Uncle Sam gave Roman a saving hand and brought him into the folds of the U.S. Army to turn him into a fighting machine... or a cleaning nazi... Roman wasn't sure yet of which, but one thing was certain... he was going to be the best soldier he possibly could and make Mora & John proud. At least until he was transferred to "The Zoo", the craziest outpost in all of europe.
Uncle Sam gave Roman a saving hand and brought him into the folds of the U.S. Army to turn him into a fighting machine... or a cleaning nazi... Roman wasn't sure yet of which, but one thing was certain... he was going to be the best soldier he possibly could and make Mora & John proud. At least until he was transferred to "The Zoo", the craziest outpost in all of europe.
SHADOW LIFE – THE ROMAN FILES
SEASON 3
EPISODE 1
“FUBAR” – fuck’d up beyond all repair
Roman was sitting in the middle of the large Boeing 737 jet in a window seat staring out at the runway, crammed in like a giant can of sardines along with three hundred other military men and women, waiting for their overseas flight to Frankfurt, Germany courtesy of Military Air Command to take off from the McGuire Ft. Dix Lakehurst Airforce Base about 15 minutes from Trenton, New Jersey, just outside New York City.
Take off had been delayed going on two hours by now… the bar cart had been up and down the aisle no less than half a dozen times. Roman wasn’t even eighteen yet but his Army uniform afforded him certain privileges such as underage drinking, if he was willing to sacrifice his life for his country then at the very least he should be allowed to purchase a tiny bottle of whiskey, or six as it were.
After another hour of swizzling jack n cokes the powerful jet turbines roared to life signaling all souls onboard it was taking off. Roman was one of the newly minted infantry soldiers recently assigned to his new permanent party company, the 2/92nd Artillery Unit, along with several other soldiers from the Marines, Air Force and civilians with military posts were airborne over the North Atlantic Ocean destination Germany.
Roman was en route to his first post or permanent party as its known…
He’d be sitting in a prison cell right now if it hadn’t been for Mora and John… John had used his army contacts to pull every string he had in order to get a judge to commute Roman’s sentence and allow him to enter military service instead.
After his 30 days in solitary confinement he returned to his dorm and kept his head down and did little else but work at the barber shop shaving heads and reading. In the hole he was allowed to borrow books from the mobile library and he devoured everything on the shelves, fiction, non-fiction, biography’s and historical tomes from WW II, the Korea war, the one John, had served in as a captain.
Roman was released from IBS after spending a year in that hell hole of darkness and despair… the day he turned seventeen and a half years old John, now his step-father, picked roman up from IBS and drove down to the army recruitment office where Roman was inducted, raised his right hand… and repeated these words;
I, Roman Bayley, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.
As Roman saw it, nothing could be worse than where he had been, this was his chance to have a fresh start, a do-over… and he planned to be the best soldier he could.
Of course bootcamp was hard, that’s what its meant to be… turn boys into fighting men… and Roman loved every second of it. Like a plant needs water and sun to thrive, Roman craved direction and discipline to do the same.
After 11 weeks of Basic Combat Training where Roman was already adept at street fighting and excelled in the hand to hand combat part of the training, he also had to learn how to work as a team member… this lesson was etched in his mind during the obstacle course where he was a member of a four-man team ascending the climbing tower, a 60 foot wooden deck structure with each deck at a varying height so you had to work as a team or it was impossible to complete.
Climbing up the structure entailed lending a hand, leg or shoulder so that your other team members could reach the next level… then once at the top the strategy was to simply go over the side one at a time and flip over down unto the deck below.
That’s when Roman balked. He knew he could not do it. He’d never been able to do backflips off a diving board into the pool, or in the gym… without fail he landed on his back… every single time.
No amount of urging from his team members could convince him to go.
“If you don’t do it… we all fail the course and will have to do it again… except with another class, falling behind.” One of the members explained, as if Roman was being hardheaded.
“It’s not that… I don’t want to… it’s just, I can’t, really, I’ll fall and probably die… I’ve never been able to do a flip… don’t know why, just never could… sorry, but y’all will have to go without me.” Roman begged them to just do it… and leave him be.
“Bayley! PRIVATE BAYLEY!” the drill sergeants voice boomed up to him.
“Yes, Drill Sargent.” Roman dutifully answered.
“Get yer lily white ass on down the side of that tower this instant!” the drill sergeant yelled.
“No can do… sorry Sarge… I can’t, I just can’t… I’ll break my back… I know it, I know I can’t…” Roman yelled down from the 60 foot tower.
