Riding Rockets

For months Donna cried herself to sleep in a Catholic geriatric-care center operated by the Sisters of Charity. A portion of one floor of the facility had been converted into a dormitory that Donna shared with two dozen other scarlet-lettered women. In exchange for their room and board, the girls helped the nuns with the care and feeding of the aged. They carried trays through rooms and hallways scented with urine, feces, and death. Depression hung on them like a shroud. The mother superior proved to be the quintessential witch, treating them as morally flawed beings. There was no counseling, no trips, and few phone calls to or from loved ones. Donna wrote letters home, putting coded notes on the envelope to designate which mail could be shared with the extended family. In those she created a life at college. In the others she begged for forgiveness.

The girls found comfort only among themselves, but even that succor was transient. As quickly as friendships blossomed, they would end. Girls would give birth and move on to uncertain futures. Unlike other traumatic events that bond people for life, living in a home for unwed mothers was naturally terminal for friendship. None of the girls wanted continued communication for fear of discovery of their sinful secret.

Donna’s moment arrived in the summer of 1964. When the baby came there were no exclamations of joy, no rush to take photos for grandparents, no happy tears. Instead, the child was immediately taken away.

Yeah. I had it tough at West Point.

Donna returned home to distrustful parents who watched her like wardens. She had no future but what her mom and dad would allow.

Meanwhile, I had become adept at shooting an M-14 with laserlike precision, getting across a ten-foot-deep pool in full combat gear, and enduring the shit being pounded out of me in boxing class. But none of it helped in my quest to attract a girl. I retained the romantic IQ of a snail. On second thought, snails have no problem being attractive to other snails. I was something else, maybe an evolutionary dead end. My genes would never go forward. I was alone and unwanted.

On January 3, 1965, destiny decided to reintroduce Mike Mullane and Donna Sei. We were partying with family and friends at Donna’s cousin’s home. My yearling (sophomore) Christmas leave was ending and I had a plane to catch back to West Point. There is nothing more depressing than returning to West Point from a leave, particularly a Christmas leave. It’s akin to going back to prison or perhaps dying and going to hell, except this hell is cold and gray and more depressing than anything Beelzebub could ever dream up. To top it off, my girlfriend had dumped me earlier that day. When I say “girlfriend,” I exaggerate. I met her in my senior year of high school and throughout plebe year had pined for her. It was a one-way infatuation. To be “dumped” implies there was something that ended. There was not. It was more like she threatened to get a restraining order.

In my despair, I resorted to that cure of the ages, alcohol. There was plenty at the party and I drank to forget…to forget being alone and to forget a flight back into the ninth circle of hell. As the moment of departure approached, I walked outside to get away from the fun. I wasn’t having any and it was depressing to be around people who were. Donna observed my exit and minutes later followed me. We walked for a while making small talk about our friends and our new lives. Romance was nowhere on my mind—it was Donna who took the lead. She leaned into me and kissed me…on the lips, no less. And it was all her doing! I didn’t have to beg or plot. It was as if the sun had risen, West Point had slid into the Hudson River, and I was on infinite leave! I was in love…well, lust maybe, but it would do. Never in my young life had a girl shown any romantic interest in me. Never. I found heaven in Donna. She was a life preserver in the sea of my muddled adolescence and I grabbed her and held on for dear life.

Donna drove me to the airport, as I was in no condition to do so myself. As we parted, she kissed me again. It was all I could do not to propose marriage. She asked me for something to write her address on. SHE ASKED ME! Again, I didn’t have to beg. Shewanted me to write. It was truly a night of firsts. I fumbled in my wallet for a piece of paper and found my Army Code of Conduct card, a card that detailed how a soldier was to act if captured by the enemy: “If I am captured, I will continue to resist by all means available. I will make every effort to escape and aid others to escape, etc., etc.” Why I was carrying this, I have no idea, but if there was ever a signature of what a nerd I was, this was it—giving an Army Code of Conduct card to a girl to write her address on. Donna should have known right then and there what a doofus she was hooking up with.