The Renaissance Man
Synopsis
Utilizing the Major Arcana of the Tarot Deck as a frame, this is the story of a man's journey from civilian, to soldier, and back again.
Excerpt
9: The Hermit
Specialist Michael Reynolds was a man with a storied, albeit checkered, past. He was the son of a Marine Lieutenant Colonel who spent the final years of his career in command of the security battalion that safeguarded the Navy’s nuclear weapons at Navy Base Bangor on the Kitsap Peninsula. His father was a strict taskmaster, and it was an unspoken truth in the home that Michael would follow in his footsteps. He pushed Michael to excel, both academically and athletically. Michael was an all-state linebacker at North Kitsap High School; wearing the purple, gold, and white, he recorded 152 tackles his senior year, a school record that no one has come close to touching. That same year, his father had retired and bought a home in Poulsbo. The fall of 2000 was a magical time for the Reynolds family. His parents attended every game he played that season and his father taped every play. Each Saturday his father would sit down with him and scrutinize every snap, every blitz, every coverage assignment, and every option read. His focus helped Michael improve his performance drastically. The scouts were hovering around him, and no one sold him harder than his father.
When football season ended, his father brought that same focus to Michael’s wrestling. Eventually it bled over to his schoolwork, and his personal life. Michael felt like an ant under the magnified gaze of the summer sun. He might burst into flames at any moment. That’s not to say that Michael’s father was a bad father. Quite the contrary, he provided a loving home for his family, his family never wanted for anything. He was simply possessed of a great attention to detail and a great zeal for excellence. This was one of the things that made him a fine officer, entrusted with guarding the most potent of the military’s weapons. Once he retired though, he no longer had a battalion of Marines to look after, to train, and to make into better men. He only had his son, his only son, whom he wanted to entrust with all the insights he had learned into the most hidden secrets of life.
Michael wanted to be his own man, as every seventeen year old does. He loved his father, and he knew that love was reciprocated, but he chaffed under the intensity of his father’s energy. He labored to work his way out of the area. A life lived on naval bases and marine camps and again in the quiet communities of the Kitsap Peninsula. Michael was looking for a way out, and he ultimately found one in the form of a recruiter from the University of Washington who was salivating over Michael’s six foot, 215 pound frame. He took a scholarship and moved to Seattle to establish himself as something more than his father’s son.
He found out quickly just how much his family had propped him up. Playing for the Washington Huskies was a far cry from being the star on the North Kitsap Vikings. He woke up a 5 AM, worked out at the gym, attended classes for six hours, spent two hours practicing with the scout team, topped it off with another hour of watching film, at least two more hours of homework, and he crawled into bed tired, bruised, and exhausted both physically and mentally. The class load was a quantum leap forward as well. His history classes required a phenomenal amount of memorization, and the assorted other classes that the university required for him to round out his education generally fell into subjects that he didn’t enjoy, and as such, didn’t put forth the effort that was required to get by in college. He suffered a concussion the night before his first chemistry midterm. He rushed in on an outside blitz; the tight end met him at the line of scrimmage. Reynolds got lower, and using his leverage he pushed the tight end inexorably into the backfield, getting ready to disrupt the sweep play that was unfolding to his side of the field. He watched the running back approaching him, and as he got ready to break free from the tight end to make the tackle, the pulling guard that he never saw cleaned his clock. After that, he was seeing spots and flashes for the next two days. When he arrived to take his chemistry test, the numbers and totals floated about the page, always evading his efforts to pin them down and get a cohesive look at the problem.
So in less than seven weeks at college, he was already physically a wreck, and his GPA had slipped down to a 1.8, a far cry from the 3.7 he had maintained all through high school. He was struggling to keep his head above water. Once again, he found himself looking for a way out, one that would extricate himself from this nightmare, and do so in a manner that would keep his dignity in the eyes of his family.
On September 11th, he was granted his way out. While the rest of America was benumbed with shock when the twin towers of the World Trade Center crashed, Michael saw his opportunity. During a brief visit with his family that weekend, he announced his intention to withdraw from UW, and enlist in the military to defend America from the predations of those who sought to lay her low. His father, for a period, had abandoned his attention to detail in his pride for his son’s patriotism. He never saw the underlying reasons why Michael made the decisions he did.
