their last encounter in the Senior NCO Club at Ft. Bragg. Another senior NCO had also been present at their table, and he loudly proclaimed that “DG” had to be the greatest escape artist in the history of the United States Army.
“Hey, lieutenant, how in the hell were you allowed in this club? We don’t allow no Shavetails in here!” proclaimed Sergeant Major (SGM), Richard “Bunny” Howard, a close colleague of “DG’s.”
“Well, huhh, you know, I was invited by “DG” to come along, and I hope I am not offending anyone,” Grant said, hoping not to piss-off the drunken Sergeant Major.
“Naahh, that’s okay, lieutenant, any friend of “DG’s” is a friend of mine. Did you know why he was called “DG”? Huh?” stuttered “Bunny.”
“No, I didn’t, but I am sure if I buy you another beer you just might tell me! Right?” replied the young second lieutenant.
“Your damn right I will, but it’s going to take more than just a little beer to get me to talk about ‘DG.’ How much time do you have, LT.? All night I hope, because I feel like getting drunk!” SGM Howard proclaimed in a loud voice. With that last remark he started rattling off like an out of control M-60 machinegun.
“‘DG’ Murchison is a highly-decorated combat veteran of both W.W. II and Korea. ‘DG’ has the distinct fame of having been taken prisoner in both wars, and therefore is an expert on the subject of escape and evasion. ‘DG’ got his nickname during the Battle of the Bulge. His position was overrun by the hard-charging 5th SS Panzer Division of Oberst (Colonel/later General) Joachim Peiper. Peiper was the former commander of Hitler’s own 1st Leibstandarte Panzer Regiment and led the spearhead during the Battle of the Bulge. He was also responsible for the Malmedy massacre, in which unarmed American soldiers were shot down in cold blood.
‘DG’ was severely wounded and left for dead by his comrades. SGM Howard blurted out that last paragraph with hardly a breath between words. He continued after slowly taking a long swig of beer.
“Even his parents received a telegram from the Department of the Army, listing him as ‘Missing in Action’ (MIA). They were, of course, both surprised and elated when he turned up a few months later alive and kicking. His younger brother, Frank, had exclaimed, ‘Hey, you’re suppose to be a Dead-Guy.’
“Are you listening to me, LT?” “Bunny” barked!
“Yes, I am Sergeant Major. Please continue,” Grant replied, his youthful voice breaking at the harsh bark of the drunken Sergeant Major.
“Well, the nickname stuck, from then on it became ‘DG’, replied Howard in a matter-of-fact voice.” Twenty-six beers had finally taken their toll on the drunken soldier. His head hit the table with a loud ‘Thonk’ and Jeremy knew the story was over for tonight.
The next day both Jeremy, the Sergeant Major and DG had a terrible hangover. But, from then on, Jeremy was more prone to paying attention to SFC Murchison. Although ‘DG’ continually yelled obscenities at his class of less than enthusiastic young second lieutenants. Jeremy Grant was one of the few avidly taking notes and listening to this grizzled combat veteran. Jeremy hoped that he would never need to know any of this stuff, but he felt it might come in handy one day.
Although Jeremy was dreaming, these vivid memories of a distant past life reinforced his determination to survive at all costs. In his dream and in reality, CPT Jeremy Grant had formulated a plan to defeat any attempts at coercion and torture. Repetition, hypnotic repetition! Grant snapped back to reality in his dream, and realized that he was now sitting on his muddy cell floor, in a rotten little corner of Vietnam. A sudden feeling of anguish and loneliness seized his heart, and he abruptly felt very alone and vulnerable. His mind willed him to be strong, but his soul was aching for companionship.
At various times during the night, Jeremy woke to find himself sitting in front of his tent in Afghanistan. This added to the confusion. At times he was unable to tell the difference between reality, Vietnam or Afghanistan. Flashbacks of another war kept muddying the dreams. Jeremy had never used drugs, but he was sure that this must be what all the veterans called “flashbacks.”
As the night progressed back in Afghanistan, Jeremy crawled inside his tent and immediately fell fast asleep. It was as if his mind was pre-programmed for certain channels, and he wanted to continue watching the Vietnam Horror Channel (VHC). As soon as his head hit the rolled-up prayer blanket, Jeremy was back in Vietnam in his cell.
Jeremy dreamt that a green millipede slowly crawled across the floor. The creature scurried as fast as its tiny legs could propel it. He curiously watched the hundreds of little black legs wriggle in unison in a fascinating snakelike motion. Jeremy slowly reached out with his right hand and picked up the still-moving insect; carefully observed the strange colored markings on its belly and popped it in his mouth without further thought. Survival was one of the words that ‘DG’ had pounded in his head, and by God he was going to survive!
The deeper his sleep got the more vivid the memories were of Vietnam. In his dream, he was determined to maintain his sanity, and win the mind game with Major Dong. However, his protein starved and exhausted body kept shifting into the hibernation mode. Although his mind attempted to fight the urge, his physical collapse forced him to continually drift in and out of reality. In both his conscious and unconscious dream his exhausted body longed for sleep. No matter how hard he tried, his battered frame floated into deeper sleep. Once again, Jeremy slowly drifted into a state of hibernation. At first, his tortured thoughts screamed with despair and agony, but eventually his dreams became less violent in nature, and they quietly focused on his first visit to San Francisco. Jeremy felt himself transported thousand of miles, and thousands of hours away. He was suddenly there, landing at the airport, his memories and consciousness virtually alive. It later seemed to him like a child’s dream of flying, floating in the air, but not really flying or touching the ground. He was aware of the floating sensation, but somewhere in the deep recesses of his brain he longed for terra firma.
Chapter 3 “Frisco” in My Dreams
As the night progressed, his dreams were becoming so realistic that he could almost swear he could feel San Francisco’s cold moisture wetting the back of his shirt. Jeremy awoke in his tent, high on a plateau in Afghanistan, only to find out that a sudden squall had ripped the top off his tent and the rain was pouring in. Jeremy jumped up, got his bearings and realized that he was still in Afghanistan, wet and miserable. Luckily he had a piece of waterproof canvass, and duct-tape and he was able to quickly repair the damage. He changed the position of his bed and within minutes was fast asleep and had resumed his dream.
There he was at the San Francisco airport hailing a cab. Jeremy was visibly upset, as he had heard so many nasty stories of war protesters, and there they were, blocking traffic, screaming and yelling obscenities at him, and all other military personnel coming home from Vietnam. His cab driver, a WW II Navy veteran was not intimidated by the angry crowd, and drove past them, mouthing obscenities at them as he drove through the crowd at a high rate of speed.
Jeremy had always been extremely patriotic. After all, this was his first tour, and he was shocked at the spectacle that greeted him in San Francisco upon his return home. He had grownup in an All-American tradition and could not believe the vile and hateful creatures that spat upon his uniform in San Francisco. Jeremy was so furious at these sub-humans, that he swore never to set foot again in the “City by the Bay.” These memorable events were causing him to stir restlessly on his sleeping bag. These incidents bothered him very much and he was unable to track his thoughts, either in his dreams or in his conscious
