We'll Go No More a Roving

The Secretary said, "We plan to give you a lump sum of..." and he named an amount that was so astronomical that I gulped. Then he went on to add, "We also plan to pay you a yearly stipend of..." which was clearly the bribe to keep my mouth shut.

It was an unbelievable amount of cash. Still, I was a member of the faculty of a prestigious Business School, at least I had been before I became Robinson Crusoe, so I could count. I knew that the amount they were talking about was just a simple rounding error to the Army's budget.

Naturally, there was a big "but" coming.

The Secretary shifted to the warhead end of the discussion. He smiled indulgently and said, "Of course you are no longer the man who was buried with honors at Arlington. You are going to have to become a totally different person."

He added with warning in his voice, "And you can never contact anybody from your old life, most self-evidently your wife. I know you will be tempted. So, to anticipate any meeting by happenstance, you are going to sign a contract. Then you are going to live someplace where there isn't the remotest possibility you will ever meet."

I knew what he was talking about. Her husband was an important guy. They didn't want any blowback. Specifically - if I showed up on Jane's doorstep. But frankly he didn't need to tell me that. I am not THAT totally selfish.

I loved the woman. She was everything to me. Forcing myself back into her life would be the purest form of self-indulgence.

It was the classic Chinese finger trap. Her profound grief at my death had proven her love. But she had risen above her pain. Now she had two kids by another husband. I couldn't make her choose. I was more of a man than that.

If she could do it, then I could too. I said unhappily, "So what happens now. Give me the details."

The details were what you'd expect. I was a guy named Jim Edgerton, born and raised in Eau Claire Wisconsin and a wealthy entrepreneur with time on his hands.

They had the entire backstory, and all of the credentials, including a passport. It wasn't witness protection. But it was pretty damn close.

*****

Money was never going to be a problem. But I didn't have an identity. THAT was a serious problem. People are who they are, because of a lifetime of doing something. I had BEEN a well-respected university professor. But that history belonged to a guy currently residing in Arlington Cemetery.

I'd had problems with feelings of worthlessness before the military gave me a purpose. Now I was a manufactured entity. I'd never actually done any of the things that were recorded for me. So, in essence I was a hollow man. Self-pity wrapped itself around me like the San Francisco fog.

I could actually feel the encroaching tendrils of hopelessness and it pissed me off. I suppose that the decade long holocaust that I'd endured gave me a perfectly good reason to quit. But I'd promised myself I would never be one of the walking wounded. That wasn't going to happen.

In life, you can choose to either march or die and I'd made the choice to march, no matter how heavy the burden on my heart. It was a matter of personal pride. The Army taught me to take responsibility for my actions. So, to me, life's victims were just weak people looking for any excuse to validate their own failure. I wasn't that sort of fellow.

Because I had chosen to serve my country, I had gone from a happy and productive life with a wonderful woman to the misery of an Iraqi prison cell. And, the only person I would ever love was now the faithful wife of another man. Even worse, she was the mother of two children who we would never share. That was the unintended consequence of my choice.

Now everything that I had ever accomplished was gone. Sure, I had plenty of money. But the remainder of my days would be written on the original tabula rasa. Still, I wasn't going to let it defeat me. I was going to own the circumstances of this new existence and do the best I could going forward. Call it brave if you like. But to me, it was just simple survival.

There were detailed arrangements to be made and a bunch of paperwork to sign. In the interim, I was deposited in a suite at the Hays-Adams and told to get lost.

I spent my first night looking out the window at the White House and making plans. I was almost fifty- years old. So, it was totally pointless to think about rebuilding my academic career. It would take years of education to just get back to the starting line. I didn't have the time left to do that.

But I also didn't want to simply play out the string until death. So, I asked myself the basic question, "What's your passion? What are you interested in doing?"

I don't know why classical history fascinates me. Maybe it's because it was a pinnacle of human accomplishment; one we wouldn't reach again for another thirteen-hundred years. I wanted to visit all of the ancient places, maybe write about them.

I wanted to be there and see it all. But I didn't want to just post-up in Tuscany, like a rom-com cliché. That would be far too hackneyed.