When Michael went to the recruiter’s office, he stopped for a moment. He stood in front of the Marine Corps Recruiting Depot; he stared at the poster of the Marine in his Dress Blues with his peaked cap and drawn saber. When he looked at that poster, he saw his father, and everything that he represented, everything that he had fled from. He kept walking. He passed the recruiting stations of the other branches. The Navy: too close to the Marines. The Air Force: too technical, too close to the school he was leaving. The Coast Guard: too far from the fight for his father to buy. The last building was the Army recruiter. The windows were decorated with American flags, and pictures of helicopters, tanks, and humvees. There was a line of people waiting to enlist, so he took a seat and looked through a few of the brochures sitting on the table. There was one brochure with a picture of a formation of men, all wearing matching uniforms with black berets. There was a title arching over the formation: RANGER. Inside the brochure it showed these rangers rappelling down a wall, roping out of helicopters, and storming buildings. There was a creed written on the left inset.
Recognizing that I volunteered as a Ranger, fully knowing the hazards of my chosen profession, I will always endeavor to uphold the prestige, honor, and high esprit de corps of my Ranger Regiment.
Acknowledging the fact that a Ranger is a more elite soldier who arrives at the cutting edge of battle by land, sea, or air, I accept the fact that as a Ranger my country expects me to move further, faster, and fight harder than any other soldier.
Never shall I fail my comrades. I will always keep myself mentally alert, physically strong and morally straight and I will shoulder more than my share of the task whatever it may be, one-hundred-percent and then some.
Gallantly I will show the world that I am a specially selected and well trained soldier. My courtesy to superior officers, neatness of dress and care of equipment shall set the example for others to follow.
Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country. I shall defeat them on the field of battle for I am better trained and will fight with all my might. Surrender is not a Ranger word. I will never leave a fallen comrade to fall into the hands of the enemy and under no circumstances will I ever embarrass my country.
Readily will I display the intestinal fortitude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the objective, though I be the lone survivor.
Michael mulled the words over while he sat waiting for the recruiter. He clutched the brochure in his hands when he was called over. When the recruiter asked what he could do to help Michael, Michael only had one question: “How can I be a Ranger?”
Michael had excelled in Basic Training, Advanced Individual Training, and even through Airborne School. The Ranger Indoctrination Program was a difficult, but he didn’t find it any harder than running twice daily football practice at UW. The four weeks were essentially Basic Training on steroids, more smokings, longer patrols, and harder marches. Cole Range was hard, the constant log drills and disciplinary actions of the Ranger Instructors pushed him hard. In a way, the RIs reminded him of his father. They had the same drive for excellence, the same attention to detail. He found himself much more accepting of them, however. Perhaps it was because they weren’t his father that he gave them the benefit of his acceptance. The lore of the storied Ranger Regiment was drilled into his head, and he devoured it with relish. The landings at Anzio, the scaling of Pointe Du Hoc, the Burmese jungles, the long range patrols in Vietnam, Grenada, Somalia, and the list went on. This was a unit that had not only participated in history, but had forged it themselves, and there was something to be said for that.
If RIP had been difficult, Ranger School was the most brutal experience of his life up until that point. Sixty-one days of pure hell. They conducted operations twenty hours a day. They had next to no food. They rappelled, and parachuted, and swam, and marched. Oh, did they march. By the end of the school they had logged over 200 miles on foot, and the boots that Michael had been issued at Basic Training were waterlogged and torn shreds of black leather and plastic. His feet looked about the same. They made their way from Ft. Benning into the mountains of Georgia, and finally pushed deep into the swamps of Florida. They marched like zombies, shambling across the terrain that impeded them with a dogged determination that is only exhibited by the truly driven, or the truly crazy.
When he came out of the swamps of Florida and received his Ranger Tab, Michael weighed 165 lbs. He had left nearly 25% of his body mass back amongst the ranges of the School, in the form of sweat, piss, and blood. He was assigned to the 2nd Ranger Battalion at Ft. Lewis, Washington. Upon reporting to the unit, he was given two weeks leave to mend his broken body. His father welcomed him home proudly, albeit a little chagrined at Michael’s decision to eschew his beloved Corps.
