Chapter 6: Persecuted but not Forsaken (My Life as a MK-ultra Victim)
Mom had sold the house and rented one at a 1536 address. She must have at least thought of me because it was a two bedroom.
God cares about us, even though we can’t always see it, and it has taken me some time to realize this even in the most desolate circumstance.
But the three-six numbers such as the last two digits of this house address would plague my life for the next twenty years.
Phone, personal identification, license plate, access code, golf cart, plane, and hotel room numbers would be designated with a three and six or a combination thereof.
Now, I know this is the devil’s way of tagging people with computer program numbers to stalk, harass, and even kill people, all under guise of some kind of mark of the beast as described in the scriptures. .
Here is wisdom, Let him that hath understanding, count the number of the beast; for it is the number of a man; and his number is six hundred, three score, and sixty-six.
Revelation 13: 18
The MK-ultra program started off with 36,000 victims.
Other victims have also complained about common numbers throughout their lives. .
One female victim in Missouri had been plagued by fours and twos (which un-coincidentally add up to 6). Her phone numbers, residence addresses, and other personal media would consist of fours and twos, even her Social Security Number. Other female victims also complain of the four-two targeting.
This all reminds me of when I got to South Carolina, and I looked at my electric bill only to see the account number ending in three-sixes.
My Social Security numbering adding up to or subtracting to the “six” digit all throughout; the phone number of the house where I would eventually start my own family would be 461-6466, and the address was 6146.
The numerological pattern did not stop: Personal Identification Numbers would be assigned such as 6264.
In the Army, I would be assigned with a “36K20” Military Occupational Specialty number – all products of a system designed to manipulate and control my life by technology.
I thought I’d get ahead of the evil number assigner the last time I went to the Division of Motor Vehicles to get a new license plate for my car by telling the clerk I wanted no sixes in my license number. She said she understood.
The three sixes are tagged to victims to make them identifiable. And my perpetrators usually have 3-6’s on their car license plates. Some of them appear to be unwitting victims, and others have been blackmailed or paid.
The terrorist attack on the New York Trade Towers on 9/11/01 is a component of the three six targeting. The nine upside down is in these sick perpetrators book is a six, but it would be a six if satellite imaging depicts it upside down.
Just look at the numbers in the tragedies that have occurred in the last century – and you will see a pattern of three sixes, whether it be the date, address, plane flight number, number of people victimized, caliber rifle, etc . . . .
Anyway, back to the Florida return trip.
I had not told mom I was in Florida, so I guess she didn’t feel obligated to tell me she had moved.
I walked in the door of the house that morning October of 1970 to greet her, and without looking, she mentioned that breakfast was ready and to have some if I wanted.
Nothing else was said and she went off to work. That’s mom, but the targeting does that.
There was nothing here for me in Norfolk.
But one good thing happened as a result of her moving: now I could go back to Lake Taylor High School. I tried it for awhile, and even went to vocational school for electrical class.
But I was confused and could not concentrate on my studies.
So I decided to join the Merchant Marines. I went downtown to the Custom House and told the man I wanted to join, but they rejected me because of my age.
Then I tried to join the Air Force. I told the man to give me any test and I would pass it, but he also declined saying I was not old enough at 17 to join.
I think both events were manipulated to try and get me to join the Army or Marines and die in Vietnam.
So I walked next door and joined the Army with my mother’s signature on the enlistment form.
I had to do something; I was really unhappy with the high school travel situation, and although I tried working for an electrical contractor after dropping out of school, I just did not have the self-discipline to learn a trade at this point in my life.
Mom questioned my judgment about going in the Army while everyone else was trying to get out of the Armed Services and Vietnam, but I figured the war to be over soon and everything would be okay.
Just after Christmas, 1970, I got on a bus to travel to Richmond, Virginia for orientation and a physical examination.
We recruits were given some fine rooms at the Thomas Jefferson Hotel. And so we decided to party a little. We managed to find a couple older guys to get us some beer. After that we went exploring the hotel, which was magnificently furnished with plush red carpet, stone sculptures, and pictures of colonial America. Chatting with other guys who were facing the same rough odds I was in life was great. I knew I had made the right choice to get away from home!
