D.E. Bartley Scifi sunday's with the Hipriestess

Archive for September, 2011

I’d been out solo a few times before, but this mission was totally different. When the chopper dropped me off three days back, I’d stood at the edge of a clearing and watched as it took off and left me standing in the swirling dust feeling like I’d made a terrible mistake. Unfortunately I was the only sharp shooter in my platoon.

It was April, just a few days after the assassination of Martin Luther King, a tragic event that had cast a long shadow on the war in a way that no outside event ever had. Scattered riots broke out and there were fights and stabbings all of it officially denied. So the timing for this mission could not have been worse. On this assignment, I would not be gunning for NVA or VC, I had orders to track down and eliminate one of our own a black Recon Sergeant named Malcolm Lee Washington, better known as the brother  Blood fighter. There were some who said he was a mind reader knew what you were gonna do, as soon as you thought about it, and his dog would track men down and chew them up.

After his partner had been shot dead by one of our own helicopter gun ships in another friendly fire fuckup on hill 285, he had determined that no one was, or ever had been… on his side, and that every swingin’ dick, no matter the color of their skin or uniform, was out to get him. The only way to survive was to start his own game, and God help anybody who passed within his sight. He was now a one man show representing nobody but himself, and he didn’t give a shit if you were Jesus H. Christ, to him, you were just another moving target in his free-fire zone.

Although Washington had a history of trouble with the law, stateside, his combat record was impeccable. A recent photo showed a guy who looked nothing like a Marine Force-Recon scout gold bead in his nose, a bandanna made from a piece of camouflage, a mean black moustache that drooped over the corners of his mouth, and a long scar down the right side of his face that looked like a river marking on a map a bad hallucination. Looking into those dark eyes, was like staring into the abyss. This was a man who had spent too many nights sleeping with his eyes open. And now he’d been pushed over an invisible line into a world of absolute moral indifference.
__________

The highlands of Vietnam you don’t know real fear unless you’ve been there. Its kind of like a jungle, except its up in the clouds and there’s always this fog like rain, except its not raining. Everything is wet and tangled and the angles of vision are always slightly skewed. Up here sound carries forever, and its damn near impossible to maintain strict field discipline and absolute silence. Sometimes at night, you could even hear the rocks talking. Seriously scary, especially when you are all alone.

Earlier today, the sun had broken through for a couple of hours, and from my position I was able to see most of a small valley and along the opposite slope. For the first hour nothing at all had happened then I got lucky. I don’t know what made the grass sway just enough to direct my eyes toward a spot about halfway down the slope, but when I looked through my scope, there he was tiger suit completely woven into the terrain. Suddenly, my heart was racing and a trickle of sweat found its way down the center of my back. I mentally kicked myself in the ass for taking those goddamn Dexedrine tabs earlier, but I was sure I could nail this guy with one shot from where I was set up. It seemed almost too fucking easy. I clicked the safety on the Remington to the off position, and lined up the target in the crosshairs of my scope. Every nerve-end in my body was pointed toward the tip of my trigger finger.

Then it hit me like a ten-ton brick my whole body started to shake. I lowered my rifle and rolled onto my back. What the fuck was I doing? This was not a North Vietnamese regular or Viet Cong; this was an American soldier, a black man –a marine just like me, with a family back in the world — waiting. Did anyone have the right to give me orders to kill this man? Did any of the old rules still hold? Had all order spilled over into chaos? The dark was coming on fast and I decided to shut it down and wait for morning. Maybe things would make more sense after a little rest.

__________

I spent the first part of the night slipping in and out of a half-sleep of bizarre Technicolor dream sequences

a huge open field — it was pouring rain. I was walking across the field with a friend, who was also acting as guide. There was a gigantic wooden stage, and on the stage stood Jimi Hendrix in a blue spotlight all alone bobbing up and down, wrenching the tremolo bar on his Stratocaster almost to the breaking point. He was plugged into a wall of black amplifiers tall as the New York City skyline, and he was pulling impossible sounds out of his guitar whistling rockets bombs bursting in air, The Star-Spangled Banner from hell. As we moved closer to the stage, we came upon a huge lake of shit-brown mud covered with dead bodies. My friend waded right in and motioned for me to follow. I hesitated for a second, and he reached out, grabbed my arm and yanked me into the muck. The corpses were lying on their backs, arms straight out from their shoulders, feet together, as if they’d been posed. I was trying to tell him I didn’t want to see anymore, but he’d just point out another body, and move along without saying a word. It was when he asked me to get down on my knees and take a closer look, that I finally got what he had been trying to show me. The dead men were all American soldiers with their faces blown away. Their dog tags were missing only the empty, blood-spattered chains remained around their necks

faltering dreams:

I was back home in church where a military funeral was in progress. I was standing in line, waiting my turn to file by an open casket, but I couldn’t remember who the funeral was for. I was about to turn and ask the person behind me, when a familiar sound jolted me wide awake

metal on metal a rifle bolt closing

When I opened my eyes the spectral figure of Malcolm Lee Washington was standing over me with the barrel of my Winchester pointed at my head. One look into those dead eyes and I knew I had made a fatal mistake by not pulling the trigger when I had the chance. I’d been a fool to take this man as a member of the human community. He was a dark angel, a basic element of the metaphysical soul of these mountains.

I didn’t think it would do any good, but I had to try and explain some things try to make this guy understand reason. “Hey man, its not fair my dying like this. I pleaded. “Can’t you see we’re brothers both the same? I could have killed you this afternoon, I had you dead to rights, in the crosshairs, but I didn’t because there’s got to be some rules, some way to stamp order on this crazy breakdown there’s got to be a line you can’t cross even here. What about the rules of engagement?”

Blood Lee looked down at me for a few seconds, sighed, like he was talking to a child, and said, You just don’t get it, do you. Don’t you know why they picked your ass to come up here? Its because of the one fucking thing you just said that’s right. You and me yeah, we’re the same,… two more expendable motherfuckers. Both of us dead men, always have been, right from the start dead as doornails, cannon fodder. Believe me man, its better to die here and now for nothing, than to die later for this fucked-up cause. Either goddamn way, it ain’t gonna mean jack. He paused for a second, shook his head as if he were remembering something, then added, “As for the rules my brother, ain’t none, not here. That’s the one thing you’ve got to love and respect about this place, everybody’s got a license to kill, equal rights….Means I’m free at last, and it’s right here that I will die in my freedom, now you gonna die in your’s!”

Swifty slammed the door shut to the supply shed and turned the key securely locking the building for the night. He sighed as another day of meaningless work was finished and started walking back to his beat up truck. The only thing he looked forward to in his life was the few hours between quitting time and bedtime. His R & R. He opened the door to his truck and the hinges creaked loudly in the quiet evening and he almost winched in pain at the horrible condition of his vehicle.

After a very short ride, the truck parked in front of his apartment and once again the truck’s hinges groaned in pain as the door was opened and closed. Once inside the small one bedroom apartment he felt a small sense of relief or possibly happiness that he never felt anywhere else. Why he felt happiness in this terrible, cheap apartment really confused him, but he never thought about it long enough to find an answer. Every evening was an exact copy of the previous evening before, and today was no different. He walked, with a bit more energy, to his fridge and grabbed the can of suds, put on the evening news , listened to the hypnotic drone of the Anchor man and soon succumbed to the elixir and snored loudly.
The alarm had been buzzing for almost ten minutes before the sound penetrated Swifty’s schrapnel laden brain and forced him awake. He did not move and began wondering why the alarm clock sounded so distant when he realized he fell asleep in his recliner again. The can of Sam Adam’s was on the floor next to the recliner and to his surprise it was not quite empty. He stumbled to the bathroom for a quick shower that was better at sobering him up than cleaning himself. Even without the shower Swifty could have shuffled to his truck, drove to work, and began his morning janitorial duties drunk as a skunk without a second thought.

The parking lot never saw Swifty’s truck instead he favored parking behind the visitor stands on the football field. This gave him a nice secluded spot to relax during the day when his hangover was too much or when he needed a few sips of whiskey to move the day along. A Custodian was basically invisible unless the trash cans were full or some sick kid threw up all over the lunch room floor, and this little fact allowed Swifty to sleep off more of his hangover before starting his morning work.

