Short Stories

                   The Bronze Praetorian

           Jonathan gently grasped the brass handle of the huge wooden door. Pushing down, he quietly opened it. Standing there for a moment, he let his eyes adjust to the dim light in the great room. The walls before him were covered with paintings and photos of generations upon generations of his family. On every table and shelf sat wonderful pieces of art and collectables. The fireplace, at the center of the far wall, was the focal point. There was a glowing fire which made the room feel warm and cozy. Light and shadows created by the dancing flames seemingly gave life to the many paintings and statuettes. Each time Jonathan entered the great room, a wonderful feeling surrounded him, as if for the first time.

I watched as Young Jonathan approached the empty chair on the left side of the fireplace. Glancing at his Grand-Father, he pulled himself into the big comfy chair. Sir was sitting just across, in his favorite chair. For a few moments, the pair said not a word. Jonathan followed Sir’s example, enjoying the quiet solitude and the warmth of the fire. Glancing once again in his Grand-Father’s direction, Jonathan caught the smile Sir was casting his way. Returning the smiling, he leaned back, and for a few more minutes, they both sat there in deep thought. Sir gently drew smoke through the stem of his pipe, filling the room with the sweet aroma of cherries. Even his pipe had historical and sentimental value. Jonathan liked the smell of the pipe. Cherry was his favorite, although Sir used orange and other flavors as well.  

Sir spoke first... “So, what’s new with my favorite Grandson?”

It was sort of a ritual between the two. Sir would always ask the same question, and Jonathan always gave the same answer.

“The same Sir, nothing new.” Jonathan replied.

They both laughed; having completed the ritual. For the next while, the two shared news and special events which had transpired since Jonathan last visited. Sir and I got to see Jonathan just twice a year. He and his parents; Sir’s son and his wife, came to visit on Thanksgiving and for just a few days each summer. Sometimes during the summer, Jonathan would stay for several weeks. What a wonderful time he always had.  

Sir reached for the large amber ash tray sitting on the table next to him. Holding it firmly, he tapped the pipe against the center. Time for a fresh bowl of tobacco, I thought to myself. Story time would surely follow close behind. The lighted match in place above the pipe bowl, Sir took a few draws. Flicking the expended match into the fire, the tobacco glowed. Blowing a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling, Sir sat back in his chair. Taking a few more draws on the pipe, he spoke.

“Jonathan my boy.” There was a hint of an inquisitive tone in Sir’s voice. “Jonathan my boy.” He said again. “Have I ever told you about the time?...

Jonathan was leaning forward with his arms wrapped around his knees his eyes fixed on his Grand-Father. He knew he was about to be taken on another great and wonderful adventure. His heart began to pound within his chest.

“Please forgive me. I have not yet introduced myself. My name is Jonathan Willamus Praetor, formally The Praetorian. I am the first of a long line of Praters. Look closely; I am The Bronze Praetorian Statuette here in my usual place, on the mantel. Sir placed me here several years ago after having discovered me in an English antique shop, while on one of his many adventures.”

The above Short was originally written with the idea that it was to be an introduction to a book. A book of Short Stories told by Jonathan’s Grandfather,’ The Storyteller.’ As the idea is still that, an idea. I decided to publish ‘The Bronze Praetorian’ as a stand-alone piece of work. I trust that while reading this short, you were captured and drawn in. Drawn into an impending story or series of stories, which was my hope while constructing it.

Tarawa Beach

The 2nd Marine Division fought at Tarawa's Betio Island for 76 hours beginning on the morning of 20 November 1943 until the afternoon of 23 November.

          As a child, the writer in his own mind created elaborate stories about the War Adventures of his Father. When one is young and is sheltered from horrid images and the captions that accompany them, you find that you have a tendency to fashion your own reflections of War. 

        And so… The following story may be a bit imagined and overstated, but it is purely a fictional story, without restrictions or overtures. A story to inspire and stimulate, to strengthen understanding and compassion and to bring comfort and healing where there may have been none.