Life at the Battalion was like being a rock star amongst the soldiers. The Rangers had their own compound that no one else had authority over. Not even the military police were allowed onto Ranger grounds. They trained harder than any other unit on the post as well. Every day they were off to a range. It was often joked around the battalion that they were firing more rounds here at Lewis than were being used in the actual war. They would qualify every ranger on every weapons system. They would train to fight using their non dominant hand, simply to be prepared for the possibility that they might lose their dominant hand in an operation. Michael became almost as apt at firing left handed as he was at firing with his right. They learned to use every vehicle or piece of equipment that they might have access to in the field. Javelin anti tank missiles, AT-4 rockets, claymore mines, Bradleys and humvees, all were part of the repertoire of the Ranger.
He first deployed to Afghanistan in March of 2002. He spent three months conducting non stop raids, assaults, and ambushes on anti-coalition forces throughout the war torn nation. He froze in the mountains early on as the battalion attempted to extricate Taliban insurgents from their cave complexes. As the spring edged towards summer, the weather turned, and with it, the mission profile. They left the craggy mountains behind and began searching for high value targets in the cities in the valley. When they weren’t on mission, they had access to the best facilities the military had to offer in the region. They ate the best food, slept in the best barracks, and worked out constantly. Three months later, he returned to Lewis exhausted and exhilarated from the action. He was in the best shape of his life, and was certain that he had made the right decision. Here, with his fellow Rangers, he thrived. He belonged.
By the time the invasion of Iraq had opened a second theater of operations, Michael had become a sergeant, and a team leader, within the battalion. On their first trip to Iraq, Michael was one of the first soldiers to set foot inside Baghdad; he helped secure Jessica Lynch from captivity. They fought in heavy urban combat far beyond what they ever saw in Afghanistan. They brought in more HVTs than any other unit, and they paid a heavy toll for it.
More than the new environment, the addition of the front in Iraq upped the operational tempo in the battalion. There were no more rest cycles. The battalion was either deployed, in training, or on 18 hour alert to be ready to deploy anywhere in the world. The battalion attempted to squeeze in as much training as they could, and Michael was considered one of the rising stars of the battalion. They sent him to every school he was eligible for: the Basic Non Commissioned Officer’s Course, Air Assault School, Sniper School, and Pathfinder School were all amongst the accolades listed in his personnel file now.
The pressure mounted. Once again, the expectations began to wear on Michael. Where he had once had a secure relationship with his father, he had now become openly antagonistic. Once, Michael was visiting his parents during a weekend leave. They were watching Heartbreak Hill, a classic Clint Eastwood film which fictionalized the US invasion of Grenada. The film was presented from the viewpoint of a Marine Recon Platoon, but Michael kept pointing out that all the exploits of the Marines in the film were actually done by Army units in reality. What began as slightly mean-spirited joking got progressively worse and worse, and well before the end of the film, they had devolved into yelling, and nearly into physical violence. His mother had to step in to break up the fracas, and sent her son back to his home at Ft. Lewis.
He got married shortly after that. He met the girl at a Mariners game, and they got married less than two months later. Her name was Amanda. She was three years younger than him, barely out of high school. She looked at him with awestruck eyes. He loved how important the absolutely meaningless things in life were to her. Which of her girlfriends were smoking weed, why her boss wouldn’t lay off her, was she going to get the class she needed for her major next term; none of that mattered, but in a way, it was their whole world. They had dated for less than a month before they got married in a quiet ceremony at the chapel on Ft. Lewis. None of their parents approved, they thought it couldn’t last. They were right. A month into Michael’s next deployment Amanda filed for divorce.
The next deployment was the worst, a series of long patrols and raids in the mountains of Afghanistan, in the heart of winter. Michael had never felt so cold in his life. Often fighting at well above 9,000 feet above sea level, this was a level of exertion that he had never experienced in his life. After a firefight, the sweat that he had built up from the combat would freeze, oftentimes trapping the ice in between his body and his body armor. He was miserable. Everyone was miserable. He spent three miserable months on that tour; it was his sixth time being sent overseas.
