Solomon's Porch (21 page)

But it was anything but a private setting, since Alex and his crew were filming everything, and had placed microphones on the porch to capture the audio. Peter instructed his men to ignore the cameras and the equipment as best they could. Before they got started they rose to their feet, held hands, and prayed.

Peter was then introduced to Jose Enrique Vargas and Timothy Austin. They were the two new “arrivals,” if that label could be accurately applied to free men at Parkersboro. Jose and Tim were renting a by-the-week apartment in Georgetown, and had been driving into the camp in the morning and out at night for the past few days. Now that Gail was back, their plan was to grab a bunk and spend all of their time at Parkersboro.

As Jose started to share his testimony, Peter realized that Larry was indeed right, he was very surprised.

Until two weeks ago Jose Vargas had been General Jose Vargas, the number three officer in the command structure of the United States Marine Corps. Alex had recognized him on the spot, but remained silent, keeping to his self-appointed role of being more of an observer than a participant.

“Where should I begin, Panos?” Jose asked.

“Let the Spirit lead, share with us your heart and your history, brother,” Peter answered.

Jose laughed at himself.

“Gentlemen. I am accustomed to formalities. Chain of command, duties, rigid authority. It is not at all familiar for me to simply begin anything spontaneously. Forgive me.”

Jose Vargas spoke in a solid, even locution. His appearance, he was five-foot-ten-inches of muscles, capped off with a flat top, completing his aura of authority. He was a man who both gave and commanded respect, who believed in discipline, a patriot who loved America, drank beer, smoked cigars, idolized John Wayne, and most certainly obeyed the law.

In sum, the exact opposite of most of the men who now surrounded him.

Yet as he began to speak, it quickly became apparent that the Lord had touched Jose, and from an early age. Despite all of their differences, the common bond of the calling of God united Jose with his brothers, bridging all worldly gaps. None of the disciples doubted Vargas’ sincerity or legitimacy, but all were very curious to learn how and why the Lord had called such a man to be one of them. Until now, Jose had related only bits and pieces of his testimony, waiting for Peter to arrive to tell all.

“I was born in Bakersfield, California,” Jose began, “the son of illegal immigrants. Both of my parents were migrant farm workers and day laborers, who slowly killed themselves for starvation pay. My folks lived for me and my brother Ramon. Every spare penny they had went to improving their children’s lives.

“Unlike almost everyone else I knew in the barrio, my brother and I did not work in the fields or at a sweat shop. We went to school. Because she had to work, my mother could not be home with us when class ended in the afternoon. My brother and I tended to ourselves from first grade on, and kept our noses clean when we were little. As small children, neither of us would risk disappointing our mother or invoking the wrath of our father. I don’t think many families are like that anymore. Built on pure respect, I mean.”

“I grew up in the same house in Brooklyn, respect-wise at least,” Saul offered. “How old are you Jose, fifty-five or so?”

“Fifty-seven, sir.”

“Well, I understand what you’re saying. Your father was king and your mom was queen. You were at best the regent, and you were expected to return the love and the respect given to you through obedience.”

“Have you done a stretch in the military, Mr. Cohen? Sounds like we have much in common.” Jose had no way of knowing how absurd his question was.

When he, and everyone else, stopped laughing, Saul answered.

“No, my friend, no. I am about as far away from being a military man as one could possibly be. I’m afraid that all of my parent’s best efforts to instill discipline in me largely went for naught.”

“Just like Ramon,” Jose said softly. “Just like Ramon.” There was sadness in his voice whenever Jose spoke of his beloved older brother.

“Where is Ramon now, Jose? Does he know you’re here? Is he a God fearing man?” Larry asked.

“Ramon is scattered across a rice patty in Vietnam, Mr. Coleman. He couldn’t stay off heroin long enough to keep his wits about him during combat. He was probably hallucinating when he walked out into the open for no apparent reason. The VC cut him to shreds.”

