Glen Tate: 299 Days: The Preparation

Capt. Smithson was smiling even wider then. “Exactly,” he said. “You went back out and motivated the others. You were cracking jokes and getting them focused on getting the job done. That’s why you’re in Squadron 3. You’re a born leader, Matson.”

Later in life, Grant would understand why he went back out to motivate the stragglers. He knew what it was like to come in last and he felt for the guys who didn’t come in first. He wanted all of them to make it across the finish line with their chins up high.

As members of the Squadron 3, they were the only CAP cadets who got to wear a beret and jungle fatigues (like the PJs). At age seventeen, Squadron 3 thought they were the baddest asses on the planet. That beret was the second most important thing to him. The first was his team members.

Grant would do anything for his team members. They would do anything for him. The team was like a gang; one that saves people’s lives, not one that hurts people. It was hard to get in, but once they were in, the teammates had each other’s back. The team would go through a lot together, and they got through it because they helped each other. They shared scarce food out in the woods. They would carry a guy’s gear when he was hurt. Their life was literally in each other’s hands, like when one is climbing a cliff and another teammate has the safety line. They shared victories together like rescuing someone in a plane crash, which Squadron 3 did on more than one occasion. They would do anything—absolutely anything—for their team members. Grant would never forget that feeling. He would have that same feeling decades later with another team.

CAP Squadron 3 was the best thing to happen to Grant up to that point in his life. He was confident. He knew he was good—really good—at something important. He was “elite.” He had respect from his CAP peers. It was the exact opposite of being a loser at Forks High School. Squadron 3 was precisely what Grant needed.

Another much needed escape, and good influence for Grant, was his grandparents’ ranch in Oklahoma. He was named after his grandfather, Wallace Grant. Grandpa was a real live Indian; a Creek (sometimes called the Muscogee Creek Indians) to be exact. He lived on a ranch, and owned horses, guns, and everything cool. On his ranch in the South, there was no talk of corporations and imperialism. His grandparents even went to church. Grandma and Grandpa were nice to each other. They didn’t hit each other or scream. They were happy. They were “normal.” They were the complete opposite of what Grant knew in Forks, Washington.

From elementary school through high school, Grant and Carol spent every other summer in Oklahoma. Grant grew very close to his grandpa. Grandpa didn’t like Larry for the obvious reasons. Grandpa didn’t like it one bit that that lazy communist Larry married his daughter and was poisoning his grandchildren’s minds with all that socialist stuff. So Grandma and Grandpa tried to show Grant and Carol everything they could about how decent people lived. They prayed a lot that their grandkids would turn out decent, given the strikes they had against them.

Grandpa was a war hero, but he wouldn’t talk about it. Grant learned that Grandpa was in the Army Air Corps in World War II. His plane got shot up over Northern Germany and they managed to limp it over to Sweden. They bailed out over Sweden and landed safely. The Germans couldn’t touch him in Sweden because it was a neutral country.

Grandpa got to the U.S. Embassy in Stockholm and spent the war working there. He would never say, but everyone knew he was spying there. Grant thought this was the coolest thing ever.

Grant asked Grandma about it one day. “Isn’t it great that Grandpa was a spy during the war?” He expected Grandma to be so proud.

She wasn’t. She acted like she hadn’t heard him.

“Grandma,” Grant asked again, “isn’t it great what Grandpa did during the war?

She looked right at Grant; anger filled her eyes. He had never seen her that way. “No, it isn’t,” she said and walked out of the room.

What was that all about? Grant asked Grandpa why Grandma was so mad about him being a hero.

Grandpa didn’t want to talk about it, either. Finally, he said, “Grandma didn’t want me to go off to war. She wanted me to stay in the states and be safe. She felt…,” he was getting teary, which Grant had never seen, “that I was going off on some big adventure and leaving her at home. We love each other very much, but I must admit, Grant, that Grandma and I were never the same after I left for the war. She wouldn’t even come to greet me when I got back home after the war. It took her several years to get over it.” Grandpa smiled and said, “Things are fine now. But she still gets a little mad when people bring it up.”

“Sorry, Grandpa,” Grant said. “I didn’t know.”

“That’s OK,” Grandpa said. “She’ll be fine in a few minutes.

But do me a favor; never go off to a war that you don’t have to.” Never go off to a war that you don’t have to?

That sounded odd. Why would someone do that? Decades later, Grant would remember this conversation vividly, and understand it fully.

One of the best parts about going to Grandpa’s ranch was his guns. Specifically, his cowboy guns, which are a big deal to a boy. Grandpa and Grant went shooting all the time during Grant’s visits. Grandpa taught Grant how to shoot properly and safely, and how to clean and maintain a gun. Grandpa gave Grant a .22 and he took it back home to Forks where he shot it all the time. He earned money for. 22 shells with his paper route and lawn-mowing business. At the hardware store, Grant could get a box of fifty shells for $0.99, which was a lot of money to him, but worth every penny.

Guns became a powerful symbol to Grant. A symbol of how normal, decent people lived, like in Oklahoma. More importantly, guns meant safety to Grant. He understood that having a gun meant people couldn’t hurt him. He could use a gun to make a bad person go away, like when he had the .22 by his bed back in Forks after the knife incident. Grant loved to hold a gun just because he instantly felt safe with one in his hand. He couldn’t explain the feeling but that was it: he felt safe with a gun. He felt instantly calm and able to handle any bad situation.

Grandpa noticed that Grant was good with words. There was a lawyer in the family, Uncle Mike. Grant reminded Grandpa of Uncle Mike.

One day, out of the blue, Grandpa said to Grant, “You should think about being a lawyer.” That was the most preposterous thing Grant had ever heard.

“Ah, Grandpa,” Grant said with a shrug, “only rich people can be a lawyer.”

Grandpa said, “Not in America. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

Grant didn’t take it seriously. Grant, a lawyer? That would never happen. He didn’t want to let down his Grandpa so he said, “I’ll think about it.” But to be a lawyer, you had to go to college and how would he pay for that?

Grant wanted to go to the University of Washington in Seattle. The SAT college entrance test was on a Saturday morning. For some stupid reason they never would understand, the Friday night before the test, Grant and Steve got very drunk. Steve wasn’t taking the SAT, but Grant was. He got up after about two hours sleep and drove (still drunk) to Port Angeles and made it to the test on time. By the time the test was over, Grant had gone from drunk to hung over. Taking the SAT drunk? Oh well, no college for him. He figured he’d take the test again.

Except that Grant got a great score, one that would easily get him in to the UW. Boy, that was lucky. It was like he was supposed to go there despite the stupidity of getting drunk before the SATs.