After a couple days, I and my new friend George, a black fellow from around the Norview area in Norfolk, were off to Fort Campbell, Kentucky for basic training.
Thank God for George, because he got me back to the barracks one evening after a few drinks too many, and he gave me some great advice later in boot camp.
Sitting in a class one afternoon, the instructor informed me I had one of the top three scores after general testing. That 118 point score qualified me to attend Officer Candidate School (118 I know now was just another product of the three sixes).
I was kind of confused on what to do. I’m not a person who likes to sit in the front seat, not that I can’t handle it. But I’d as well be a humble little servant in a mighty castle.
I felt indecisive and looked over at George in the next seat.
“Well, what do you think George? I can be an officer.”
“Don’t do it, he said.“Those Second Lieutenants are the first ones on the front line in Vietnam.”
“Oh. I figured there was a catch.”
The instructor wanted an answer in thirty minutes, and I gave him one in thirty seconds.
“Not interested, sir. But thank you very much.”
I know now the offer of OCS was another attempt to get me killed.
It was about six weeks before the drill instructors would let us go off base, and I took advantage of that weekend.
A few of us went into Clarksville Tennessee, had a few drinks and found our way to a movie. It was bitter cold that Saturday evening in February of 1971 as snow was falling and covering the streets of Clarksville. In the motel room, I felt lonelier than ever.
The next morning, I awoke to a foot of snow on the ground.
Across the street was a Baptist Church, so I decided to go. I felt I needed to go to church and was able to talk someone in going with me. The service would give me some confidence about life that I really needed.
Basic training never bothered me. I was always able to run well, endure cold temperatures, and get up early.
Many recruits weren’t so lucky. They’d complain of frostbite on the rifle range, shortness of breath on long hikes, and lack of sleep.
Man. This was much better than living on the streets or a house with no one to help me. I had slept on a park bench on lots of occasions, and sometimes I’d find an old vacant automobile to camp out in for a night.
The only thing bothering me was our instructors deciding our platoon was too fat; so they decided to cut down on breakfast and issue each of us one egg, a piece of bread, and a pancake.
I wasn’t fat. I was only 159 pounds at 6 foot and I needed food. So I would prod the cooks in the mess hall to give me more.
The guy who bunked under me had a heck of a time. He was overweight and sweat would just drip off him even at night. He could barely breath at times it seemed to me. He also had near flat feet and had a difficult time marching. They did finally give him some kind of profile that limited his participation. I would help him out and clean his rifle to keep him from getting in trouble.
But Basic training got my attitude right.
I was marching along one day with my helmet cocked back like I always had it because it took a lot of pressure off my neck, and as any good hard working Asian person will tell you, balancing items is the way to carry them.
The drill instructor didn’t find this philosophy too entertaining, and one day came up behind me and slammed his hand down on my helmet jarring my head.
“ I told you to get that helmet on right!”
Maybe he had warned me. I couldn’t remember.
“Give me twenty trips around the platoon.”
Now that will tire a man out while the platoon is marching.
But I later learned incidents like these are instigated to see if a trainee can take the discipline.
I remember going out to the rifle range for a week or so in the most miserable weather of cold rain mixed with snow.
The visibility was awful with a fog that covered the area as the instructor would have us adjust our rifles for Kentucky wind and Tennessee elevation.
The 300-yard silhouette of a person was barely visible as I remember it to this day – the patches of fog drifting slowly by the target with rain pelting the brim of my hat.
The ground was wet, and after about two hours, all my layers of clothing were soaked, and then water would be drip off my cap into the rifle sight area. I thought if the enemy is out in this kind of weather at such a great distance, it is going to be very difficult to make a direct kill.
I was at an obvious handicap with the M-16 ejecting cartridges off my right cheek scorching my skin. The instructor advised I shoot from the right shoulder. I looked at him like he should go somewhere else and gave him the Indian silent treatment. Lefthanders are marksmen.
Somehow I scored an 86 on the rifle range that miserable day, which were only a few points less than some of the better shooters.
