Archangel of Sedona (3 page)

As the light neared the chapel, it executed a series of right-angle turns, figure eights, and aerial maneuvers so complex that I can’t describe them. The light continued its behavior for several minutes. We watched in awe.

The light stopped, moved over the chapel, and descended until it hovered over us, revealing a blurry round disk. It emitted a pale light twice the intensity of a full harvest moon. The disk illuminated the courtyard, the family, Dan, and me.

“Bob, get Rommel,” his wife said, referring to the dog that had been running all over the courtyard, barking at the disk above us.

It took three days of running this incident over in my mind for me to realize that the woman had named her shepherd after the notorious German Field Marshal. Bob picked up the dog and held him tight in his arms. Carrying the child and the dog, the couple disappeared down the ramp, heading toward the parking lot below.

Dan and I remained in the courtyard, though we’d gotten up from our perch on the wall. We looked up, gaping at the spectacle.

I remember being apprehensive, but not frightened. I later became a Paratrooper and served in Vietnam. I know fear. I experienced no fear that night.

After many minutes, the light gained altitude. It blasted across the valley to the northwest. After it cleared the mountains, the disk turned north. I watched it until it faded into the blackness. We waited in silence for another 30 minutes. The disk did not return.

Dan and I cleaned up the garbage around us. We walked down to the parking lot without discussion. After we settled into my Corvair, I pulled out of the lot and headed north toward State Road 89A, which intersects with SR 179 south of Uptown Sedona. SR 89A continues north, up Oak Creek Canyon, and clears the lip of the Mogollon Rim 15 miles outside of town.

During the day, the ride up or down Oak Creek Canyon is a delight. It’s a beautiful, tree-lined passage that includes ponderosa pines, oaks, and aspens along with the other species from the valley below. It parallels the creek. There are places where the view is beyond picturesque. The canyon loses much of this ambiance in the dark.

After the unexplained phenomenon, neither Dan nor I appreciated the canyon’s beauty. We’d become lost in the metaphysical moment.

“Dan, we’ve got to tell someone.” I said, as we passed Slide Rock.

“Tell who about what?” Dan asked, with an angry tone.

“Come on. You know what I’m talking about. The lights over the chapel.”

“I didn’t see any lights. I didn’t see anything tonight. If you say you did, I’ll tell them you were drunk.”

“What the fuck is the matter with you, Dan?”

“Nothing. I didn’t see a thing.”

“Why are you being so obtuse?”

“Tony, what are you going to do? Go to the Sheriff? Stop a Highway Patrolman? Would you tell them that you saw a fucking UFO?”

“Sure, why not?” I asked, though I knew I wouldn’t.

“Then you’re as stupid as you look. Do you remember what happened to those folks in Michigan, who saw the UFO last March?”

“No, I don’t.”

“A couple of cops and several citizens claimed that they saw a UFO. It was on the national news. Everybody thinks they’re crazy. The Air Force investigated and concluded that it was swamp gas.”

“Dan, we’re in the high desert on the border of the Mogollon Rim and a huge forest. There’s no swamp gas around here.”

“Tony, who cares? We’ve been drinking all afternoon. We’re 19 years old. No one will take us seriously. The Sheriff of this hick county will conclude that you’re drunk, driving a car, and delusional. That’ll look great on your record. Might even get you tossed out of ASU. You’ll lose your draft deferment. They’ll send your crazy ass to Vietnam. You’re an idiot. I didn’t see a fucking thing.”

Dan’s tirade pissed me off. We passed the next 20 miles in silence as we drove to Flagstaff. When we got to town, we found the small hotel where John worked.

As promised, he’d gotten us a room. Despite his efforts, no beautiful coeds materialized. The three of us got trashed in the hotel room. Neither Dan nor I spoke of the incident at the chapel then—or at any other time.

After we returned to ASU, Dan and I saw little of each other over the next two semesters. I kept the event to myself. I didn’t speak of it with anyone for over three decades.