Master Sergeant Elmer Prater, United States Marine Corps (Retired), my father, (1923 - 1972). He served in the 2nd Marine Division during World War II. Total Service: 20 years, 1942 - 1962.                                                                                                                                          "Semper Fi"

The Short Straw

Whitie was running full out, headed for the machinegun position on the far end of the beach. He had gotten the short straw on the draw for taking more ammo to the machinegun-crew. Whitie knew he had been set up on the draw; after all he was the most junior guy in the Company. That didn’t matter now; he had to concentrate on keeping his footing as he stumbled across the beach filled with debris and the bodies of fallen Marines. Over his shoulders were bandoliers of 30 caliber ammunition. In his left hand was a box of the same, his M1-Carbine balanced in his right. A shell exploded off to his left, nearly knocking him off his feet. Regaining his stride, he continued on. Although he was focused on the Marines in the shell crater about a hundred yards away, he caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye. Directing his gaze in the direction of the movement, he quickly realized it was a man. A Japanese Soldier! The Soldier was running low to the ground using the brush as cover. Whitie shifted his weight on his right foot and turned slightly toward his new destination. He knew he had to intercept this Jap’ Soldier that was headed towards the machine-gun crew. Reaching deep inside, he turned on the steam. But as he moved forward, he was slowed by the soft sand. His legs began to feel like wet noodles and his feet sank deeper with each stride. Suddenly, the Jap’ broke from his cover and headed straight for the Marines Now just twenty yards away, the Jap’ was flanking the Marines. They didn't see or hear him as he came screaming toward them. Whitie could now see the large satchel-charge of explosives strapped to his chest. This Jap’ was on a Kamikaze mission. Without taking time to aim, Whitie opened fire, squeezing the trigger. The Carbine bucked in his hand as the rounds smacked into the sand, crossing the path of the enemy. Whitie stumbled, crashing face first into the sand behind one of the Marines. Almost simultaneously, the startled Marine, yelled “What the hell!” making eye contact with Whitie as the mortally wounded Japanese Soldier, just a few yards away, exploded into a thousand pieces. Seconds later, the machine gunners were slapping their savior on the back.

“Thanks Mack!” the first Marine shouted.

The other, reaching for the ammo-can asked, “What’s your name Marine?”

“Elmer” was the reply, “But everybody calls me Whitie.”

“Well, Whitie, thanks for saving our necks and for the ammo. 

“You okay there?” Asked the first Marine, noticing blood on Whitie’s left shin and the torn pant leg.

“Yea, just a scratch.” Whitie replied, dismissing it. “Okay, if you guys are set, I’ll head back. Watch your right flank from now on.” 

Whitie took a quick swig of water before he bolted off, back down the beach. 

 

The Sniper

Whitie could see Doc Wilson, a Navy Pharmacist-mate knelling next to a fallen Marine. Who got it? He thought to himself as he darted by one of the many vehicles situated around the makeshift Supply and Medic area. A ricocheting bullet nearly took his head off as he dropped to the sand inside the protected area. The protective area was made up of Higgins Boats (LCVP) and (LVT's). These vehicles were used to bring Marines, equipment, and supplies from the transport ships to the beach head.

“Almost got ya’, didn’t he?” Shouted Darby, one of Whitie’s pals.

“Who?” Whitie asked, as he shuffled closer to Darby.

“That Sniper out there in one of our stranded LVT’s.” Darby replied, motioning with his thumb over his right shoulder.

Whitie laid down on his belly and peered around the burned-out vehicle, looking for the LVT. There it was, about 500 yards out, sitting sideways on a sandbar. Just as Whitie was about to speak, the sand in front of him jumped up and flew in his face, causing him to immediately pull his head back.

“Almost got ya’ again!” Darby laughed, slapping Whitie on the back.

“That boy’s a hell of a shot, must be about 500 yards between here and there.” Whitie sputtered, trying to clean all the sand from his eyes, nose and mouth.

“Yeap, so you’d better keep down unless you wan’a get one in the head like the Lieutenant did.” Darby said, pointing toward Doc Wilson.

Japanese Snipers taking refuge in damaged amphibious vehicles were a real nuisance. Marines were being forced to fight front and rear as they tried to make their way across the beach. If the Marines on the beach were going to make any headway, something would have to be done about the snipers at their rear. 

Master Sergeant Oaks, a real tough Marine and survivor of the Great War (WWI) was already devising a plan when Whitie approached him. Whitie and the Top Sergeant talked for a few minutes as Darby watched and wondered aloud; “What the heck is that Hillbilly getting us into now?”

A moment later, Whitie scooted back over to Darby with a big smile on his face. “Grab your gear, Cowboy! We’ve been volunteered to take care of that Sniper!” Whitie said, punching Darby on the shoulder and reaching for his own gear.

Darby got to his feet making sure to keep low behind the vehicles, cursing at Whitie all the while. The two gathered a Bazooka, several 3.5-inch rockets, hand-grenades, and their Carbines. They would wait for the next LVT to come ashore and catch a ride out to the sandbar.