Fortunately, my second passion was sailing. So, the solution was obvious; buy a boat and live on it. That way I could move from place to place as my interests took me.

I spent the next couple of days cruising the internet and making phone calls. I finally located the boat. It was a C&C 41. I was struck by how beautiful the layout was; all decked out in the best nautical wood, brass and chrome, with a really good galley.

It was a cool $85,000 cash. But I had infinitely more than that from my original payout and I'd sailed a 40-footer for years prior to my captivity. The boat was docked in Salerno on the incredibly blue Tyrrhenian Sea south of Naples.

I told the agent to get it prepped for an indefinite voyage. I would start out by working my way along the coast of Italy, stopping at any interesting village. Just to get the feel of sailing again. Then the classical world was my oyster.

I was a little more optimistic about my new future. But there was something I was compelled to do. I knew that it was a mistake, even then. But I had to see Jane one last time. So, I rented the classic ubiquitous white van.

Her husband was a member of Congress. Hence it was no problem finding her address. It was in McLean. That made sense. It's where the DC bigshots squat when they're in town.

There was no possibility Jane would recognize me. She'd last seen me in my 30s and of course I'd been dead for a dozen years. Plus, I looked nothing like I had the last time we'd been together.

I was clean shaven when I left. Now, I had trimmed back my "castaway" beard to a neat, grey, neo-Hemingway look. My face had weathered a lot in the Iraqi heat, and I'd lost thirty pounds. But just to be safe, I did the old "ball-cap and coveralls" routine. With a pair of sunglasses, the man in the mirror wasn't me.

I was parked down the street the next morning. I really wasn't stalking my wife. I just needed to say my goodbyes. Even if I was only talking to myself. I'd gotten into the habit of holding long conversations with Jane in my head; in order to pass the time in my lonely cell. What did you expect, total, lucid rationality?!!

A school transport limo drove up and Jane came out with her two kids, a younger boy and a slightly older girl. Then a teenage girl joined them.

Really??!! A nanny??!! The limo made sense. Her husband was an important guy. But an au-pair was uncharacteristically ostentatious for the woman I'd loved. Of course, a person's behavior changes over time, and it had been a decade. Plus, Jane's circumstances were different. She was the wife of a mover-and-shaker now, and she had always been a rich woman.

Jane put them all in the vehicle and exchanged a friendly greeting with the driver. Then she stood, hands on hips as they drove off. That caused an intense pang of regretful longing. It was the way she always stood. They waved. She waved. Then she turned and walked back into the house.

It was like no time had passed. She hadn't changed in the slightest. She still had thick auburn hair surrounding that beautiful oval face and that amazing body. She looked fresh and happy and very well-established in her life. I couldn't believe how much I loved her.

I've done dumb things before. But my reaction to that stupid little sentimental gesture was like somebody was scooping out my soul with a melon baller. It was infinitely more painful than I'd envisaged. I was almost catatonic with grief.

I sat there hands on the wheel paralyzed by heartache. Then the unimaginable happened. I was blasted back to reality by loud insistent knocking on the driver's side window. I turned puzzled and it was JANE.

Naturally, a weirdo sitting in a parked white van might attract some attention on an over-privileged street like hers. I would have probably fainted dead away. But I was so surprised that my instinctive reaction was to roll the window down.

Jane said challengingly, "Can I help you?!" It was the same smoky contralto voice.

I just stared at her from behind my sunglasses. She was beautiful. She was the woman I loved, and I was some bizarre stranger. The pain was so intense that I was afraid she would sense it. Instead, she just seemed curious and vaguely pissed off.

I had to say something, or the jig was up. I mumbled flustered, "I'm sorry ma'am, I was just parked here waiting for my boss. We're doing a little work in the area. But I guess he isn't going to show up."

Jane was staring at me bothered, like she was trying to remember something. I gave her a ghastly smile, which probably made me look even creepier, and said, "I'll go see what kept him."

I started the van and shifted into gear. She stepped back, still looking puzzled. I rolled the window up and hustled off.

It was the most heart-rending thing I could have done to myself. Jane had been a dozen years removed from my consciousness. Now it was like she'd died right in front of me on the street.