Chapter Two

May 15, 1968, 0710 Hours

Southern Perimeter (Green Line)

E Co., Spt. Btn., 173rd Airborne Brigade (Sep)

Camp Radcliffe Basecamp, North of An Khe Village

II Corps, Republic of Vietnam

A year after the chapel incident, I dropped out of ASU. My friends labeled me as self-destructive.

My parents thought that I’d failed to clear the low academic bar that I’d set for myself. My decision reinforced their belief that I should follow a trade.

Though I rejected all criticism, my irresponsible behavior in my sophomore year in college gave weight to their views. During the months that followed the incident at the chapel—while still in school—I’d had two close flirtations with the grim reaper. I felt fortunate to be alive.

In the late fall of 1966, my roommate and I ran off a 40-foot cliff at the edge of a desert mesa near where the Salt and Verde Rivers meet. Eric and I weren’t suicidal, but we were drunk and careless.

We were hauling a keg of beer away from a bonfire. We attempted to hide it from the state Alcohol and Beverage Control fascists, who’d raided our Saturday night frat party in the desert.

Imagine our surprise when the ground went out from under us. In the pitch dark, we plunged from the top of the mesa onto the rocks and rubble five stories below. Though I sustained a concussion, broke my right hand, and lost 16 gallons of cold beer, I survived. Eric broke an ankle. It was a bona fide miracle that we lived.

An hour later, my roommate and I managed to limp and crawl back up to the top of the mesa. We looked like hell, broken and bleeding from our near death experience. My fraternity big brother—Randy—walked up to me out of earshot of the ABC cops.

“You gonna be OK?” Randy asked.

“I think so,” I said, cradling my fractured right hand with my left.

“You know you’re a pussy!”

“What?” I said, not believing what I’d heard.

“Going over that cliff, a real man would’ve yelled: Banzai!” Randy said, emphasizing the last word with a terrible Japanese accent and a high pitched drunken screech.

If I hadn’t broken my hand, I would’ve busted his silly grin.

In the spring of 1967—my hand and wrist freed from the cast—another frat brother, Jerry, and I travelled to Tucson late on a Friday. We wanted to visit girlfriends at the University of Arizona. Jerry drove. I fell asleep in the front seat of his Plymouth Lark, as he negotiated the interstate south of Chandler.

I slept through a horrific accident. I woke up pinned inside the vehicle. Jerry had lost control of the compact car on the highway north of Picacho Peak. We’d left the interstate at over 80 miles per hour.

After swerving off the right lane and clearing the embankment next to the highway, the Lark sailed over two fences and the access road before we landed in the desert and rolled twice.
Trapped for half an hour and covered in gasoline, I suffered only minor cuts and bruises. Later that day, Jerry, his father, and I viewed what was left of the vehicle at the accident scene.

“You two idiots are lucky to be alive,” Jerry’s dad said, as we examined the wreck.

“Yes, sir,” I responded.

“Look at this mess!” Jerry’s Dad said. “The roof’s compressed to the window line. The engine broke through the firewall and covers the front seat. The gas tank ruptured. God, Tony, you’re damned fortunate that this pile of shit didn’t explode. Jerry, if you’d been wearing the seat belt, you’d have been crushed. Your guardian angels were sure working overtime.”

Amen. I thought.

In that remote part of the Northern Sonoran Desert, I’d experienced another miracle. In my ignorance, I chalked it up to happenstance.

After the accident, majoring in Sociology at ASU seemed like an absurd waste. When the semester ended, I enlisted in the Army Airborne, knowing it was a ticket to Vietnam. Something in me had changed. Some powerful, irresistible force compelled me to abandon the safety of college and embark on a dangerous adventure.

After Basic, Advanced Infantry Training, and Jump School, the Army gave me leave before deployment to Southeast Asia. During this furlough, my family and I spent a few days in Sedona.

I’d not gone back to the Verde Valley since the incident with the unexplained lights. I felt wary, but our time in Sedona proved to be placid and spiritual. I visited the chapel every day. I prayed that I’d do my duty in Vietnam and return home in one piece.

I took solace from the grim visage of the Christus
. I saw compelling qualities in the gruesome portrayal. I gained equilibrium in the shadow of that great crucifix. Praying in the chapel gave me confidence in the future.