The Gunner on the LVT provided cover-fire in the direction of the sniper as the vehicle was loaded. The Lieutenant and four other wounded Marines were put on board first, followed by Whitie and Darby. The Navy Coxswain backed away from the beach and headed for the far-left side of the sandbar. He zigged - zagged along the way as the sniper took several unsuccessful shots at them. The ride to the sandbar was very bumpy and the wounded Marines moaned and groaned with each slap of the waves. The gunner opened fire as the ramp began to fall out and away. This was the signal for Whitie and Darby to get off, and they did. As soon as they were clear of the ramp, the Coxswain slammed her into reverse, raising the ramp as he did. The gunner continued to provide cover-fire while the two Marines scrambled for some cover behind a small dune. The two turned briefly in the direction for the LVT, and looked at each other, as if to say, “There goes our ride!”

The Sniper had not seen Whitie and Darby land on his little piece of the world. But he did wonder why the vehicle had seemed to stop. He had been hunkered down inside the LVT while the gunner was shooting at him, so he didn’t get to see what was coming next. Whitie was now lying atop the small dune with the Bazooka aimed at the stranded LVT. Darby shoved the rocket into the rear of the weapon and patted Whitie on the head. Whitie took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he squeezed the trigger. Making a loud whooshing sound, the rocket sped towards its target, causing the sniper to take a quick peek. At that instant, Whitie, Darby and the Japanese Solider made eye contact. The rocket sped forward, exploding as it impacted. The two shocked Marines covered their heads as human remains mixed with fragments from the LVT rained down around them. They had been only twenty yards away.

Stretcher Bearers

The sun was just beginning to set, casting long shadows across the sand. Whitie and Darby were back on the beach, hunkered down feasting on beef-n-rocks and beans-n-franks and chasing it down with black coffee. This first day on the atoll had been rough. But it wasn’t over just yet. A few hundred yards away just inside the tree line, the fighting was still heavy. The Japanese were dug in everywhere. It seemed that the Naval and Air Bombardments had done nothing at all to soften them up.

The Chief Pharmacist (Navy Corpsman) was putting together a team to go forward and bring back three badly wounded and several walking wounded Marines. He and Sgt Roxberry were collecting the people they needed, and of course Whitie and Darby made the team. Sgt Roxberry was from Mike Company and had been wounded earlier that day but was now volunteering to lead the team back into the fight and to his wounded Marines. Whitie and Darby were to act as security escorts and would lead the team and wounded back to the safe area. By the time it was fully dark, the team was ready to move out. Everyone would carry extra ammo, water, bandages and rations.

It took the team about fifteen minutes to reach Mike Company’s rear guard, well inside the trees and downed foliage. Two walking wounded Marines from 2nd Platoon, challenged them. A few yards away, huddled in a tight group around three badly wounded Marines, were six others with various types of wounds. The Pharmacist-mates quickly assessed the most severely wounded, checked tourniquets, bandages and plasma bags. The three severely wounded were placed on stretchers.

Sgt Roxberry immediately moved forward to rejoin his Platoon, leaving Whitie and Darby in charge of the stretcher bearer team. Darby took the lead with three of the walking wounded. They'd head off anyone attempting to attack from the front. Whitie was taking up the rear, guarding their flank while the other three walking wounded covered each of the stretchers. 

Moving through the Battlefield in the darkness was proving to be very difficult. The Marines were tripping and stumbling as they struggled to find their way through to the open beach. After several agonizing minutes, Darby and his small fire team arrived at the edge of the tree line. The only thing between them and safety was three hundred yards of sandy beach. Whitie and the rest of the team came up behind Darby.

“Let's take a breather here.” Whitie suggested.

“Sounds good to me Pal. By the way, check out that view.”

Darby was pointing toward the Pacific Ocean. The crescent moon was high overhead, giving light and life to the waves as they crashed ashore. Each time a cloud moved on across the night sky, the entire beach was flooded with light. Crossing the great open distance was going to be hairy. The team agreed to move down near the water where the sand was much firmer. This would make movement with the stretchers faster and more stable. Darby’s fire team moved first, followed by each stretcher and assigned guard. They had timed it while there was a bit of cloud cover; so far so good. Just about fifty yards to go, and they'd be home free. Whitie followed a few yards behind, watching for movement along their left flank.

