This story and its characters are complete fiction from the mind of the author. Any similarity to actual people or events is purely coincidence.
The beginning of this story spends time with character development of my lead character. If you are expecting hot action from the get-go you will be disappointed. If you are patient I think you will enjoy the story.
* * * * *
My Name is John Manetti. I'm sitting at a bar in a small North Carolina costal community celebrating the beginning of a weekend with a beer. According to my last physical I am 30 years of age, 6 ft tall, weigh 185, and the picture of physical health. It also says that I have brown hair and green eyes. My features are regular I guess, and my infrequent female companions insist that I am not hard to look at. I look considerably younger than my years, and that can be a blessing or a curse depending on the situation. Before I continue with my story I would like to describe how I came to be here.
About a year ago I left the Navy after 12 years. I left despite the pleas of friends and superiors who felt I had a career and was throwing it all away. I had been a Hospital Corpsman and also made it through SEAL training. When I completed all my training I was a lean, mean, fighting machine, as the saying goes. The rest of my time was spent with the SEAL teams, except for some advanced medical training. I have seen my share of combat through Grenada, Panama, and the Gulf War, as well as some nasty little side excursions to places I can't talk about to do things that needed to be done.
Any combat vet who's been in a fight for his life will tell you, "The worst thing for someone in combat is to be responsible for the death of one of his own." Men who go into combat together develop a relationship among them that is quite unique, because they rely on one another so much for survival. You don't pick the men that make up your unit, and some you like some you don't. When the lead starts flying all that doesn't mean shit. All that matters is survival. Under normal circumstances you may hate the man next to you, but in combat you would put your life on the line to save his. The last thing you want is for a comrade to dye because you made a mistake or didn't do your job.
Well, on a mission a year before I left the Navy, one of my teammates died. In my mind I did not do everything I could to ensure his survival. The debriefing officer told the team commander, and me, that I had acted correctly and bore no responsibility for the man's death, for the Navy and the SEALS, that's all that mattered. To them I did my job. I wasn't so sure, and got it into my head that I could have done something more. What made it worse is that he was a friend. I knew his wife and family. At the funeral I couldn't even look his wife in the eye. She even told me that she new I did every thing I could, but it was no good. As far as I was concerned I let a man down in combat and he paid the ultimate price for it.
From that time on I wasn't the same. I didn't feel comfortable around my teammates, and felt that I couldn't be trusted when the chips were down. My only decision, as I saw it, was to leave the teams. It also meant that I had to leave the Navy, because I didn't want to be in the Navy unless I was with the teams. I headed back home, and my parents were ecstatic. Almost before I had unpacked they had my future all mapped out. I told them that I needed some time, and they said they understood. The second night home my dad called me into his study. He pulled a folder out of his desk and over drinks he began to tell me what he had been doing with my money. Except for a little beer and necessity money I had been sending all of my Navy pay home. My father is a financial consultant, and got me into some investments. It seems that without knowing it I had become a wealthy young man. So much so, that I didn't have to work if I didn't want to.
The next few weeks became a nightmare. Mom and dad wanted me to move into the life they had planned for me, and I just couldn't do it. I still had some things to deal with before I would be able to settle down. My only solace during this time was taking my big Harley for long rides. The big Fat Bob was the only indulgence of my wealth I had taken so far, and riding along country roads alone gave me a sense freedom and allowed me to relax. One day I just kept on going. I called the folks that night from about 200 miles away, and told them I was going to travel some and not to worry. I would be in touch.
That was how my odyssey began. I would ride until I found a place that looked interesting. Then I would hang around until the urge to move on came and I would crank that big Harley engine to life, and off I'd go. This went on for several months until I ran in to Tommy Ledbedder at the VA hospital in Raleigh. He was an old buddy from the Teams. He was wounded once, and the wound left him with a disability that ended his career. I had been wounded as well, but no where near as badly. His gave him a 40% disability, mine only 10%. But every so often I had to go and be checked by the VA. We literally bumped into one another in the waiting room each waiting to be called for his exam.
We reminisced, told war stories, and sea stories. Our conversation continued over dinner, and led us to talk about current situations. Tommy asked, "What're you up to now Doc?" Corpsmen in independent situations, like the Teams, are affectionately called Doc by their teammates.
I told him the story of my odyssey, and he listened like a good friend. He then told me that he had gone back to Carolina to the family business, boat building. They were successful at it and Tommy and his brothers were partners after their dad passed away. When we left to go our separate ways Tommy gave me his address and said the door was open if I found myself anywhere near his home. He also told me I had a job any time I wanted one. I hadn't mentioned my financial independence in our conversation. I still felt self conscious about it.
After spending some time in Florida I began drifting north again. When I crossed into North Carolina on I95 I began to think about Tommy. I stopped at a rest area and checked a map, turned off the interstate at the next exit and headed east. Tommy and his family welcomed me, gave me a place to stay and made me feel at home. After a few days of wandering the area and meeting the people I decided to stay a while. I even accepted Tommy's job offer to fill the time with.
That was about 3 months ago. Tonight I'm in Rudy's the bar Tommy brought me to that first night in town. It's one of those comfortable places. The music is not so loud you can't hear yourself think. There are a couple of pool tables, half a dozen tables and the same number of booths. The jukebox is filled with CW music, which I have learned to enjoy, with a small dance floor in front of it. The clientele is kind of varied. There are locals from the boat works in the area, fishermen, the occasional Marine from Camp Lejeune not too far away, and the townies. They are usually an older crowd, which is fine with me. I have never been able to get in to the modern young people club scene.
The place isn't crowded tonight as it usually is on a Friday. That's because of the big VFW dance. Two of my co-workers are shooting pool and swapping fish stories in the corner. 3 couples are spread through the tables and booths, myself and a couple of fishermen I know are at the bar make up the business tonight. It's about 9 PM and I'm working on my 3rd glass of MGD since arriving a little while ago. The front door opens with a jingle and 3 women walk in. I have seen each of them around town. The tall skinny one is one of the checkers at the local Piggly Wiggly market, and the short chubby one works at the beauty parlor. The 3rd one is the one that has my eye though.