After Sedona, I left Phoenix. I traveled to McChord Air Force Base to catch a chartered flight to the war. I landed at Cam Rahn Bay in transit to the 173rd Airborne Brigade on the fifth day of the Tet Offensive of 1968.

I had close calls in Vietnam. I shouldn’t have survived. Somebody or something looked out for me.

By May of 1968, I’d transferred from the Fourth Battalion of the 503rd Infantry to a billet in the Support Battalion at our basecamp near the Vietnamese village of An Khe. Though it was safer at An Khe than the area assigned to my old battalion, we often absorbed serious mortar, rocket, and sapper attacks.

The North Vietnamese sappers were a tough, brave, and determined bunch. Their tactics required a squad-sized unit to rush a weak point on our perimeter in the middle of the night and overwhelm it—killing the Americans entrenched in the targeted position. Once inside our defenses, they would scatter through the basecamp causing as much mayhem, destruction, and death as possible.

Each sapper would carry several Chicom grenades and an AK-47 assault rifle. Some would also carry explosive charges in webbed satchels. As they ran through our camp, the sappers would toss grenades, plant the satchel charges on targets of opportunity, and shoot at anything that moved. Most sappers died in these bold, disruptive, and damaging attacks.

Though their casualties were high, a lucky few might make it to the other side of the camp. If they did, they hoped to find our soldiers manning the perimeter to be facing away from them and out into no man’s land. The surviving sappers would attack the weakest point they could locate from the inside.

Sometimes they surprised us. The NVA killed and wounded our boys, as they tried to make their escape from the camp over the destroyed emplacements.

In the early morning of May 15, 1968, a reinforced squad of NVA sappers swept into the basecamp over a fortified bunker on the north side of the Green Line. Three soldiers in the 1st Air Cavalry had manned it. After killing all three Americans, the NVA regulars ran through the 1st Cav cantonment area causing significant destruction.

We learned of the attack when we awoke to the firing in the north, followed by the shriek of the camp siren that called my unit into battle. It signaled Condition Red. During any Condition Red deployment, we formed up as part of E Company, Provisional Infantry.

By dawn, almost all of the fighting had ceased. During the night, my platoon had neither seen an enemy soldier nor fired a shot in anger.

We had assembled near the base of Hong Kong Mountain, the highest point in the basecamp. Our new lieutenant gathered us together to brief us.

“Men,” the 22-year-old shaved-tail began. “The S-2 has confirmed that at least twelve or thirteen sappers infiltrated the First Cav’s position on the north side of the base camp. They came in around 0230 hours. The best estimate is that the Air Cav legs killed or captured ten of the NVA. Before they died, those slimy bastards killed seven and wounded a dozen Americans. They blew the shit out of two Cobras and damaged three or four slicks. There could be two or three sappers still alive somewhere inside the camp. Colonel Angel thinks they’re in our area. He’s ordered E Company to form up and sweep east along the south part of the Green Line. Our platoon will be on the right flank of the sweep. Staff Sergeant Walsh.”

“Airborne, sir!” Walsh piped up.

“Your squad will be my right flank. Your people will be closest to the wire. Although it’s after dawn, all the positions on the Green Line will remain manned and ready. However, one trooper in each position will be facing north, to thwart a surprise attack from inside the camp by the remaining NVA. So be fucking careful. Don’t let your guys get trigger happy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“OK. Let’s get moving. Form up on me. Walsh, get your people on the right. Davis, your squad is in the center. Thompson, you’re the left. We’ll move out when first and third platoons link up with Thompson. Get it done!”

While we waited for the other two platoons, SSG Walsh called for me.

“Specialist Giordano.”

“Yes, Sarge,” I said, as I trotted over to him.

“Your fire team will be the right flank of our squad and the far right of the whole company. Your people will be closest to the Green Line. Make sure your guys are careful. No fucking mistakes. There are more Americans in the trenches, bunkers, and towers on the right than gooks. No mother fucking accidents. You understand?”