Suddenly, the moon sprang from behind a cloud giving light to the entire beach. Instinctively and simultaneously, everyone froze and became low to the ground. At that very moment, the team began to receive incoming fire from the brush on their left front. Darby and the lead stretcher bearer were hit. Whitie took a kneeling position and fired at the now advancing Soldiers. Darby and the other Marines returned fire, stopping several of the enemy immediately. As four remaining Japanese Soldiers charged toward Darby and the lead stretcher, Whitie rushed forward killing one with several taps on the trigger of his carbine. Darby was wounded a second time as he shot one of the four. A nearby Marine took down another as Whitie entered the melee. The last Japanese Soldier, a young lieutenant, was standing over Darby with his sword raised above his head. Darby twice wounded, was on one knee preparing to parry the blow with his carbine. But, before the blow could be delivered, Whitie struck Darby’s would be killer square in the face with the butt of his carbine, knocking him to the ground. Whitie turned back toward his friend, 

“Let me take a look” he started...

Darby’s pointing finger and wide eyes told White what he urgently needed to know. Turning full around was difficult and clumsy in the damp sand, but Whitie did it, finding himself face to face with the same Young Lieutenant he had just smashed in the face with the butt of his rifle. The man's left eye was cut severely, his nose was pushed to one side, broken and bleeding. Screaming at the top of his lungs, the sword once again high above his head, he lunged forward. With blood and rage in his eyes he failed to notice the 1911 Colt .45 caliber pistol in Whitie's right hand. The two men were inches apart. Whitie easily blocked the swords’ downward motion with the carbine still in his left hand. The Colt in his right hand, bucked three times in rapid succession knocking the mortally wounded Soldier to the ground. This time permanently.

A few moments later, after passing by the perimeter guard, the team reached the Command Post at Red Beach 2.

Day one of three days of Hell was coming to a close. There would be small skirmishes all along the beach and in the woods beyond. But for the most part, the heavy fighting would be on hold until sunrise.

 

Her Picture 

I scraped a black slimy leech from my stomach with my K-bar, and then another. Those damn things seemed to fall from the sky. At first, I was sickened by them and dreaded getting them on me. After a while, I became used to them and even took some pleasure in looking for them on my body. At least while I was looking for leeches, I was distracted from the Hell around me. The jungle held a lot of creepy, crawly things that needed to be watched out for. Some could kill you, like poisonous snakes. I had never seen one, but the rumor mill had it that if the 'Mamba' bit you, you wouldn’t make it more than two steps before you killed over. That's why they were affectionately called, the Two-Step Snake. What a pain in the butt. Not only did I have to worry about Charlie trying to kill me, I also had to watch out for spiders and snakes. Charlie...  Why did we call the enemy Charlie? I really didn’t know. It was however, a much nicer name than, gook, slant eyed or some of the others I’d heard. The guys that really hated them called them those names. I guess it helped to hate them. I tried not to think about it. I didn’t want to hate Charlie; I just wanted to stay alive. If it meant killing Charlie to do so, then I would. I didn’t have to hate him.   

Doc., the Hospital Corpsman, always told us not to drink the water. ‘Only drink the water you bring on the hump’ he’d said often. I found out why more than once. Finally, after being sick and tired of running to the latrine every five minutes, I learned how to control my water intake. A few times I even drank water from vines. ‘If the water is clear, it’s okay to drink,’ I was told. Anything was better than dying from dysentery. I thought my feet were going to rot off too. There was just no way to keep them dry. When we weren’t wading through rivers, creeks or rice patties, the sweat from my body sloshed around in my boots. I always changed my socks each time we stopped for chow, hoping to save my feet. I also had this pounding headache, deep behind my eyes. I was always scanning and searching the jungle, eyes wide open, never blinking. ‘You blink - You die!’ Sergeant Hill always said. 

As I lay there, savoring the five-minute break from our days’ hump, I looked at her picture. A few of the other guys had told me I should get rid of it. “Stop dreaming and focus on The Nam." I disagreed and kept it tucked inside my flack vest. Sarge gave the signal to saddle-up. I put the picture away and gathered my gear. Just a few more hours and we would hunker-down for the night. “Just stay alive for a few more hours” I whispered to myself. “The darkness is your friend. If you can’t see them, they can’t see you.”

