"ROAD RAGE"

Chapter 25

"A Leap of Faith"

The General:

Sunday night,

January 18:

Skies to the east were darkening quickly above Route 75. The weather was a little "iffy" this late afternoon and traffic moved at a fast pace. Headlights were coming on now at 4:00 p.m. Eighteen wheelers were not out in full force yet as they generally were Sunday evenings. Closer to midnight they would dominate the highways as their drivers pushed to get cargo in on time for Monday morning's early deliveries.

Cars with families coming home from weekend excursions dotted the highway on all sides. Their drivers leaned on the gas, anxious to get tired, cranky kids home to bath

and bed before Prime Time.

A red Mazda Miata ran abreast of the overflow of Chevy SUVs, Honda Civics and big Ford pickups. Its driver decelerated and hit the right turn signal, gearing down behind an old Dodge van full of kids and dogs, in order to ease across and get off the highway at the next exit.

A tractor trailer zoomed by in the passing lane as the smaller car began its decent down the ramp. The trucker yanked on his air horn and watched from the corner of his eye as the Miata glided to a smooth stop at the red light below. Its driver's left arm came up, fingers parted in a peace sign in answer. When the light changed, the truck was long gone. The Miata made a hard left and headed toward downtown Lexington.

Gilbert M. Stratton, Brig. General, USMC, Ret., cruised down the main drag into the center of town and turned right toward home. It had been unusually warm and sunny

all day, but now the overcast sky looked as though it might start dropping a load of something wet. Gen. Stratton had been visiting the Blue Grass Army Depot a few miles south, sitting in the Officers' Lounge having brunch and drinks and hobnobbing with some very old friends.

The depot was partly decommissioned now. Even so, new retirees attached to other squads from the glory days were required to report there to sign a flock of forms and fill out the paperwork when it came through.

Walt Bishop would soon fly home to Boston, the last of "Intrinity" to finally call it a

day. Stratton had ended his military career first as Brig. General, but he was five years older than Walt and Blackjack and had moved through the ranks with astounding swiftness.

Bishop was retiring a full Bird, just as Blackjack House had done a few years before him. Which wasn't too damn shabby. Wally was the last.

Gil and Walt had come together today, maybe for the last time ever, to celebrate a final fare-thee-well and reminisce about old times. Wally had an extended family to return to. He and Connie were parents of four strapping sons, two of them twins, and all of them married with families of their own.

Today had been a bittersweet occasion, celebrating the storied life of the missing man

in their more than forty year friendship-formation. Stratton was the oldest and had retired to be a part-time Unitarian minister.

Blackjack House's recent death had been the deciding factor in Walt Bishop's decision

to finally hang up his wings too, Stratton believed. Walt was way overdue.

Blackjack had been dead almost six months; the latest officer from the old squadron that Father Time finally caught up with and hustled along to the big squadron in the sky.

How trite! Stratton thought, resisting a wince.

oooooooo

Blackjack House been a loud-mouthed, cocky son of a bitch with a temper like Mount

Vesuvius, and balls the size of the Washington Monument. They missed him. How poignant it was for the other two old comrades to get together over Marine Cuisine and raise a glass to their fallen buddy; speak in reverent tones about old times, old missions, old escapades.

Once-hard muscles had turned flaccid; dark hair turned gray. Dress uniforms barely fit anymore, and today's Marine Corps bore little resemblance to those from the fifties and sixties. They'd been losing friends in a constant stream in recent years; ranks thinning quickly as time slipped away. It sometimes felt like a century had passed since they first donned those scratchy poopy suits and climbed aboard the Phantom F-4s that took them into perilous skies, and sometimes into the threat of combat.

Their adventures were ancient history to the hot-dog pilots of the Twenty First century. Stealth bombers, smart bombs and attack helicopters had been only a twinkle in aviation engineers' eyes back in their day. Those times were but a distant memory. Only the strict dedication, spit and polish, and the legacy of military discipline remained the same.

Gil, Wally and Blackjack had been there for the Russian threat, the Cold War, the Viet Nam debacle and the civil rights movement. They still sneered in disdain at the uprise of 'political correctness' … and still called a spade a spade.

These days it was weary, war-torn Iraq and the bombed-out sandbox of Afghanistan. Time marched on, but war never changed. War, they knew, was profitable for a large cadre of billionaires who ran munitions factories and other such enterprises existing in and near the fringes of political power.

