and Jimmy.

His excitement mingled with apprehension, heart pumping erratically. “Boy, guys, we’re gonna be in there tonight.”

The North Koreans made a statement, crossing over the 38^th Parallel into South Korea, pushing the U.S. Army occupation troops back. Sal’s Brigade ran some forty miles to assume defensive positions near the southwest corner of the Pusan Perimeter. Air support came from the U.S.S. Sicily that night, as Corsairs bombed the North Koreans, clearing the way.

His muscles ached as he moved, hefting his full field transport pack and M-1 Rifle with bayonet. Every breath harder to take than the last, but with adrenaline coursing through his veins, he made no complaints.

I’m a United States Marine.

General MacArthur formed a special group named “X Corps.” Sal’s 5^th division made the cut. They boarded a ship to the Naktong Bulge, about halfway up the Pusan Perimeter, where the North Korean People’s Army (NKPA) infested the area.

Ten Corps went on the offensive, but the North Koreans wouldn’t go down without a fight. They launched a counterattack with Russian-built T-34 tanks.

“Don’t worry guys,” Sal shouted over the noise. “We’ll get ’em.”

Using rocket launchers, rifles, and 90-mm tank fire, plus the aide of the Corsairs, they completed their first goal mid-morning.

The North Koreans retreated, badly battered. Obongni or “No Name Ridge” belonged to the victorious Americans. Still, their main objective loomed before them: an assault on Inchon, then the retaking of Seoul.

Sal had a long way to go.

***

September 15, 1950

Time for the assault on Inchon. The general picked a controversial spot to land: near the seawall with as much as 32’ tides, limiting landing times to a few hours a day. The beaches seemed poor places to dock. Thick mud abounded, and the Marines had a long approach through shallow channels. Enemy mines were a worry as well. And if the Marines made it intact, the troops would have to scale metal ladders to reach their destination.

Sal sat back, waiting for the Amtrac to reach the seawall. Two men sat between him and his friend Bob. Just before disembarking, a cracking sound made him jump. “Bob, what the heck was that?” But Bob’s head bent back, a bullet hole embedded in his forehead.

Lord, give me strength.

Trepidation skittered through Sal, but stiff resolve followed. He couldn’t stop to mourn Bob. This was real.

This was war.

He held his breath, his gaze locked on Inchon, the city in the distance. It seemed like a blaze shot to the clouds and all the way to heaven. Orange-yellow flames rose like enemy arms in surrender.

The whole city must be burning.

He snapped out of his musings as small-arms fire continued to haunt the Marines on Green Beach. Sal and the men landed and fought hard, killing over 200 of the enemy, and capturing 136 prisoners.

Mission accomplished, but back to work. They set out to retake Seoul, South Korea’s capital city. Their wave of Amtracs moved at less than three knots while crossing the Han River. Splashes sounded up ahead.

They’re shootin’ at us!

Every few feet, the spraying water came closer. And closer. It seemed impossible for the Marines to escape the river bombs. The next mortar attack would blast their Amtrac apart and sink them. Sal’s heart nearly stopped.

Help us, Lord.

A welcoming sound reached his ears: a buzzing in the sky. He smiled. Corsairs soared over the cove and took out the North Korean threat. Saved once again.

Thank you, God.

Waiting on shore, their enemies hid in the hills surrounding Seoul, and the 5^th faced a heavy battle. The NKPA weren’t willing to surrender, but by late afternoon, the Marines proved too much for them, and the American flag whipped proudly in the breeze. The firefight left fields of stinking, NKPA corpses, but the Marines held their ground.

The noise of popping buttons sounded as the overtaxed uniforms of the dead succumbed when the bodies swelled. Skin inflated out of their ears and mouths, flapping in the breeze like gruesome balloons.He’d never forget the stench of the dead. Never.

The 5^th transported to a fenced rest camp. Even as one of the Commanders of the Guard, Sal couldn’t stand the confinement. One night when no moon loomed to give their position away, Sal and his buddy Neal snuck out and along with a Korean boy they’d befriended earlier. Their destination was an establishment called the Black Cat Inn, located in Inchon.

They traveled up a winding mountain road, and were halfway to the top when Sal heard a distinct noise: the clinking of rifles against canteens.

North Korean soldiers.

Some called them farmers by day, snipers by night. Whichever, they were on the other side of the hill, so close, the trio wouldn’t have a shot to double-time it back to safety. Sweat beaded on his forehead, even with the chill breeze. He ground his teeth.

Lord, what should I do?

Sal looked left, then right. A cave! It was their only chance. He led the way to the farthest reaches of the shallow overhang, as quickly and quietly as he could. They settled back, and Sal put his hand over the boy’s mouth in case the kid might be in league with the NKPA. In Korea, you never knew who your friends were.

Sal’s body tensed. He reached for his rifle, but only grasped air. His hair stood on end. Marines didn’t take their weapons outside the rest area fence unless they sought punishment. Stiff penalties. Neither he nor Neal would risk that. Sal had nothing to defend them with, and if found, the enemy would shoot them on sight.

The shuffling sound of many feet echoed off the rock walls of their tenuous hiding place. His breath quickened, then a gnawing ache clenched his gut.

His hard gaze flew from his friend to the front of the cave. The silhouette of several men, rifles in hand, caused his eyes to widen and his chest to constrict. Then came the whispers of North Korean soldiers.

A man crept toward them, cautiously moving forward about three feet. Another two and no question about it: discovery, torture, death.

[Part II on Friday!]