“Lord have mercy,” Peter prayed. “That must have been a tough time for you and your family. Were you also in the military when Ramon was killed?”

“Yes sir, I was.”

“Horrible, simply horrible,” Kenny empathized. “How did it make you feel?”

“Not so good, sir, not so good. I was standing fifty yards away from Ramon when he bought it.”

General Vargas was the only one of the seven with any military background. Try as they might to be understanding, only Malik could directly relate to Jose’s experience.

“Seen men die too, General, sir,” Malik said. “Tears your insides out. Especially when it be your own family or when you’re the one doin’ the killin’.”

Malik Graham had become such a mellow soul, full of love and compassion for all of God’s creation, that his brothers had almost forgotten that he once was, not so long ago, a violent predator with little respect for any life other than his own.

“I agree, Mr. Graham, violent death is never pretty. In fact, in God’s eyes, there isn’t anything much uglier. There is no excuse, no justification for it, other than self-defense.”

As Jose spoke, the disciples all marveled at how a career military officer could say such a thing, much less believe it.

“Jose,” Peter asked. “I thought brothers weren’t supposed to serve in the same units in wartime, to prevent what you went through.”

“True enough, sir. We were in different units. He was Army, I was a Marine. By pure coincidence we ended up in that nasty little valley at the same time.”

“There are no coincidences, General Vargas,” Peter said.

“I know that now, Panos. Didn’t at the time, didn’t at the time.” The General seemed to drift back to
1969
for a moment, as if just talking about Ramon forced him to relive his brother’s death, to endure images stored in his mind better left dormant.

“About a week before he died, I received a letter from Ramon. When I first arrived in country we would write each other every two weeks or so, but his letters came less frequently over time. Found out later that’s when he started using heavily.”

“I was aware from his letter that his unit might be in the same general area as mine. It was my plan to find him that very evening and to finagle a ride to wherever he was bivouacked and surprise him.”

“So he had no idea you were there?” Kenny asked.

“None. Couldn’t have. My platoon was supposed to be at least five clicks west. God put me there for a reason, but at the time, well, let’s just say I didn’t understand.”

“I recognized Ramon’s voice when he started yelling. Never have been quite sure what he was saying. His buddies claim he was singing some Stones song. I’ll never know. What I do know is that it got him killed.”

“Like you, Saul, Ramon was a rebel. By the time he turned eighteen, Ramon was no longer the obedient child. In fact, he was damn near uncontrollable. Back in the sixties, LSD and heroin were easy to find in Bakersfield, and Ramon had no problem getting the money he needed to buy drugs through stealing.

“The police caught him several times, but it became serious for him in ’
68
. Ramon was looking at doing some hard time.”

“Unless he enlisted,” Saul surmised.

“Yes, you got it. It was Vietnam or jail for Ramon. That was the choice he was given, that he forced himself into really. His draft number was so high, he might never have been called otherwise.

“As for myself, I wanted nothing more than to enlist. In my room at home, I had a calendar, on it I marked the days left until I turned eighteen. I knew on that day I’d be in the Marine recruiter’s office signing my enlistment papers.

“Ramon thought our country was a hypocritical society whose basic purpose was to take advantage of the weak, like blacks and Chicanos, so that the rich could get richer. As with many other men I’ve met during my lifetime, gentlemen, Ramon used America’s flaws as an excuse to act like a fool, to ruin his life, and to discredit himself and his family.”

This was a reality many of the disciples had lived and no one argued with Jose’s premise or his conclusion.

“As for me, I loved America and the Corps. Everything about the military life fit my personality; the training, the discipline, the teamwork. While I’m not a violent man by nature, I learned to fight and kill and to do both highly effectively on command. My specialty was sniping. In my prime I could knock a hair off a fly’s butt at a thousand yards with the proper scope and rifle.”