That little piece of stupidity cost me months of needless mourning. The only way I could cope with that kind of grief was to build my solitary life as far away from her as possible.

*****

It had been an interesting six years. I'd picked up the boat in Salerno and sailed it through the straits of Messina. Then I coasted along the Bay of Taranto and around the heel of the Italian boot to the Apulian side, waiting for a stretch of clear weather.

I wanted to cruise the Eastern Mediterranean. But in order to do that I had to get across the Adriatic. The crossing is at least two-days and that fishbowl of a sea has some historically nasty storms. Plus, the nearest landmass is Albania and I'd heard that banditry was a major industry in that country.

So, I thought that a longer three-day reach down the eastern coast of Corfu would be more advisable. Still, I needed good weather to do that.

I eventually docked at a marina situated right under the walls of an old Venetian Fort in Corfu City. After I got things squared away on the boat, I walked across a pedestrian bridge to a place the locals call the "Liston."

The early evening lights illuminated a fairy-tale promenade. It was full of cheerful passers-by and the areas under the arches were stuffed with folks laughing and talking over cups of strong coffee and ouzo.

It was so prototypically Greek that I actually laughed out loud. I hadn't done that in years.

It was then that I noticed a big scruffy mutt diligently working the tourists. He was a charming rogue, with a well-traveled, bon-vivant manner. If he had ever been groomed it wasn't evident.

He was sauntering along nonchalantly, with a rope of drool hanging from his lower lip like a metaphoric Gauloises. I decided that he looked exactly like a Gallic soldier of fortune, perhaps a former member of La Legion Etrangere.

He shambled over to me pant-pant-drool-drool. It was my second instance of love at first sight. I ruffled the scraggly fur on top of his big head and said, "Can I buy you a bite to eat old buddy."

His dark eyes said, "But of course monsieur, perhaps a helping of Keftethes."

We shared one of the outdoor tables in the arched gallery of the Liston. The Greeks are a lot more enlightened when it comes to dogs. My Legion buddy was sitting with me at the table looking like a seasoned boulevardier; while he polished off a big plate of Greek meatballs.

I'd developed the disturbing habit of conversing with inanimate objects while I was alone. I know it's batshit crazy. But what can you expect from twelve years of isolation? It turned out that La Legion was considerably more articulate than most of the things I talked to.

I said companionably, "Well my friend, it's just us two old vets sitting here together."

My buddy raised his head, orzo dripping from his jowls, and said, "Oui - do you think you could order me a plate of Baklava?" The people at the next table looked astonished.

I dropped a few Euros on the table and said sadly, "I'm going to have to go back to my boat. It was a long trip and I need some sleep. It was fun dining with you."

My doggy pal gulped the last of his snack, stood up and ambled along with me radiating je ne sais quoi. He said, "But of course, and now I must have the honor of being your traveling companion."

That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. I had never been lonely with Jane. But that was part of my past. Now, my life's companion was a furry refugee from the French Foreign Legion.

*****

I was taking in the scenery from my position next to a fig tree at the Karpathos Café. It was a perfect evening in the Eastern Mediterranean. The sun was setting. The air was warm and fragrant. The street was bustling with passers-by and the tourists were out in force.

The old town of Rhodes is unique in the Dodecanese. In that, its ambiance is crusader rather than classical. It sits inside a coherent set of medieval city walls and the architecture is pure Middle Ages.

The Turks lost 50,000 men taking those walls. Now you can just stroll through any of the seven gates to a wealth of shops, restaurants and cafes.

My Legion buddy and I had been touring the Mediterranean together for six thought-provoking years. I'd had him checked out when we got to Athens. It turned out that he was indeed a soldier-of-fortune. Well, at least he was a French war breed called a Bouvier-de-Flandres.

Those dogs are so brave that they were nearly wiped out in World War One. Groomed to his full martial splendor my new traveling companion carried himself with the pride and elegance of a Legion Sergeant Major, metaphoric kepi, swagger-stick, stripes, grenade and all.

