Vic Socotra

25 June 2008

Origins

The View from Custer Hill- K. F. Roahen, Billings, Mont.

I could not get up this morning. The body periodically lets me down, and maybe it is a sign that the stress that has ruled my life for the last year or two is leaking out. I know that for months I was wide awake at three, and had to force myself to lie still, looking up in the darkness.

Or maybe it was the drinks at the Karaoke bar. I don’t know. In any event, it came as no surprise to me that this is the anniversary of the day that former Brevet Brigadier General George A. Custer and his 7th Cavalry were wiped out by Lakota Sioux and Cheyenne Indians.

It is a lonely place for the traveler, near a postage stamp Crow Agency called Garryowen. It is a curious name unless one remembers that it is the name of was the unofficial marching song of the Seventh Cavalry. Gen. Custer reportedly heard the song among his Irish troop and liked it. The tune was then played so often the 7th became tied to it.

“Our hearts so stout have got no fame
For soon 'tis known from whence we came
Where'er we go they fear the name
Of Garryowen in glory.”

The nature of glory is ambiguous at the National Monument named for the General nearby, and the simple white stones that mark where the soldiers fell near the Little Big Horn River.

In the end, it is all about who controls the narrative. Properly speaking, it should be the Chief Gall National Monument, since he was the leading Hunkpapa warrior on the field, Sitting Bull’s military chief. He was the senior man who walked away from the field when the fighting was over.

It was a sunny day. I recall the stoic Native Americans who made up most of the audience for the animated Park Ranger the day I took the kids to the place, and wondered what they might have been thinking.

I have tried to remember the narrative of our times in context. I don’t know why I think it is important, since it will be the ultimate victor who gets to tell the story of our times. I still think it is important.

In order to do so, I have used my nom de guerre where necessary. Having turned my life into a roman a clef I cannot take the same liberties with others that I do with myself.

So, in the interest of full disclosure, here is the back story.

In the Indian Ocean in 1979, we were flushed with excitement and not a little apprehension as we orbited off Oman. It took a little analysis to convince the CAG that the reason we were there were the events in Tehran that began with the return from exile of the Ayatollah. The Saudis were nervous, and the Omanis were useful Sunni surrogates with a marvelous toy British military.

We would be back again late that year, taking a bonus IO swing after USS Ranger had the misfortune to t-bone a tanker in the Straits of Mallaca. Ma Midway was ready and, if not willing, at least was able to take up the slack.

Consequently, that was the year of the Indian Ocean for us, and minding our own business, arrived on station in response to the taking of the Hostages at the Embassy in Tehran, and the start of the long war that we did not acknowledge for so long.

Anyhow, when we arrived the first time, we breathlessly described the activity of The Main Adversary in the region. As you recall, the Russians would deploy a few tired combatants from the Northern Fleet or the Med and limp to favorable anchorages in places they could drop the hook. We would describe their activities in the first heady days like this: "Admiral, the Red Banner Indian Ocean Eskadra continues routine operations in the vicinity of Great Socotra Island."

By the end of the year, fatigued and hardened, we simply said: "Admiral, SOVINDRON on the hook vic Socotra."

As a parallel activity, I was working on the only detective story ever transmitted by official navy message (to my knowledge). My character was one I plucked out of mid-air, Nick Danger, and had I known I was writing a book at the time, would have thought a little harder, since it was an inside reference to one of the Firesign Theater's surreal comedy albums popular back in the day.

I was on the point of resurrecting Nick on the Forestall Med deployment in 1989-90 when the copyright/derived copyright issue came up. I decided to strike boldly. My new detective was named Rex Bueno, Special Agent, Navy Resale Service. Trust me, Mark Harmon would have been perfect in the role, much better than those chumps at NCIS.

Alas, technology and the limited nature of the Med argued against his success. We had real-time communications with the beach by then, and the lack of original content that plagued the fleet for centuries had faded. The isolation that made Nick Danger a hothouse sensation rendered poor Rex a luxury that no one needed. The real world was not that far away, and no one needed the fantasy. I often wish that I had Rex stumbling around the chaos of the end of the Soviet Empire as we did.

Instead, I wrote for my own pleasure, and produced a long tract called "Cruisebook," which is a day-by-day account of the deployment. Part Diary, part mid-grade polemic, it is naturally very personal and not of any particular note. It does reflect the reality of what it is like to cross The Line of Death, and some of the other strange by-gone features of a world that no longer exists, and the summit between Bush I and Mr. Gorbechev, who actually pulled down the wall.

I note that he odd copy of the Collected Adventures of Nick Danger, Third Eye, periodically surfaces on Amazon. Best price I have seen is $100 bucks, though they also show up in the trash and at yard sales at the homes of former sailors.

Still a great name, but if I was going to write about all the strange things that happened after the Wall came down, and maintain my professional distance, I needed an alias. That is when Vic was resurrected, and what came later, as they say, is history. Or at least that is my version of the narrative, and I am sticking to it.

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