“Goddamn it Boy… get on with it and I mean right this fuckin second…” Sargent screamed and even 60 feet away Roman could see the spittle flying from his mouth enraged that this piss ant little shit was refusing his command.
Out of nowhere, one of the courses trainers appeared… another Sargent standing beside Roman and softly talked him into at least trying it, just do exactly as I tell you and you’ll be fine, the trainer told Roman.
“The trainer demonstrated the proper technique for flipping over unto the deck below…
“First, kneel down and place your hands just so…”
Thumbs out like this and palms flat on the deck… alright… fingers pointing back at your body ok… then slowly bring your chin down to your chest and roll forward. I promise you you’ll land on your feet on the deck below.” Said the training sargent matter of factly.
Roman mimicked the instructor to the tee, placing his hands just so… looking down at his drill sergeant he yelled out… I’ll do it, and if I don’t break my back I’m coming for ya just so ya know.”
“Lookin forward to it” the short stocky built like a freakin Sherman tank Sargent replied.
Roman dipped his chin to his chest and closing his eyes, he rolled over off the deck and into thin air holding his breath waiting for the fall to kill him.
Like a mechanical widget, his body reacted to form and function as roman flipped over… his legs unfurled and in a blink of an eye his feet landed perfectly inside the tower on the deck below… just like the sergeant said he would.
Roman yelled out to his great surprise… “I did it!” He immediately dropped to his knees and took the same form as before and flipped over to the next one, then the next… until he gingerly dropped to terra firma with a stupid grin plastered over his face.
“That wasn’t so bad” Roman admitted to his fellow team members who shook their heads in disbelief pushing him forward to the next obstacle lamenting how they were in last place now thanks to Roman’s muleheaded stubbornness.
Roman was so thrilled with his new found talent he wanted to take the tower and go again.
“On your free time dickhead,” the team said and began running down the trail to the next hurdle.
The first couple of weeks was a bunch of physical fitness training, road marches and drills (which from the last year and a half of being incarcerated at IBS Roman took as second nature) then there was his introduction into CBRN or chemical radioactive biological and nuclear readiness that entailed properly donning ones face mask in 30 seconds or less… then they were all crowded into a cinder block room out in the middle of a field where the doors were closed and teargas canisters were activated.
“Remove masks,” came the command from the drill sergeant.
The drill sergeant barked at them saying to stand down and stay put until he gave the signal to depart. But the teargas was too much for roman, as the suffocating fumes of green smoke entered his lungs it was as if he had been slammed against a brick wall knocking the air out of him… his throat burned as if on fire and tears streamed down his face as he bolted for the door literally thrashing his way through the sergeants guarding the exits fighting for his life to get to the outside and fresh air , his next breath.
Finally came the exciting part for roman, the rifle range, where he was assigned his primary weapon, a M16 semiautomatic assault rifle that he would live with like a second appendage.
He learned the basics of marksmanship, maintenance and how to effectively engage targets. His skill on the range surprised no one more than himself. At the 400 yard range the targets were so small he had to squint in order to make them out… half the time waiting for them to drop or pop up before he was able to distinguish them from the scrub brush and rocks.
“Hit”, the range sergeant yelled every time roman nailed one… when a target fell at 400 yards roman couldn’t believe it. He was given the “Sharpshooter Ribbon” for marksmanship.
The other main part of basic combat training that befuddled Roman’s mind to no end… was the cleaning…. Always cleaning, scrubbing, brushing, polishing, sweeping, moping… everything and seemingly all the time.
Roman kept waiting to be taught how to kill a man in 101 ways but felt like all he was learning was 101 ways to clean latrines, toilets, showers and floors.
Or the dozen or so different techniques for folding your socks and underwear..,. when in fucks sake was he gonna be able to engage the enemy? Maybe he already had, he mused. So he pulled out his dress hardware and started polishing the brass to a high sheen in order to pass inspection… the spit polish on his dress shoes… the hospital corners on his bunk, the organization and cleanliness of his foot locker… always to pass inspection.
Was this what the army meant by soldering, roman wondered.
After weeks and weeks of drills with his M16… all the marching… the foxhole digging… war games were his favorite part by far.
Roman thoroughly enjoyed being part of a unit. That feeling that there was someone else that had your flank, protected your back… and vice a versa. He had never known camaraderie like what he experienced in the army.
The drill sergeants even stayed on top of them to write home regularly… something that Roman rarely did. But it was pretty cool to hear his name being called out during mail call and that only happened when he wrote letters home to mora and john.