The battalion returned home in early 2005 and was already slated to return to the blistering heat of Iraq in July. The stress continued its insidious work. One of his soldiers had been killed during a raid in the final weeks of the deployment. He had taken cover behind a wall, trying to find a way out from the withering small arms fire that kept him trapped. The squad unleashed hell on the building to try and relieve the pressure on the soldier. Michael shouted for the young man to use the lull in the fire to rejoin with the rest of the squad. He looked Michael in the eyes, his blue eyes were wild with fear, but underneath it was trust. Faith that Michael would make sure that he got home safely, away from the brick wall that bullets constantly chipped away at. An RPG stuck the wall, rendering it, and the soldier it shielded, to rubble and chunks of viscera.
The Rangers wound up calling in an air strike to neutralize the target. A B-52 nearly 30,000 ft above the carnage released a GPS guided bomb. 2,000 lbs of high explosive fury leveled the structure, killing everyone inside. Michael cheered the blast along with the rest of the platoon, but his exultations rang hollow.
Upon returning home, he attended the soldier’s funeral. They had barely recovered enough of him to fit into a shoebox: six teeth, part of his lower jaw, his right big toe, and his left hand, sans fingers. The coffin was easy to lift as the rest of his team, and the soldier’s brothers carried his remains to their final rest. Everyone else was crying, except for Michael. He just felt numb, as if something had stripped his heart out when that soldier was killed. He offered the usual platitudes to the boy’s family, that he fought well, that he was a great soldier, that the country was a lesser place without him. It seemed to placate his parents, but the youngest of the boy’s four brothers, a teary eyed child who couldn’t be older than eight, kept staring at him. He never said a word, but those accusatory eyes never left Michael, the same blue eyes that had shown such fear and faith at the precipice of death.
It wasn’t until that night, after he had buried his soldier that he finally cried. The great irony was that he couldn’t remember the boy’s name. It weighed heavily on him. No matter how many times he looked it up, or heard it come up in conversation, the name drifted off into the ether. So it went every night, he would shed tears for the boy whose name he couldn’t remember, and every night he would dream of those vibrant blue eyes. A drink before sleeping would stow the nightmares away, at least for the one night.
His drinking got steadily worse, as one drink before bed became two, which became a six pack. As the next deployment loomed, he was driving home from a bar in Yelm. The red and blue lights flashed in his rear view mirror. He spent to night in jail. Early the next morning, his First Sergeant showed up, and Michael was released into his custody. Michael had never been beaten like First Sergeant laid into him when they got back onto the compound. Each blow was accompanied by a curse; each punch, a lamentation of wasted potential; every strike rang with disdain. Michael was left curled in the fetal position on the curb as the First Sergeant left to report to the company commander what had transpired.
Michael’s DUI court case was extremely short, and the day that it went through, he was called in to report to the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel David Haight. Haight was not one to mince words. He said that Michael had embarrassed himself, his battalion, and his country. Michael was judged under Article 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, which empowered Colonel Haight to summarily punish Michael. Michael was stripped of his rank, demoted one grade to E-4, his pay was garnished, and he was forced to attend a two week rehab clinic on post. The worst was yet to come. Outside of the Article 15, and as such, beyond Michael’s ability to appeal, was the fact that he was being RFSed, or Released for Standards. The battalion was washing their hands of him, sending him back out into the Big Army in disgrace.
His two weeks of rehab did nothing for him. He was despondent. The thing he was best at in life was stripped away from him. When he came out the other side, he simply didn’t care anymore. He reported to his new unit, Bravo Company, 5th Battalion, 20th infantry. The Stryker Company threw him into a basic rifleman’s position, normally filled by privates five years his junior. Michael went through the motions. He did nothing to attract undue attention, nor did he push himself to excel as he had done as a Ranger. The tab and scroll on his shoulder had bought him a degree of isolation. There was another new addition to the fire team when Michael had joined. A young, blue-eyed PFC, who enjoyed a similarly meteoric rise as Michael had once had. After a few months, the PFC was a specialist, the same rank as Michael, who was four years older than the boy. When their team leader left the unit, it was Specialist Jake Allen who was given a lateral promotion to Corporal to take over leadership of the unit. Less than eighteen months in the military, and the boy was already in charge of Michael. Unlike many soldiers who gained authority early, Allen gave Michael a significant amount of trust. He knew little about the specifics of Michael’s past, but he knew that he had a reservoir of experience that Allen was no where near being able to match. Something about the young corporal’s trust kept the nightmares at bay, and Michael was thankful for that.