As young men, they had loved the danger. Death visited their ranks and cast a cold hand across the years. Now, life struggled on like a time capsule in a slipstream. Empty spaces left behind by their squad members when they were gone had been filled by others who became comrades as well. Then it pared down further until it was only the original three. They called themselves "Intrinity" for some fool reason. It had been a good life and an exciting one. In other aspects it was a sad legacy indeed.

Now, with Walt Bishop's retirement, it was over.

Years from now, today's rocket jockeys and jockettes would reminisce for their old soldiers whose ghosts lived only in their survivors' memories.

And so it went.

oooooooo

Gil Stratton drove slowly through the brightly lit streets of Lexington, still thinking about long-ago adventures and the places they'd seen and the barnstorming they'd done. He was glad to be headed home. He drove slowly through downtown and headed toward the outskirts.

He'd hit the road right after church this morning, and Coe would be waiting for him with supper in the oven and a warm embrace of welcome. Their oldest daughter Neela was visiting from Nebraska while husband Ben was in Paris negotiating a deal for his firm with Airbus. Their two daughters were back home in the care of Ben's parents. Neela was a busy patent attorney who had taken a well-earned week off to stay with her own parents because Gil and Coe didn't see them very often anymore.

Son Barry and fiancé Lexi might visit for a few days later this week. It was all good. At seventy-three, Gil Stratton was as content as he would ever be.

He took a right turn at the stop sign further down the block and drove past Blythe House's place. She was still a striking woman, he thought. She was a widow now, and guilty memories of her quiet beauty and his long-ago indiscretion often brought twinges of regret.

His duplicity would return to nag him again and again for the rest of his life. He knew that and accepted it because he'd spoken to his Maker about it many times. He was still bothered by the circumstances of that long-ago night. Men of his calling did not engage in such behavior, and that single incident had caused him shame and self-recrimination ever since. Fortunately his second marriage had quickly attained solid ground. He was certainly not the reckless youth he had once been, but he could not retrace his steps. There were no 'do-overs' in real life.

Gil had not talked about that night to any other human being. Not ever. He was a Marine, after all, and knew how to keep his mouth zipped, if not his pants. He had dropped out of Seminary in his third year because he could not keep his Willy from wandering, so to speak. His conscience, since those times, had been brutal.

The day of John House's funeral, Gil learned about another dark secret he could never disclose. He'd often wondered before, but now he was certain. Gregory House was his son. It was in the genes … and in the birthmarks. Coe had no idea, and he wondered if Blythe even had an inkling, since she'd always been totally dedicated to John.

It had still been an age of innocence when they'd spent the night together …

oooooooo

There was a strange car parked in Blythe House's driveway when he passed by: an elegant Volvo sedan, brand new from the look of it. It had New Jersey plates. Who

on Earth?

Sudden comprehension dawned. Gregg House must be visiting his mother.

Gil was glad Gregg was there, if that's indeed who it was. He and the younger House had seen each other last at Blackjack's viewing. The handsome lanky boy from long ago, all grown up now into a tall slender man, hadn't looked well. Gregg struggled to give his dad's eulogy and nearly broke down at the podium. He'd clammed up, turned around and limped slowly over to the huge black coffin, leaning down, maybe to kiss his father's pale forehead, maybe hiding tears …

.

That 'lanky boy' had become a prestigious diagnostics specialist at a big hospital in Princeton, New Jersey. His appearance was altered so drastically now, however, that Gil hardly recognized him when he'd showed up for the viewing. Gregg was gaunt, far older than his years, and physically dependent for his mobility on a thick, elegant-looking wooden cane.

Gil had heard that Gregg was severely injured years before in some kind of freakish accident. The younger House looked haggard and undone. Gil was taken aback because he had once been a handsome and athletic man. His short hair had thinned and bristled, and when he turned to look at the assembled gathering, Gil had glimpsed the faded rose-colored birthmark above Gregg's hairline.

Oh Christ! It's true …

The past came back to slap him in the face. He felt small and dishonorable all over again at the many indiscretions during his military life. This was the worst of all, and he could not come clean to Gregg or anyone else, about the truth. It would damage many people in many ways. Worse, Gregg must spend the remainder of his life with an obvious physical disability.

Gil shuddered at the irony.

'Intrinity' had flown wartime missions that endangered their lives every day. They

had each escaped unscathed. But a brilliant young boy who had grown up to become

a renowned doctor, for God's sake, had become a cripple for the rest of his life while working at a hospital!

Stratton's mind took a turn backward once more, and as the Miata wheeled toward home and hearth, he rolled back the years in his head.

oooooooo

He was born in 1934 while FDR was in the White House.