They were by far his most prolific pen pals, mora wrote him letters every week without fail, and roman wrote back posting that he was doing well and his training was almost complete, both mora and john along with Erin rose were showing up for his graduation.
Roman had saved up his army pay from day one, spending little on himself in order to buy john and mora something really nice to say thank you for everything, but mostly for getting him out of IBS and into the army. Those last few months of being incarcerated were the hardest… every day he felt as if the Simon City Royals were testing his resolve, prodding his perimeter for any sign of weakness always preparing to attack when he was the most vulnerable. The last 30 days Roman didn’t dare to even go down into the showers for fear of being attacked… so he took what Mora called “Guinnie baths”, washing himself with a washcloth and soap from the sink in the bathroom.
The last weekend before graduation Roman and a couple of other recruits used their one hour of free time on Sundays to go to the px and do some shopping.
Roman bought a gold-plated Bulova watch for john and a sterling silver necklace with St. Jude medal…for mora… he had scratched out a note for her that said; “patron saint of lost causes… never give up hope.”
She had never given up on herself, even when feeling lost in the abyss of schizophrenia, she clawed her way out time and time again… if only for a brief moment in the sun. Roman could relate.
He had already seen too much darkness and pain in his short life… but he never gave up hope that things would turn out ok in the end. Much of that he imagined he had gleaned from Mora, and he couldn’t thank her enough.
After their brief shopping spree, the small group of recruits met up in the snack bar area to swig down a few cans of the bases near beer… a quarter of the alcohol content of regular beer before heading back for formation after lunch.
A few army special forces soldiers walked in and sat down at the table next to Roman. He instantly recognized them by their tiger stripped uniforms, the dark green berets and insignia badges… they were the real deal.
For years Roman had idolized men like Al Capone and John Dillinger… for the fear and respect they demanded… not taking shit from anyone… outlaws and gangsters.
The green berets that sat next to him seem to have a similar aura about them… a very specific ‘don’t fuck with us vibe’ that attracted roman like a moth to a flame.
And they didn’t even need to break the law in order to achieve this. What a novel idea roman thought. They just had to be super bad ass soldiers. He wanted what they had… but he knew there was much more to that aura, that mystique, than years of training to earn the right to wear the coveted green beret… there was a certain glint in their eyes, the thousand yard stare… faces hardened by more than just countless hours of jungle training and hand to hand combat… these were battled hardened men… no doubt veterans from the rice paddies of Vietnam… these were killers.
He recognized the look. His cousin had survived three tours of jungle fighting in Vietnam and had the same look in his eyes. Haunted.
Roman remembered the nightly news stories and film footage of the war in SE Asia that seem to be the backdrop of every evening meal when he was growing up. Machine guns tracer rounds ricocheting over paddy fields as he scooped up a spoon of hamburger helper and shoved it into his mouth.
Rev. Rob arguing with Mora at the dining room table over the governments unethical and moral corruption of getting America involved in an unwinnable war…
“To stop the red tide of communism is a bunch of bullshit..” Rob said around a mouthful of salad. “They’re turning this country into a military industrial complex… was is good for business… carpet bombing poor people in third world countries so corporate executives of corporations like Northrup Grumman and Boeing can eat filet mignon and guzzle champagne.”
“What’s filet mignon..?” Roman asked
“An extremely pricey cut of steak that rich folks like to order at fancy restaurants…” Erin Rose chimed in.
“How do you know that?” Roman asked looking exasperated at his older sister of two years… amazed at the depth and range of her knowledge of seemingly all things under the sun, not only was she becoming a musical prodigy with her French horn but had a IQ of 147 by age eleven… while Roman was still struggling to learn the chords of ‘Cat and Mouse’ on the violin that Mora had bought for him.
Music will broaden your soul… she had said.
Roman didn’t feel like his ‘soul’ was getting much bigger.
After army graduation at Ft. Dix, New Jersey Roman continued his military education with Advanced Individual Training or AIT with the 507th Infantry school in Ft. Benning, Ga. Where he enrolled in the United States Army Airborne School, or simply ‘Jump School’, to learn basic paratrooper training to parachute from perfectly good airplanes.
The adrenaline rush Roman got from jumping was akin to many of his previous life experiences… albeit, this was perfectly legal. He had finally found a way to channel his need for that ‘hit’ of thrill and excitement of danger that went hand in hand with his need to live on the razors edge.
Week 1 – Ground week
Day after day of grueling physical fitness exercises, repetition after repetition of how to fall and land without breaking feet and legs in the process.