The morning nap lasted over an hour, much longer than he expected, and school was well under way when he stumbled through the halls to the Janitor’ s room on the second floor. He pulled out a mop bucket and a handful of rags before locking the door and heading to the opposite end of the school to begin cleaning the halls. As he mopped the halls his thoughts continually returned to the small bottle of whiskey he left in his truck. Sometimes Swifty wished he had made more of his life after his tour in ‘Nam , but his body took a long time to heal after stepping on a Bouncing Betty and getting blown to pieces. He kept the thoughts of self-pity at bay and was just thankful to be alive.

The meaningless routine of mopping let his mind roam and daydream to his tour in Vietnam, the only time he ever felt like a hero. While in the Marines, Swifty had been responsible for other men’s lives and for fighting the good fight for the good ole U. S. of A. but now he was so much older, and heavier, doing the menial job of a high school janitor. The memories helped him get through his days just like the beer helped him get through his nights, but when he came back to reality he was more depressed than before. Several times he had let his daydreams get the better of him, helped out by the alcohol, and he destroyed his apartment reliving the day he died. Yes Swifty had stepped on a Landmine, a Bouncing Betty, it flew up in the air and exploded. Swifty lay broken, the gaping wounds bleeding profusely, he was pronounced dead on the marshlands of Kobe Tom Tom. His marine unit, D1/4 helplessly looking on as the medic tried to revive the 18 year old.

Swifty would always remember what happened to him, he was floating in a tunnel surrounded by a white light, and an angel was talking to him, they arrived in a land he’d never seen before, a sand dune laden land with a small stream covered in great pines. He floated to the water’s edge , spying transparent fish swimming in a clear stream, so clear Swifty could see straight to the bottom, floating above the sandune, Swifty could see God, Jesus and Mary. The angel told him he could go back , Swifty looked up at God and asked “ Can I come back here?” And the angel replied “so far.” Swifty relived those moments in death right up till that day. He never forgot his moment of death, he remembered every detail like it was yesterday, praying that one day he would return there.

As he finished up the mopping on the second floor he began to hear students screaming. Swifty worked in the high school for the past thirty five years, and over the years had heard lots of screams from the different classrooms but this particular set of screams was completely different. These screams sounded like real fear, real terror. He had heard screams like this come from grown men during the war and the return of these sounds stopped him mid-step. The screams were followed by someone shouting, commands, and then followed by two rounds being fired in quick succession.

The gunshots created screams from most of the other classrooms and prompted several teachers to run into the hallway. Three teachers stuck there heads into the hallway and all three looked at Swifty for some kind of answer. He had no answers to give them. One classroom door flew open and several students came running down the hallway. The screams, the gunshots, and the confused teachers all caused Swifty to begin thinking in a way he had not done in several decades, like a soldier. Within moments instinct kicked in and the hibernating soldier awoke inside Swifty releasing all the training the Marine Corp had beaten into him.

He stalked along the lockers attempting not to make a squeak on the freshly mopped floors. As he approached the classroom he began to hear the shouting commands once again quickly followed by a gunshot. The door burst open and slammed against the wall, several feet  away from Swifty.

“’Any one else want to run away?”” the commanding voice asked. Swifty watched as the student turned killer pushed a limp body out the door into the hallway. The question caused all the students and teacher alike to scream. Another gunshot went off in the classroom and Andy had to see if another student was killed. He leaned around the open door and saw the gun had been fired into the ceiling.

“I want everyone up against the wall,” the gunman shouted. The students got up and shuffled against one of the walls, the wall opposite the door Swifty noticed. The shooter moved between the line of students and the door. He began babbling about God and Satan, and  Armeggedon,  Swifty used that time to sneak into the classroom.

The classroom became the jungles of Vietnam, the students became a line of American prisoners, and the shooter became a Vietcong soldier lining the soldiers up for execution. Swifty did not have a weapon, not even the mop he had been using earlier. He did have determination and a goal though and those two emotions had gotten him through more than one skirmish in Vietnam. All the daydreams of being a hero again were really happening, he finally had a chance to make a difference again just like in the war. How exactly would he make the difference though?

Someone had called the police after the gunshots were fired and the sound of the sirens began drifting up to the second floor classroom where everything started. The student waving the gun around had actually calmed down some and was just droning on and on about Heaven and Hell until the sirens. The gun came up in a flash and he walked behind a girl in line. He never hesitated, the gun barrel simply rested against her head….