One of his most profound childhood memories involved his parents, his older sister and himself gathered around the hulking Zenith floor-model radio the morning of December 8, 1941: the day after Pearl Harbor.

"A date that will live in infamy …" Franklin Roosevelt said.

On that day, Gilbert Matthew Stratton, age seven, decided he wanted to be a soldier. Before that he'd wanted to be a preacher. He was determined to find a way to make both of those things fit.

He grew up to be 6' 1" in sock feet, a height deemed impressive by others, though he'd never thought of it as a distinction one way or another. He came to know that when he was speaking to people eye-to-eye, they were usually the ones looking up and he was the one looking down. When he thought about it further, he realized he really should become a minister of the gospel ... and then a U. S. Marine.

In the sixties there was a movie called "Dr. No" which starred a dark-eyed Scotsman named Sean Connery. Gil Stratton learned that soon after the movie debuted, girls of his acquaintance began to refer to him as a "… blue-eyed Sean Connery."

He was indeed a child of the fifties, as was Connery, but as far as he was concerned, that was the only thing they had in common. In this enlightened era, however, the fifties were frequently referred to as "the end of innocence": Doo Wop music, drive-in movies, football practice after school and church on Sunday. It was the fifties that shaped his life though, thanks to his Victorian parents who continuously preached that your word is your bond …

The year after he enrolled in Christian Seminary, he got a girl pregnant. She went to Canada to give birth and give the baby up for adoption, and he realized he would probably become a Marine a lot sooner than a preacher. He managed to stay in seminary into his junior year. But he could not stay away from the women. Before he got someone else "in the family way," he left school and enlisted before the Elders threw

him out.

In spite of his many sexual misdeeds, Gil took some part of his shredded honor along to Parris Island. He sowed plenty of wild oats between training sessions because there were scores of women from all walks of life begging for his attention. He did not discriminate. He could not ... would not ... control himself.

Some of the women Marines were there only to find a husband, get pregnant and get out. The civilian females weren't quite as easy. Most of them were long established locals, and wary of slick come-ons and worn out clichés from horny soldiers begging for a little ol' roll in the hay.

Gil made it a top priority to 'date' as many of the broads as he could in the shortest amount of time.

And then he met Mildred.

But that was another story. Gil smiled to himself when he thought back on it, even though it hadn't been so funny at the time.

oooooooo

The day after his squadron's graduation from flight school, the three brand new second lieutenants embarked on a wild weekend of celebration. Gil was five years older than the other two, but in those days it didn't matter. 'Intrinity' had met way back in basic training and formed an instant friendship. They climbed eagerly aboard Lt. John "Blackjack" House's sorry old Mercury station wagon and headed out for Louisville, Kentucky.

It was March of 1957 and it was their last month of freedom and hell-raising before

Cold War intrigue and other cat-and-mouse assignments tugged fiercely at their macho pride. Training missions and life on the flight line would soon take over their existence.

They tossed a coin and poked at a random page in the local phone book. The place was called "The Owl Inn" and it was attached to a "motel": a newish kind of motor hotel where you could park your car right outside your room. Locals had dubbed the place "The Dirty Bird".

Cash was thumbed from wallets and laid down on the counter for a double occupancy with an extra cot. Blackjack parked the Mercury; they all dropped their duffle bags in

the room and headed enthusiastically to the bar.

Three hours of boisterous "Semper Fi" cut the young marines down to size. Spicy fried chicken with lots of Louisiana hot sauce, raucous flirting with every female in sight, a loud band and too much Kentucky bourbon found them exhausted, drunkenly happy and ready to crash.

Two of them had wives. Blackjack was already married to Blythe, his high school sweetheart. Big Walt Bishop had acquired a wife the day of graduation by getting a marriage license and finding a justice of the peace to perform a quick ceremony for him and sweet Connie, his pregnant girl-friend. Both men staggered together out of the bar to check in with their spouses from the pay phone in the lobby.

Gil held down the fort by pawing shamelessly at the saucy girl who'd waited their table. Gil had teased with her all evening, and she kept him interested by bouncing back with wisecracks and come-hither looks. It was apparent that she had eyes for the sexy Sean Connery look-alike.

"What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Mildred," she replied. "What's yours, Gyrene?"

"Gil." He told her. "Gilbert Stratton. You live around here? What time do you get off?"

When the party finally broke up, two drunken Marine Second Lieutenants retired to their rented motel room to sleep it off.