The Village

The blood red sun was beginning to set over the distant mountains as we approached a friendly village. The village had enormous rice patty fields to the north and west and we needed to cross them before dark. Staying in or near the village would not be a smart thing to do.  Intel’ said that Charlie visited this village regularly to get food and fun. We would cross before dark and hunker-down in the bush to the northwest. If Charlie came by for a midnight snack, we would be waiting. This was a ‘search and destroy mission’ after all, not some Sunday afternoon stroll. What day was it anyway? At that moment I wasn’t sure of the day, month or even the time. Time didn’t mean much anyway. Not until you were short. When you got short, you counted the days, hours and minutes, marking them off one by one.  Me, I had only been in the Nam for about two months… I think? Sergeant Hill had us spread out and reminded everyone to stay off the tops of the rice patties. “Get wet and stay alive.”  He said.

“Damn, my feet had just dried out a little.” I whispered to myself.

We were about one-third of the way across when I heard the sound. I had heard it before, and I always got the same chill down my spine. There was no time to react as the first mortar round hit its target. The Marine closest to me and to my right was torn apart by the explosion. The concussion knocked me on my ass. I wasn’t sure if I should thank God for sparing me or cursing him for taking another brave Marine. Charlie had been waiting just inside the tree line. They knew that we were far enough away that by the time we heard the sound, the mortar round would be near impacting. I made myself into a tight little ball and covered my head with my arms. As all hell broke loose, I struggled to get deeper in the muddy rice patty water. Mortar rounds impacted among us and AK-47 rounds zipped by over the dikes searching for human targets. Marines were screaming in pain from hot shrapnel tearing into their flesh. I knew that Doc was making his way to the closest Marine, so I just kept my head down. Doc would not stop until every wounded man was tended to. I wondered where the Navy found men the likes of him. 

The attack stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Charlie knew we were pinned down, so they didn’t waste any more ammo on us. They were well hidden about three hundred yards away in the dense bush, but we were hidden from them as well. To our good fortune, the rice patty dikes ran parallel to the tree line. We were behind the dikes down in the muddy patty water. No doubt…that’s where we would be spending the night. There was no chance we could get close air support either, the sun was already setting.  It would be dark in less than an hour, so we hunkered down. Tonight, there would be more damn, leeches, wet socks, wrinkled feet and no food.

Counter Offensive

It must have been about three or four hours later when I heard a whisper from my right. “Pass it on; move out to the east, stay low and quite.” I thought to myself, “No kidding, stay low and quite.” I was going to be as quite a church mouse. I passed it on. Slowly we made our way to the end of the rice patty to drier land. I probed the dike with my K-bar, like I had been trained. I searched for land mines and felt my way along scanning for trip wires. Eventually everyone that could, gathered at the edge of the rice patty facing the northern tree line. Thank God it was dark. We were out in the open with the tall grass as our only cover. Doc had stayed behind with a couple of guys who were seriously wounded. Sergeant Hill laid out the plan for us. If Charlie were still there, they would probably hit the rice patties with more mortar fire at sunup. We needed to get to them before they could start sending mortar rounds into the rice patty. We had to keep them from killing Doc and the wounded Marines. Fanning out in a semi-circle, we began advancing toward the northwest along the edge of the rice patty toward the tree line.  When we were within about a hundred feet from where we figured Charlie to be, we stopped. It was still very dark, and the night sky was bright with stars but no moon. I kept saying to myself, “If you can’t see them, they can’t see you.” I took very shallow breaths afraid that Charlie might hear me breathing. Then my stomach started to beg for food. The growling and gurgling were so loud that I was sure I was going to give away our position. I made myself as flat as possible and sipped on water to stop the stomach noises.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the rising sun started to send white rays of light through the jungle. She was on our side this day, literally behind our backs. As the sun climbed higher, ever so slowly, we began to spot our enemy. They were much closer than we had expected.  Rays of light reflected off metallic objects. Human figures became barely visible against the green backdrop. Their attention was directed toward the area where we had been and where Doc was. Remembering to pick a target directly to my front, I checked my firing parameters and waited. There was no verbal command to open fire. Almost simultaneously, we opened fire, catching them completely off guard. M-16’s popped, and the M-60 gunner sent hundreds of rounds into Charlie’s position. Their plans to turn the rice patty into a killing field had been spoiled. For just a few short moments the silence of the morning was shattered by gunfire and the sounds of dying men. When the returning fire ended, several of the guys rushed forward. After a few minutes someone yelled “All clear.” Hill had me contact Command and request a chopper to get our wounded out. “Have ‘em bring some water, chow and ammo too,” he said. 

We took many lives that day. But we saved many lives as well.  We had saved Doc and the wounded Marines who had spent the night in the rice patty wet and alone. We had saved our own lives. Well, all but one.  What was his name anyway? I hadn’t dared to ask. Since I was still a ‘Newby’ I didn’t know many of the guys by name yet. I realized it might have been a good thing. It hurts less if the guy who gets it isn’t your ‘P.’