I finished Basic Training in early March and bussed to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, schooling to fulfill field wireman requirements and climb some splintered wood poles
On a humid morning at the pole training grounds, I was descending a thirty-foot pole when my gaff slipped and I came straight down with a robust four-inch splinter in my thigh. It didn’t look near as bad as the fellow next to me who had a big hole in the toe of his boot.
I was taken to the hospital where the doctor pulled the splinter without anesthetic. I had heard the orderly say the supply was depleted.
The nurse had to hold me down, and finally I asked for a rag or something to put in my mouth as I was in much pain. They gave me one.
The next morning at the barracks, I woke up with a swollen red leg from top to bottom. There was still some splinter in there, so back I went to the hospital, where fortunately, there was a doctor there who had a straighter knife and some anesthesia.
I have a jagged scar in that area today, but at least I was given compensation several years after I was discharged from the Army. And of course, my perpetrators would take advantage and put an implant right in that area.
The injury was a blessing in disguise because it kept me back from graduating with my class and going to Vietnam.
I was sent to Ft. Riley, Kansas, where I would stay for the next twenty months with a class of draftees, and I made the best of it while I was there, befriending a guy named Craig, who was from the northwest.
We had a some good times playing racquetball, going to concerts all over the mid-west, and lulling many evenings in the bars around Manhattan, Kansas. We hitchhiked nearly everywhere until I brought my car back from Norfolk one weekend.
The covert drug program I had avoided it so long in my life started to surround me: drugs were everywhere in the Army in 1970 with soldiers bringing back hashish from Germany, heroin from Vietnam, and marijuana from Mexico. But I maintained my integrity and used very little.
My buddy’s military term of service expired before mine, and when he left, I became rather depressed. We had done so much together. And now the Army ordered me to Korea,
I did not want to go and did everything I could to try and get reassigned to Stateside duty my last year. I visited Ft. Story near home trying to get a transfer but no one would be in the office when I got there.
Nothing worked, and in December of 1972 I found myself on an airplane after visiting a friend in Los Altos leaving Travis Air Force Base in Oakland California stopping over in Japan for fuel and going to Korea.
When I arrived and bunked up for the night at Camp Casey, I got terribly sick. I don’t know if it was from some partying I did with friends in Los Altos, California or from something I ate or drink after entering Korea. I vomited much and thought it was the end for me, one of the sickest moments of my life.
Somehow I got on the back of a five-ton truck in the early morning hours that was transporting a bunch of us to Camp Pelham near the Demilitarized Zone on a freezing night just before Christmas — and I had ice on my pile cap. It was very cold.
The next day I hired a houseboy to take care of making my bed, cleaning my clothes, and shining my shoes.
Settling into the bunk next to the potbelly diesel filled stove probably wasn’t the best idea because it blew up on a chilly night and everyone had to go outside. Such is life in Korea.
Mornings were spent in the communication’s shop trying to keep warm but occasionally we would venture out during the day and check out the wiring on the telephone poles. Eventually I would be assigned to change it out with a group of mixed Republic of Korean and American soldiers.
It was a futile effort and I decided to look for another job. And I’m not sure how I talked myself into getting the courier’s job but it was the best thing that ever happened.
I now had my own jeep and would travel the country picking up and delivering classified information over the northern part of South Korea.
I suppose my perpetrators had me where they wanted me: having access to classified information. But I never had any intention of looking at what I was carrying. For one thing, items were sealed, and they didn’t interest me. I was just glad to have a decent job away from the ROK soldiers who had excess kimchi on their breath and didn’t want to take orders.
Off I would take every morning, stopping at several camps on the way to headquarters at Camp Casey. Then I would grab the latest edition of the Stars and Stripes newspaper, a cup of coffee, some doughnuts, and I’d lull around a couple hours at Camp Casey and head on back.
Just before arriving back at the compound, I’d drive the jeep through ankle deep river to wash off the mud. The Army never complained about how it was done, but the Koreans downstream weren’t too thrilled because I was disturbing the water they were washing clothes in.
I didn’t think they were sensitive about things in life considering they were hanging dogs and setting fire to them to get them prepared for dinner. But their cheesy looks usually told the story.