Lt. Stratton, however, left with Mildred in her handsome Edsel convertible.

They were married a week later, just before Stratton and his buddies and their wives left for duty in Okinawa. Blackjack and Walt both accused him of having taken leave of his senses.

Military housing on and around the small base was dirty and cramped. Officers were authorized to bring wives and families along, and the three young women were immediately astounded by the inadequacy and squalor of everything around them.

Stratton soon began to have regrets for his brash actions. Blackjack and Wally might have been right. He found that he was not good at marriage; not good at being tied to

only one woman, and certainly not inclined to be faithful. He found himself apologizing to God for his actions, but did not try to change. The longer he and Mildred shared the same cramped quarters, the more he searched for other liaisons.

Millie was demanding and spoiled. She had made good money as a bar girl, and she'd spent it wildly on fancy clothing and items of luxury, wanting to be seen and admired by every eligible man possible. The island culture was distasteful and cloying. She had no desire to be the mother of any squalling, snot-nosed brats, and she despised cooking and keeping house. The prospect of making three meals a day on a stove no bigger than a postage stamp, made her nauseous.

Most of all, Millie did not want to scrub and mop a drab, bug-infested shack the size of a packing crate. She wanted plenty of excitement and adventure, and Gil was not there often enough to provide it for her.

Added to that, Blythe House and Connie Bishop became friends very quickly, exclaiming

and laughing about not enough space in the bathroom for more than one person at a time, and tiny refrigerators that looked more like bread boxes.

Connie joked that she might have to bed her babies in dresser drawers; there was no room anywhere else. They quickly adapted to the new reality as though they had been born to inconvenience. Soon they both settled in as military wives, and Connie gave birth to twins.

Mildred Stratton remained guarded and aloof, not sharing in the laughter and the irony, and making no attempt to meet other wives and families stationed there. In a very short time she was miserable, isolated and short tempered and finding fault with everything and everybody, including her new husband.

Two months later the marriage was over. Gil threw up his hands in defeat and sent

Millie home to the states to initiate a divorce. He was hardly upset about the failure.

He soon began to brag that he was destined to become a gigolo. He'd failed at being

a minister and a husband ... he might as well do something he was good at! Within a week of their separation, he was back to harassing women on base and off, and Millie was forgotten as though she'd never existed.

Gil moved to the BOQ and expanded his conquests to not only the single women, but a few of the married ones as well. He kept apologizing to God, but there was no sincerity in it. Secretly he kept an eye peeled for the pretty and gentle Blythe House. He knew if Blackjack ever got wind of his thoughts, however, he would beat Gil Stratton to a bloody pulp. Blackjack guarded his wife as jealously as a pit bull. Nobody messed with Blythe.

Gil knew his behavior and his thoughts were scandalous. Where had all his inbred honor and manners gone? He didn't know, and it bothered him, but not enough to make him quit.

For a short time after having libidinous dreams about Blythe House, he curbed his lusty thoughts and pulled back on the off-duty carousing. Sometimes he spent time alone in his quarters, in meditation, asking God why he behaved as he did.

God, however, offered no answers. Gil knew there was something out there that he was looking for. He believed he would recognize it when he saw it.

And then he did.

oooooooo

Gilbert Stratton felt his eyes filling up. Still conscience stricken after all these years.

Oncoming traffic half blinded him with their headlights, and he found that evening darkness had fully closed in. He was only three blocks from home, but he couldn't walk into his kitchen looking like he had lost his last friend. Well, he had, but that was not the reason for the tears. Furthermore, Marines don't cry! Not even ex-marines who were committed Unitarian ministers.

He pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store and doused his lights.

He put the top up and sat in his car for almost half an hour with the motor running and the heater turned on. It was a lot colder outside. The little store's lights were bright at night and their gas pumps were doing a brisk business. He said a short prayer, mostly in tribute to Blythe House for her years of quiet discretion.

While he had been reliving a shameful period of his life and pitying himself for being a fool, Stratton knew he could not turn back the clock and make everything not happen. Useless regrets were nonproductive and at worst, caused curious people to ask too many uncomfortable questions. He turned the lights back on and listened to the Miata's tight little engine humming with life. He backed out of the parking space carefully and headed for the exit.

Downtown streets were beginning to clear. It was getting late. Traffic lights were blinking red, amber and green to increasingly empty thoroughfares. The family would

be waiting.

Gil pulled out onto the street cautiously, turned right and headed home …

oooooooooooo

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