Komatke Gold. Benjamin Vance
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Komatke Gold
by
Benjamin Vance
This is a work of fiction. Names, incidents, characters and dialog are strictly products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, specific locales, organizations or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any similarity to Native Americans, their traditions or related characters was created with deep respect for those peoples and traditions. Any errors in this work are the responsibility of the author.
Copyright 2013 by Benjamin Vance
World rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means; electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise for public use, including internet applications, without the prior permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper or on the web.
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ISBN-13: 978-0-9859-1684-8
Komatke Gold
BY
Benjamin Vance
Dedicated to Kenneth William Raub: 1942-2013
Komatke Gold
A Novel
By
Benjamin Vance
Prologue and Background
Of all the sentient thoughts we humans have over our short lives, I believe the most poignant and compelling are about those we’ve loved.
I sat quietly in my car on the same side of U. S. Highway 95 as I had those many years ago when my father was dying. I remembered within the depths of my soul the one time I’d been in love and how I’d lost her. I distinctly recalled the same rare insect sounds while urgently urinating on the centerline at five in the morning about halfway between Yuma and Parker, Arizona. That was my kind of heaven then, and now I guessed. There wasn’t a car light in sight either time, and the cool, rain-freshened breeze carrying the smell of Greasewood, Palo Verde and Mesquite had been missing from my life far too long. The Kofa Mountains were barely visible in the misty early morning; recognizable like the silhouette of familiar old friends. I pitied less fortunate mortals who hadn’t stood on the Arizona Desert and inhaled that perfume.
“My God, is there any doubt why Indians love this land?” I mumbled. Then my keys made the only human sound for miles as I reluctantly brought the Jeep engine to life again.
Unlike my late-model Jeep, my father’s old Datsun had been a phenomenal leaker back then. The oil pressure sending unit and most of the seals signaled that a tough hundred and seventy thousand miles on the odometer had taken a toll. It still ran like a top though. I could have changed the sending unit in just a few minutes, had I the time to spare or a good place to work after my arrival at the Marine Corps Air Station (MCAS), Yuma. God knows, I was always in a hurry back then. At times, I remembered wishing I’d kept the rental car I picked up in San Diego. It would’ve been a bit faster … but what the hell, rentals were expensive back then so I just carried a few more spare quarts of oil in the Datsun to help lube the roads of La Paz and Yuma Counties. In the glare of the present, it seemed like two lifetimes ago.
****
During a bleak and rainy Virginia November I received written notice from a La Paz County lawyer stating someone had found one of my old letters in my father’s belongings. The notice informed me my father was dying. My immediate emotions were upon me like a whirl-wind. I didn’t want to be notified! I didn’t care if he was sick. Well, maybe a little, down deep. I didn’t want to take care of his belongings and I didn’t want to be his executor! I never really knew my father anyway! What the hell! For all I knew he was already dead and why should I care? He never gave me a damned thing except his name.
Mostly, I had my mother’s prejudiced views about him, but never really stopped long enough to notice. Isn’t that always the case? I knew from my maternal grandfather that my father had been involved in the Communist movement during WW II, but then so had a lot of other anti-fascists. Altogether, I’d seen him possibly six times in my life and I was approaching thirty-five. He was alien to me. So torn between prejudices, what I missed as a child and my duties to him as my “father” at that point, I finally asked for, and received emergency leave. My mission, as I perceived it, was to fly to Arizona and take care of the problem, as quickly as possible.
That’s what we did in the Army back then, take care of things, solve the problem, and complete the mission. In my 23 years of military service I found there was, and hopefully still is one thing certain; most military people subscribe to “Duty, Honor, Country”. General MacArthur explained it; he didn’t invent it. During my career it was the people I met, and not the places I visited, who made it memorable for me. The U.S. Military is still full of all kinds of people trying to do their jobs in the best way, every day, but it’s the line military people who keep it moving.
The civilians go to work and go home and make the job a 30-year career. The political appointees come and go. The dedicated 24 hours a day, seven days a week military are the patriots that Americans can be proud of. No matter what I say about the U.S. Army, one must understand that I loved it, and still do today. I’m far from saying the Army is perfect though. Every organization has its quirky, “problem children” and Machiavellian “leaders” who strive to make it tough for everyone else.
We had the draft back then and I think the U.S. was better for it. However, it did bring in some strange personalities. In the Army, one learns to deal with these types by ignoring them, transferring them or yourself, or dealing with them more directly through “The Uniform Code of Military Justice”.
Thinking back, in a way it always seemed to me the Army somehow looked with disfavor upon emergency leave. I guess it appeared to be a contradiction. Even when I was a commander, I couldn’t figure out why the entire chain of command had to know about a soldier’s private grief. The death, the cause of death and the relationship of the survivor had to be verified by the Red Cross, as if the Red Cross was some sort of official branch of the Army.
Once your commander got the message, he was duty-bound to grant emergency leave to satisfy the chain of command. I guess it became a problem when emergencies occurred at an inopportune time. In an organization that plans its minutia to the minute, the unexpected loss of a soldier probably rocks the boat and insults the status quo. On the plus side, at least it gets you on some great free flights you wouldn’t normally get.
The enlisted ranks; those folks in the Navy and Air Force who actually do the flight scheduling, on the whole seemed to better understand how the death of a loved one can affect one’s life. Once I got the emergency leave authorization and finally made it to the Navy Air Terminal at Cherry Point, the enlisted personnel made passage as efficient and hassle free as possible. In my case, many of them actually offered their condolences. I guess if you loved the person who was, or is, the reason for your emergency leave, then it makes all sorts of sense to hurry to the bedside or funeral. I didn’t love my father. Hell, I hardly knew him! I enjoyed the flight to San Diego via China Lake though. I had a lot of time to think. Many things had to be settled and I made copious notes.
Admittedly, my most serious concern at that time was my father’s solvency. I’d reason to believe he had no assets worth mentioning. He’d always seemed to be a bit of a flimflam man and I was afraid all I would face in Arizona were his bill collectors. I was facing enough of those