Dogs are a comfort for lonely and damaged people. They accept you for who you are. There is never a question of loyalty and they don't pressure you to change. They're just there; an uncomplicated living, loving presence. He needed a name. So, I called him "Buster." I had a dog named that when I was a kid.

It had been a healing period. You think a lot while you're at sea and I spent all that lonely time in self-analysis. That's where I discovered the relationship between reality and change.

Most people live their entire life in just one reality, be it the family farm, assembly line, or cubicle. It might be boring. But it's free of the trauma of disruption.

Darwin's rules encourage humans to avoid unfamiliar things. That's because strange things might be dangerous. Occasionally though, life drops you into an absolutely alien place and you either adapt or you die. That had been my situation.

I was once a respected academic with a beautiful and loving wife. That guy was buried in Arlington and his beloved wife married another man. Now, I was a solitary old fellow with serious PTSD issues sailing the Mediterranean with a big old war dog; who I regularly conversed with in French.

That might seem crushingly unreal and unfair. But it was where life had put me in my fifty-sixth year. And it was a situation that I was dedicated to making the best of.

The good news was that I was independent of money needs. The bad news was that I was without a purpose. I knew that I would have to re-invent myself, or I would disappear into self-medication. I was already drinking too much. That was a problem I was coming to grips with.

So, I formulated a plan that actually made sense. There are a lot of people out there; men and women whose lives had been disrupted or ruined by their service. I had also discovered this newfangled invention called the internet.

The internet hadn't existed when I went into captivity in 1991. But it was a way of life when I got out. People literally lived and interacted with each other in the virtual world as if they were in a small village.

I had the life-experience from everything that had happened to me in Iraq and my former academic career had taught me how to write. Those two things came together in a new and hopeful direction.

I decided to spend my days talking to my brothers and sisters about survival after war. It took me a while to figure out virtual media. But I had nothing better to do at night except drink. So, I eventually became extremely proficient as a blogger.

I started to blog about the experience of returning to a once familiar, but now alien world. It was a niche. But there was plenty of empathy for my ideas in the blogsphere. The number of views just kept going up, the comments poured in and I started to heal.

I mainly talked about a returning vet's need to escape from the inexplicable rage, inexorable hyper-vigilance, never-ending anxiety and recurring nightmares that accompany time in a combat zone. I even talked in general terms about my own situation.

I couldn't be specific. That would have violated the terms of my agreement. But I DID try to get into the problems that both spouses face when one of them was deployed. I also talked a little bit about the stresses that the relatives of MIAs face.

Nobody would have read my stuff if I'd just concentrated on veterans problems. So, I built the theme around my travels, specifically to sites of historic battles; Cannae, Thermopylae, El Alamein, Acre, Gallipoli.

I visited all of the actual battlefields and talked about them. The idea was to weave stories of the monumental events that occurred there, into observations about their lingering impact on the people who participated in them.

For instance, I sailed into Canakkale in Turkey and took the bus tour down to Troias. That was the site of the Trojan war. My visit to that fabled setting gave me an opportunity to talk about the problems that the larger-than-life participants faced when they returned home;

Now THAT was a Homeric soap opera; what with, Agamemnon showing up with Cassandra, his Trojan mistress, and promptly being killed at his victory banquet by his wife Clytemnestra and HER lover. Or, Odysseus spending twenty years fighting his way back to his wife Penelope; who meantime, was holding off 108 drooling suiters. Talk about faithful!!

My stories of war and aftermath resonated, given my own unfortunate experience. But they also showed people who had lost spouses to the enforced separation, that they were part of a human experience that dated back at least thirty-five-hundred years.

I was in Rhodes because the siege that kicked the Knights Hospitallers off that island also destroyed the last Christian state left after the Crusades. Effective blogging lies in the pictures. So, the fortifications on Rhodes were an illustration of the points I was making, and the pictures were a boost to my readership.

My current theme was cause-and-effect. In that, the actions that had put me in Iraq had their origin in events that had occurred here, eight hundred years earlier. And unlike Troy, most of Rhodes's fortifications still existed. I had been blogging about that for a week and it must have hit a nerve. Since, the readership skyrocketed.