All Roman thought about from dawn to dusk was PLF or the parachute landing fall, it was critical to master this skill if he was to be pinned with the Airborne wings of a paratrooper.
Week 2
Was all bout the jump towers… they started on the 34 foot tower and the swing-landing trainer to get a ‘feel’ for what its like to fall… shee-it… Roman had been jumping off garage roofs, rooftops and trees since he was a little boy pretending to be a paratrooper… now this was for real and he couldn’t wipe the joy and grin off his face everyday he leapt off the tower with a rebel yell.
Many fellow soldiers were either recycled due to ankle injuries suffered during week two or just washed out to do not being able to perform critical techniques like how to deal with chute malfunctions. Then there was the 250 foot tower to really scare the hell out of them.
By week 3 half of Roman’s class had vanished…
When what was left lined up to climb into the aircraft C-130 plane for their very short flight to the jump zone, a few emptied their stomachs they’re raw nerves getting the best of them… one fellow just flat out refused and was led away by a medic… Roman was about to literally jump out of his skin he was so excited. All the hours and hours of preparation and training and here was about to jump from a plane… he could hardly contain his excitement as they clipped his harness onto the static line.
The paratrooper trainers, or ‘Black Hats’ went down the line double-checking everyone’s gear…
The chorus of soldiers ready to jump rose as the airborne cadence filled to aircrafts hold.
C-130 rollin down the strip…
64 Rangers on a one-way trip…
Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door…
close your eyes and count to four…
if I die before in the old drop zone…
Box me up and ship me home…
Pin my wings upon my chest…
And tell my girl I did my best.
There are five jumps, including one night jump in order to graduate Airborne School, jump week is chaotic at best, just masses of soldiers lined up in the ready room waiting to board aircraft… land in the DZ, get picked up and do it all over again.
Roman was on his next to last jump, in full combat gear mode… he would do the night jump last… as the C-130 banked in the direction over to Friar Drop Zone the aircraft was going approx.. 130 miles per hour keeping an altitude of 1200 feet…
The green jump light came on. The jumpmaster gave the command.
One at a time they all shuffled out the back of the aircraft…
Roman was staring at the back of an airborne cadet’s helmet waiting for his turn… every shuffle one step closer to the jump door.
The giant C-130 lurched and seemed to drop in the air, turbulence battered the aircraft around like a child’s toy…
Before the red light clicked on, Roman was at the ramp ready to leap… as the light went from green to red and the jumpmaster turned to stop Roman from jumping he sprang out into the wide open sky yelling like a banshee. No way was he going to be stopped right at the door from his jump, he’d just say he never saw anything but green lights, so he went… if questioned later on why he jumped.
Roman couldn’t have known why the aircraft jump light had turned from green to red in that split second… he had no way of knowing the C-130 had dropped below the mandatory altitude requirement of 1200 feet due to the unexpected turbulence encountered… all he saw was the opportunity for fight or flight in that exact moment, and he had made up his mind in a flash to fly.
The half a dozen jumpers that went out the door after the C-130 dropped to around 900 feet of altitude hit the ground in excess of 35 – 40 mph, snapping legs and ankles like dry twigs.
Roman was the last one out the door as the aircraft dropped below the safety ceiling.
Recuperating at the army hospital from a broken ankle and dislocated knee after his misfortune, not only was he getting recycled, but had received an official black mark on his record for refusing to follow the jumpmasters order… “to hold tight, not jump.”
Roman’s dream of being a airborne paratrooper went up in a puff of smoke when he was transferred out of the airborne school to an infantry unit headed for Germany.
Somewhere over Greenland he awoke from a drunken slumber as the result of his teenage desire to polish off more Jack Daniel’s than any seventeen and a half year old should… eventually they had refused to sell him anymore.
Roman stared out the window and gazed down unto the swirling ocean some thirty-thousand feet beneath him, and pondered the boats bobbing up and down the tumultuous seas the angry waves, sea foam thick as the head of a freshly poured pint, everything moving, and turning, up and down…
Roman felt his insides lurch up into his mouth without so much as a thought about what to do he pressed his face in between that fractional space of seat and wall and hurled… called the seals… the techno-colored yawn… expelled all that just moments before had been stored swirling around at the bottom of his stomach.
The planes interior was dimly lit, the only lights coming from a few overhead points and the movie screen up front, the big jet turbine engines hummed comfortably along camouflaging the retching sounds my mouth had made. All was still.