“Kyle , please stop!” the teacher screamed. Swifty knew without a doubt he would have to stop this kid before he murdered the entire class. This time Kyle left the body where it fell instead of throwing it out in the hall. Once again, in a more excited voice, Kyle began his speech about the gates of Heaven. Swifty lowered himself to his hands and knees thankful the loud pops and snaps of his joints were covered up by Kyle’s voice and the crying of students. Slowly he crept around the door planning to sneak as close to Kyle as possible before making his heroic move.

. The only weapon Swifty had, was experience and boat loads of it too. Kyle spun quickly and saw the old janitor crawling on his hands and knees towards him only this time he did hesitate.

The combat veteran turned high school janitor jumped to his feet and made a rush for Kyle . Swifty was faster than he ever thought he could be at this point in his life but even this last burst of speed was not quick enough to overcome the quickness of youth. The gun raised and began spraying bullets. Three quick shots erupted from the barrel. The first was fired in utter surprise and went way wide while the other two were slightly more calculated and aimed. These last two bullets found their marks in Swifty’s stomach and chest. His mad dash at Kyle and salvation as well came to a grinding halt when the two rounds slammed into him at less than five feet. Swifty still had some energy left powered by his determination and used every ounce of it to make a final push.

After the two rounds hit Swifty , Kyle lowered his gun and focused his attention on the students again. This gave Swifty the only edge he needed to finish the battle and rescue the students. Two more bloody steps and Swifty was on top of Kyle . The result was Swifty’s massive 280 lbs. frame falling, the weight of a dead man, on Kyle’s small 160 lbs. body. He could do nothing to stop the massive bulk of Swifty and instead gave up ground stumbling backwards. Three shuffling steps back and Kyle was slammed through the window. His fall would have been minor but going down head first his spine broke on impact.

Swifty was given his salvation by rescuing the students and allowed to be a hero once more before his tragic death. The once invisible, alcoholic janitor was now the center of attention  at the school. A small statue of the American Marine  was placed at the school in memory of Swifty’s heroic and brave sacrifice. The plaque beneath the flag bore a statement that would have made Swifty very proud.

“”all gave some, some gave all”

“ Lance Corporal Edward Swifty Renshaw”

The Point man

With each tentative step I cringe,
waiting to be blown to hell…
such is the lot of the point man…
It is not a job I like but we all have to take a turn…
Another step… a little further and still no sign of Charlie…
and I am still alive… Another step… I freeze…
No movement, not even to breathe, for I can feel it across my knee…
trip wire… booby trap… to move forward is to die… to step back is to die… I taste brass…
Slowly, I turn just my head and tell the rest to get down…
When they are safe, my decision made, I send a prayer to heaven and throw myself, back and down… the wire snaps… the igniter pops and smokes…
it does not explode… a dud… I won… this time.
copyright, e.w. richardson, 1999

Lean mean, and seventeen

Let me share with you a story, bout a young man seventeen,
Who had plans & dreams of joining the United States Marines . . .

He had taken all the pre-test at a small recruiting store,
Where they told him he had qualified for infantry and more . . .

He was off to San Diego where the sun is scorching hot,
To see if he might have the grit to be what he was not . . .

The days turned into weeks, then months and muscles turned to steel,
a sense of pride & honor filled his heart & soul with zeal. . .

He had conquered all his dragons; he had finally seen the light,
He knew now, what it really meant to be the first to fight . . .

He was Lean, Mean & Seventeen when he donned the Tan & Green,
he had paid the price to earn the name UNITED STATES MARINE. .

He knew that war was looming in some far off distant land,
with heat and bugs and other “demons” buried in the sand,

So, he said a prayer & packed his bags, what else was there to do,
Like so many gone before him, he would fight for me & you . . .

The sweat, the blood, the loneliness were often hard to bare,
A buddy lost within the ranks, the “1000 meter stare”. . .

But the kindred spirit of the Corps and all those that he knew,
would help to keep him focused on the job he had to do . . .

He has stepped into a BROTHERHOOD that few have ever seen,
And wears the Anchor, Globe & Eagle of a UNITED STATES MARINE
Copy Right © 2004/2007 –Former Cpl. Of Marines “Rocky” Fortner© USMC 63-67 (Vietnam 65-66 – L 3/9 & L 3/3)