I would at this time thank a North Carolina native named Wallace who was a mechanic at the motor pool for gassing up my jeep: it was the fastest in the fleet.
Korea wasn’t all bad. I met the most wonderful woman of my life there and I would stay with her every chance possible. We travelled to many places; exploring the country and looking for ginseng; going to Seoul for dining and lodging, and to Musan where there was a theatre.
It was hard to go wrong at that time when the train ride was eighty cents and the movie was twenty cents. And I wish I could have brought her back but I didn’t have enough money for her plane fare.
After seven months in Korea, the Army offered me a promotion to Sergeant if I would re-enlist for six years. I turned it down. I wanted to go home.
. My perpetrators didn’t like this and I was given extra duty picking up rocks out of ditches in the evening hours. Their excuse was that I talked back to an alcoholic Sergeant.
Why was it such a big deal that I did not re-enlist? But this is what is targeted individuals go through when these administrators of hate have access to manipulating events with their high-tech remote sensing applications.
In a normal world, no one would care, but in a targeted world, situations are manipulated around the victim for defamation, oppression, and servitude.
I would be confined to the Compound for two weeks, and I sure missed my girlfriend during those two weeks. I would look through the barbed wire fence across the creek to the village where her hooch was each night.
Staying at camp was miserable, so a friend Darren and I would go over to the club and began drinking those mixed alcoholic drinks at 25 cents a pour until 2:00 in the morning and stagger back to the hooch — only to hear the camp cannon fire three times twenty minutes later — which means to get dressed for battle and attend a formation.
Man, I was sick, and I spent a considerable time throwing up my drinks on the side of the road as I was driving the First Lieutenant. That was a long day.
And then race relations deteriorated at the camp, and one night there was a big riot where lots of soldiers were getting hurt.
My flying time couldn’t be soon enough, because the officers thought the troops needed a twenty-five mile march to quiet them down, and there we went with full battle gear up into the hills for an overnight march.
Some guys couldn’t make it, and I begged for the medic to take my buddy back to camp in a vehicle after he told me his brother died from such a march.
And they did take Darren back to camp. As a result, I was detailed to guard duty on the perimeter at 3: 00 a.m. I suppose for speaking up. A very lonely fox hole on a moonless night at the North Korea border.
I was determined to get out of Korea any way possible. A clerk at Camp Casey answered my prayers and asked me where I wanted to go.
“Home! Anywhere near home in Virginia.”
“How about Fort Belvoir,” he asked.
“That sounds good,” I responded.
“But what’s there?”
“A bricklaying class.”
On my next trip to Camp Casey, he had the orders signed for an early two month exit from Korea. I was ecstatic.
Finally it came time for me to exit the country in October of 1973 and I had to travel from Camp Pelham to Camp Casey to catch the plane. It was about thirty miles south.
I thought I might stay with my girlfriend the night prior and leave from there early in the morning; however about 4:00 a.m., I heard the Camp cannon again fire three times—which meant to fall into group formation with full battle gear.
Now just how coincidental is that? It’s not. It was just another attempt to try and delay me from leaving the country – for whatever reason. (Back home my mother’s targeting would begin in earnest.)
There was no way I was going back to the Camp Pelham compound. I had my duffle bag packed with me. I hung out a few more hours with my girl, made more love, and said goodbye — got a cab, and took the back roads to Camp Casey — where I was immediately apprehended and taken to jail.
No problem. I knew all the officers at Camp Pelham from transporting them around all year and their secret documents. So, they wouldn’t come get me, and in a couple days I was on the plane heading to my next stop, Fort Belvoir. Bye. I heard later that my girlfriend went to the airport to check on me and waving as the plane flew off, and it just broke my heart, as I read her letter.
Project Transition was a program designed to give veterans job training to prepare them for civilian work upon leaving the Armed Forces. I was taking advantage of it.
I would hitch-hike home on weekends to see Mom and Kitty.
The perpetrators had been busy back in my hometown!
Mom had moved to that apartment near the beach.
She loved the beach, and it would only be a two block walk to go swimming and sun bathing.
If only she wouldn’t have started dating a doctor twenty years her senior from the eastern shore of Maryland!
Who is he and what does he want?