Operation Counterpunch

3. Somebody's Savior

Chapter Three

Somebody’s Savior

Art Jackson marked his nineteenth birthday with the whole family all around their yellow-top kitchen table. His seven-year-old sister helped blow out the candles. Life had already toughened Art; his dad had been killed in a trucking accident five years earlier. Since then, he’d been the man of the house, oldest of seven. His was one of the poorest families in St. Paul, so being very resourceful, Art made sure that his mother never had to let her children go hungry. Over the years, one way or another, Art had contact with almost every police officer on the St. Paul force, and he’d appeared in front of Judge Murray at least three times. Now Art found himself standing in front of Judge Murray again. Art read the Judge’s body language—he definitely looked pissed.

The trouble began when Art peeked in the Dumpster behind Safeway. Inside lay six good heads of lettuce, right on top and unsoiled. He found a new-looking box on the dock and started loading them. Cigarette smoke invaded the cool night air. Art stood and turned toward the back of the store.

“Hey! What are you doing over there?”

In the doorway stood a doughy twenty-something with a cigarette in his hand. Art recognized him from freshman year—George Phelps. Back then, Art had to eat a lot to tip the scale at 140 pounds, all 5’ 6” of him. As a senior, George use to taunt and pick on him.

“I’m just salvaging some lettuce.”

George threw his cigarette down in a shower of sparks and grabbed a broom. He jumped down off the loading dock and shouted back to a co-worker. “Thief!”

He evaded the first swing of the broom handle.

He easily avoided contact on the next swing, then disarmed George and tossed the broom back to him as he retreated.

A police cruiser rounded the corner just as George fell backwards and hit his head on the edge of the loading dock.

Art ran to help George, but the police saw an aggressive movement, and by the time they jumped out of their squad car Art’s hands were covered with George’s blood.

It looked bad, but really it was just a minor scrape. Being a diva, George played on the sympathies of the officers.

Art knew the charges were serious—theft and assault. Standing in front of Judge Murray now, he studied the tips of his shoes.

“Arthur Jackson.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve been charged with assault and theft. You have your public defender here—how do you plead?”

“Not guilty, sir.”

“Did you already know this guy?”

“Yes, sir, from school.”

“Okay, go ahead and tell me your version events.”

“Well, he fell because I took the broom away from him. I thought he was going to swing it again.”

“You didn’t attack him?”

“No, sir. I rushed over to help him up.”

“Mr. Phelps, what do you say? Did you see him take the lettuce out of the store?”

George shook his head.

“Mr. Phelps, I can’t hear your head waggle; you have to speak.”

“That all sounds about right, sir.”

“Mr. Jackson here didn’t attack you?”

“No, sir. He tried to help me up.”

“Okay, I’ve heard enough of this. Mr. Jackson, I don’t ever want to see you in my courtroom again, so I’m going to give you a choice. Either you can go down tomorrow and join the service, or the next time I see you in here I’m going to put you in jail. What’s it going to be?”

“Well, sir, I—I think I’ll go join the service.”

“Good! The Navy’s a good choice. Son, you are going to be somebody’s savior someday. Now go home. Bailiff, we are going to take a five-minute break.”

Art walked out into the hallway.

Mom… What am I going to tell Mom?

* * *

On Thursday morning, April 4th, 1985, the sun shone brightly. Art lived on the west side of St. Paul. The Naval Recruiter’s office was near County Road B2 W and Highway 51, about three miles away, so running seemed better than the bus.

Two years earlier, Art had saved his money and bought a car, but his little sister got sick. He sold the car to help cover her medical treatment. These days Art ran most places, which put him in great shape. Unlike many of his peers, Art held little regard for tobacco, which added to his well-being. He stopped at Mr. Carlson’s barber shop and got a fresh haircut for the occasion. A handsome sort, anyway, but with a fresh haircut and his natural physique, he was a real standout.

Art walked into the recruiter’s office at 11:00 a.m. There to greet him stood Petty Officer Pete Wilson.

“Good Morning, son.”

His was a slow, mellow, deep voice, letting Art know that Minnesota wasn’t home.

“Good morning, sir.” A genuine, man’s man—Art instantly liked the petty officer.

“Well, what can I do for you this morning, son?”

“I came to join the Navy.”

“And why is that?”

Art thought about that question. He’d never been in any real trouble that could be tracked, but he was reluctant to share with the petty officer that the Judge told him to come join the Navy. “I’m just ready to get out of Minnesota.”

“Well, first things first. Do you have a high-school diploma?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you married?”

“No, sir—free as a bird.”

“Okay then.”

Art found himself scheduled over at the medical wing for an exam and an eye test that very afternoon. The nurse there introduced herself as Angela Beal.

“Okay, Mr. Jackson, we’re going to create your medical chart, record your height and weight, and check your blood pressure.”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re not from Minnesota, are you, Nurse Beal?”

“No, no I’m not, Mr. Jackson. Where do you think I’m from?”

“I’d say Texas.”

“You’d be right.”

At just thirty years old and hard not to notice, she obviously enjoyed sparring with the recruits.

“Well, Mr. Jackson, I’ll need you to dress down to your skivvies.”

“Skivvies, ma’am?”

“Your underwear.”

She turned her back, walking to the table to get her clipboard.

The medical intake area was a large room, about the size of a school gymnasium. It was a wide-open space, plenty of room for several young men to get checked in at the same time, but now it was just Art and the nurse. Art had run to the recruiting station wearing nothing but trunks, a jock strap, and a baggy hooded sweatshirt—no underwear.