“After Ramon was killed, I kind of fell apart for awhile. I was already headed downhill. Seeing Ramon get shredded stripped away my last layer of humanity. The Corps offered me a discharge, even encouraged it, saying my parents deserved to have one son make it out of ‘Nam alive. They were right, of course they were right. But I wasn’t right.

“Only nineteen at the time, I figured the best way to deal with my problems was to kill as many Vietnamese as possible, as if by doing so I could somehow get justice or payback for Ramon, or find happiness for myself. I refused the discharge. Instead, I became a predator, a murder machine without any conscience, a true servant of hell. After a while, my feelings about Ramon were irrelevant. I came to enjoy hunting and killing human beings, gentlemen. I got off on war.”

“Know all about all those feelin’s too, Mr. Jose,” Malik related. “Been so mad and lost at times the only thin’ seemed to make any sense at all was hurtin’ somebody else. I thank the Lord everyday that He delivered me from that evil.”

Jose nodded, glad that at least one of his brothers had shared some of his same struggles. Then he continued.

“For the next nine months I unleashed hell on any Vietnamese that crossed my path, VC or friendly. Earned a couple of commendations, damn near got nominated for the CMH. I was wounded twice, once seriously.”

Jose Vargas lifted his shirt. His left side, from armpit to waist, was one giant scar.

“Took a glancing blow from an anti-personnel mine there, gentlemen. Ripped me all to hell, but didn’t clip any vital organs. I should be dead, but now I know the Lord had other plans for my life.”

“It was after those first few months following Ramon’s death, February
1970
as I recall, that I first met him. I was on leave in Saigon, drinking heavily and whoring, trying my best to numb the pain. Me and a couple of buddies had just shared a Vietnamese girl, she couldn’t have been much older than fourteen, and then we beat the hell out of her for her trouble. In fact, we were laughing about it in the bar when he approached me.”

General Vargas paused for a moment, while he remained calm and in control, his trembling hands revealed his inner turmoil.

“My Lord,” Jose prayed, eyes now moist. “I know you have forgiven me, Lord, but bless those who I have made to suffer. Show them mercy Father, grant them peace.”

Although they could not have known it at the time, Jose was sharing events and emotions with his brothers he had never fully revealed to another living soul. It was obvious that Jose deeply regretted many of the things he had done in his life, which was a condition common to all present.

“I’m almost positive I know who you met, Jose,” Peter said, reassuringly touching Vargas’s shoulder, trying to offer some comfort. “But we are always amazed by the variety of roles he assumes.”

Vargas gathered himself, straightened his posture, and sat at attention. His main defense against evil was self-discipline. He knew that he must focus and ignore his pain and fear if he was going to be able to finish bearing his testimony.

“Back in ’
70
I wasn’t even an officer yet, so when a full-bird Colonel walks up to you, whether you are in a bar, on base, or on the moon, you are supposed to stand and salute. I was so drunk I didn’t even realize he was there until I saw my buddies all standing chest out, shoulders back.”

“The Colonel, who looked to be thirty something, with light brown, curly hair, dismisses the other men and sits down by me. He had this look about him, this vibe; somehow I knew right off this was no ordinary officer. Of course he wasn’t even a human being, much less an officer.”

“Colonel Gabriel says to me ‘Rico,’ that’s a nickname only my mother called me, ‘you need to let God handle your pain. Give your problems to Him, let Him take vengeance. Rico,’ he says to me, ‘the wrath of man does not produce the righteousness of God.’

“Now, drunk or not, by instinct I defer to all higher ranking officers. So while I have no idea why this serious marine was preaching a sermon, I say ‘yes sir,’ nod and look him straight in the eye.

‘Rico,’ then he says, ‘do not patronize the Lord or His servant. Your orders come from God, not the Corps. I know you were paying attention when Carmela told you to put your faith in God, not in man.’

“Carmela was my mother. This was something she said often to me. She was always worried that the world would use my strength to lead me astray.