With bloodshot eyes he scanned the cabin to see if anyone had noticed and it seemed that he wasn’t the object of any ones attention, from the corner of his eye he glimpsed, smelled some bits that had lodged on the shoulder of his Army dress uniform jacket.
That’s fuckin’ disgusting he thought, and removed the jacket and rolled it up then stuffed it down into his carry-all bag. Recalling that his platoon leader, Staff Sgt. Krutzmacher, from Nebraska had earlier wanted to trade seats with roman because his section in the back didn’t have a properly functioning movie projector roman figured now was as good of a time to swap seats if there ever was one.
After finding Sgt. Krutzmacher and kindly offering to trade with him…
“after all he’d seen that same movie twice before and really just felt like sleeping… thanks, no problem Sarge, happy to, really no need to thank me… really.”
Several hours later roman was awaken when all the overhead lights came on and the flight crew announced they would be landing in Frankfort shortly… then a very angry man began shouting at the top of his lungs… erupting verbal assault upon everyone around him…
“WHO THE FUCK DID THIS?... WHAT THE HELL… GODDAMN SONOFABITCH!” He angrily shouted.
Roman removed his black army overcoat and began to put it on hopefully disguising the fact that he was no longer wearing his dress jacket… that was rolled up inside his carry all bag covered in vomit.
Roman crooked his neck and stared in the direction like everyone else trying to catch a glimpse of all the commotion. It felt like yellow no 2 pencil all over again… and he instantly recalled the image of a withering little brown hair girl on the 4th grade classroom spurting blood and screaming in pain as Roman’s pencil stuck out of her leg.
“What’s that guy’s problem?” Roman heard someone say seated behind him.
After the plane safely landed and all the army soldiers were filing out down the aisle, he caught sight of the poor sonofabitch he had apparently splashed his stomach contents upon… his uniform shown that he was an officer, a captain no less… way to go Private… first day in a new country and my new post… making friends already.
The story quickly circulated that when the infamous captain woke up and discovered his lap was now covered in a whiskey stench potpourri of congealed vomit, his officer’s hat unfortunately caught the brunt of the unpleasantness due to it being turned upside down upon his lap as he peacefully slept.
Sgt. Krutzmacher looked dismayed when Roman met up with him, his opinion was the officer had drunk far more than he could hold and threw up all over himself as he was passed out… Roman nodded his head to concur with that reasoning… yep, sounds about right he said and shouldered his bag walking past the MP’s that were now seriously eye-balling all the disembarking passengers looking for some tell-tale sign that might implicate the would be vile, despicable drunkard that had not only ruined the poor captains day, but his uniform, as well.
Sgt. Krutzmacher and Roman had cleared customs and past the MP’s still searching for the captain’s assailant and boarded their bus bound for their new tour of duty… home away from home, Rivers barracks, Giessen Germany.
Roman pulled his rucksack and army duffle bag off the transport bus and was told to report to his barracks, Bravo company, second battalion, 92nd U.S. Field Artillery.
It was fall and already cold in Germany, Roman pulled his collar of his army issue winter coat tight against his chin and surveyed his new home. Old WW 2 barracks had been re-issued as quarters for the new army posts sprinkled around the fatherland…
Roman navigated through the maze of buildings until he came upon the quad or parade grounds, looking left then right he made out the sign declaring the four-story building to his right as his destination.
As Roman shifted the weight of his duffle bag he heard a loud commotion coming from an open window on the second floor.
Looking up just in time to see a locker, much like the kind he remembered from High School, go sailing out the window and crash to the ground at his feet…
Roman jumped back in alarm, “What the fuck?” he yelled.
The locker door fell open and a young second lieutenant spilled out and shook his fist screaming obscenities at the small group of soldiers staring down at him.
“You’ll pay for this” yelled the lieutenant, as he wiped the blood from his mouth and spat on the ground in the direction of Roman’s combat boots.
He looked up just know aware of Roman’s presence… “what the hell are you lookin’ at?” he demanded. “Don’t you know how to salute an officer soldier?” the lieutenant barked at Roman.
Roman dropped his duffel and saluted… apologizing to the disheveled young officer.
Sorry sir, I’m looking for Bravo company… I’m the new… well, the transfer from Fort Bragg… airborne… Roman’s voice trailed off not knowing where he was going with all talking so best he just shut the hell up.
The lieutenant brushed himself off and straightened up looking Roman in the eyes. He stuck out his hand… “Welcome to Rivers Barracks… otherwise known as The Zoo… as he turned and strolled off limping from the fall… he yelled over his shoulder, “Good luck!”