As the oldest of three boys and four girls—plus his mom—all sharing one bathroom, he did not have the luxury of modesty growing up. He respected Nurse Beal’s authority, so off went the sweatshirt and running trunks.

Nurse Beal flushed when she turned around from getting her clipboard, so he looked away.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, Mr. Jackson.”

As she wrote his vitals on the chart, she gripped her pen so tightly her fingertips turned white. “Six foot four and a half,” she said quietly, pausing to take a deep breath. “Two hundred-twenty pounds.” She looked back at him again, sighed quietly, and continued. “Twenty-twenty vision, b-p one-ten over seventy, hair blond, eyes blue…”

As he slipped his trucks back on, Nurse Beal call Dr. Mills on the intercom to come perform his part of the exam.

A man in white coat walked in from a side door. He nodded to Art and walked up to nurse Beal to receive the chart.

“Good luck, Mr. Jackson.”

“Thank you, Nurse Beal.”

After Dr. Mills finished his examination, he put his hand on Art’s shoulder. “Son, you are as fit as a fiddle!”

Dr. Mills’s instructions were to go back to the intake office, medical forms in hand. Art glanced at the clock and held his stomach—almost two o’ clock. Walking back across the courtyard to the intake office, he encountered Nurse Beal sitting on the bench, eating her lunch.

“Well, Dr. Mills says I am fit as a fiddle.”

“I would have put money on that. Are you hungry? I have extra here.”

“Are you sure?”

He sat and gratefully accepted the half sandwich. They visited for about ten minutes. Art thanked her for the food and walked back into Petty Officer Wilson’s office.

Wilson stood when Art entered and extended his hand. Art appreciated the gesture.

“Well, how’d you do, son?”

“Dr. Mills says I’m fit as a fiddle!” Art handed him the form from Dr. Mills with his left hand, his right still appropriately gripping Petty Officer Wilson’s hand in greeting.

Wilson looked at the form for effect for a few seconds.

“Take a seat, son. First of all, the U. S. Navy would be proud to count you among its personnel. What we need to do is to figure out what role you would like to have in Uncle Sam’s Navy. Do you have any expectations or predetermined goals in mind?”

“Sir, I expected you folks would tell me what you need, and then that is what I’d do. I didn’t know I had a choice.”

“Well, son, there are choices, but if you don’t have a well-developed preference in mind, maybe we can figure out what you’d like. Do you get seasick?”

“No, and I know that because the year before my dad died, he took me up to Alaska to visit his brother. My uncle lives in a little village out on the Arctic Chain; he’s a commercial fisherman. While my dad and I were there, my uncle took us halibut fishing three times. Each time we experienced rough water. It never bothered me; in fact, I thought it was fun.”

“How about swimming? Do you like to swim? Are you fearful of the water?”

“No, sir, my brothers and I swim in the Mississippi all the time! After my dad died, we never had much money, so we just entertained ourselves in ways that didn’t take money. On hot days the Mississippi does a pretty good job.”

Petty Officer Wilson sat forward in his chair. “Son, step out for a moment, I need to make a call.”

“Yes, sir.” Art stepped out and closed the door. He breathed deeply and exhaled slowly.

Did I just screw up?

He spied a brochure rack across the room. He shook his hands at the wrists, rotated his shoulders, and walked directly to the rack, determined to come up with an answer to what he wanted to do in the Navy. Art glanced over his shoulder to steal a glimpse of Petty Officer Wilson through the office window.

I wonder who he’s calling.

* * *

Petty Officer Wilson waited for the click of the door latch to announce privacy, then picked up his phone and called Commander Jerry Peel at the Navy SEAL Training Facility in Coronado, California. Wilson had served under Commander Peel years earlier; they had a great relationship. Peel’s secretary answered and told Wilson that the commander would be right on the line.

“Pete, how the hell are ya?”

“I’m fine, Commander, just fine.”

After a few minutes of catching up, Wilson asked the commander when his next SEAL Training class would begin. The commander told him it started the following Tuesday and that all the men accepted to the class had to report by Monday evening.

“Do you have any open slots?”

“Well, I didn’t until about an hour ago. I just got word that one of my incoming guys got into a car wreck, so he’s gonna be out of commission for eight weeks. Whatta ya got?”

“Commander, I have a young man who would fit right in. He has a great attitude and he’s built like Charles Atlas.”

“Well, Pete, if you have a good one, send him down. I always need more grist for the mill.”

“Okay, Commander. I’ll call you later this afternoon and let you know if I am sending him your way.”

* * *

Just as Art plucked one brochure from the information rack that held all the various Navy jobs a recruit could consider, Petty Officer Wilson rapped on the office window.

As Art walked in, before Petty Officer Wilson had a chance to say anything, Art held up a SEAL brochure. “Sir, this is what I’d like to do.”

A big smile appeared on Petty Officer Wilson’s face.

“Well, son, this is your lucky day.”

Petty Officer Wilson finished all the paperwork and gave Art a travel voucher to fly from Minneapolis/St. Paul to San Diego. It all happened so fast, but Art was very excited. He had told his mother about joining the Navy when he left the house that morning, but he never expected to be flying out in three days. It was all right, though; he’d be able to send his mother most of his paycheck to help cover the family expenses.

At five o’clock Art walked out of the Navy Recruiting Center with his packet in hand. Taking the bus home seemed like a good option. He started walking toward bus stop, some 200 years to the west. A nice truck exiting the parking lot caught his eye. It stopped on the curb cut in front of him, and the tinted passenger window lowered.

Art smiled, recognizing Nurse Beal at the wheel.

“Need a ride, Sailor?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He climbed into the truck.

Being in the Navy is starting out pretty good.