While sitting there changing my socks, I felt a familiar sensation on my stomach.  Lifting my fatigue shirt, I scraped away a leech with my K-bar. Returning the knife to its sheath, I reached inside my vest and took out her picture. I thought about the old cliché that says, out of sight out of mind. Some guys may want or need her out of their mind. Not me, I needed her in my mind. I needed some beauty, some warmth and compassion in my mind. I will not get rid of her picture. I will keep her right here next to my heart and in my mind, I said to myself.  Holding her picture to my chest, I drifted off into a semi-sleep state. I could smell her perfume as I gently stroked her hair, the soft skin of her face against mine. I will keep her in my mind, I will stay alive, and I will go home to her. I will go home to her. 

From the corner of my eye, I saw Hill and another Marine making their way back through the rice patty. They stopped where the first mortar rounded had landed. I watched as they gently gathered the remains of the mangled Marine and laid him on a poncho. My chest suddenly felt like an elephant was sitting on it and I began to sob. For several minutes I cried quietly, embarrassed that someone might notice. Maybe it’s better if I don’t know his name, I thought. Who was I kidding? He was a Marine and now he was dead. Nothing mattered but that; he was dead. Doc was there next to me when I looked up.

“Are you hit anywhere?” he asked.

I assured him that I wasn’t. He began checking my head, face and neck for wounds. When I asked why he said, “You’ve got blood on you, is it yours? I slowly shook my head no. The guy that was hit by the mortar, maybe it was his, I thought to myself.  Doc put his hand on my shoulder. 

“Bobby was short you know. He was out’a here in two weeks.”

Bobby, so that was his name. I just nodded and Doc left.

The Boy

A couple hours passed by before we heard the Huey making its approach.  My radio came alive with the voice of the Chopper Pilot asking for smoke. I replied, “Roger popping smoke.” The Pilot spotted the red smoke; I confirmed the red smoke as he banked hard to his left and swiftly came in over our position. A Cobra Gunship circled overhead as we quickly offloaded the bird and got our dead and wounded on board. The Huey was gone as swiftly as it had come, leaving us alone again in the Jungle.  As the sound of its departure faded away, I wished I was on board.   

We sat at the edge of the clearing for a while enjoying a meal of c-rats. Everyone was careful not to bunch-up, although a few of the guys huddled in groups of two or three to swap beans-n-franks for peaches, or whatever. Some smoked cigarettes and told jokes. I stayed pretty close to Sergeant Hill in case he needed the radio. He was busy looking over the terrain maps, planning our next move. I once asked Sarge why we didn’t have a Platoon Commander going out on patrol with us. He told me; "There aren’t enough Lieutenants in the Marine Corps. I just can’t keep their dumb asses alive.” 

The people from the village were starting to go about their daily routine. Men and women were working in and around the rice patties. Children also worked and played. Everyone seemed oblivious to the fact that men had died here just a few hours before. A young boy was near our position with his mother. I guess he must have known that we, Marines didn’t like to be approached. So... he didn’t come nearer. Once in a while when I clanked his way, I noticed he was looking at me. I dug around in my rucksack until I found what I was looking for. I usually saved my coconut and dark chocolate c-rat plugs for times like this. The next time he looked at me I showed it to him.  He was several yards away as I tossed it to him.  He caught it with no difficulty.  Showing it to his mother he broke it in half giving part to her. She did not look in my direction but said something to the boy. He made a common gesture of thanks and began to nibble at the food. I felt a familiar lump form in my throat and my eyes became clouded over. 

After we finished our meal, and the ammo and fresh water were divvied up, we began to saddle up. There were still several hours of daylight left and we needed to put some distance between the village and us.  Hill gave the signal to move out and we continued north on our Search and Destroy Mission. As we entered the bush, headed north, I looked back at the village and surrounding rice patties. The little boy was standing near one of the hooches looking in our direction. He raised his hand and waved. My stomach suddenly felt very empty again and a tear tried to creep into the corner of my eye.  I waved back at him as we disappeared into the jungle. Damn, I hated this place and what it was doing to me.

His Story

The writer wrote this short story as a way of memorializing his wife's 1^st Cousin, (his friend) a Vietnam War, Combat Veteran; Command Sergeant Major Ernesto Collazo US Army (Retired). Ernie served two tours in Vietnam, earning two Bronze Star Medals, two Purple Heart Medals, an Air Medal and several other Medals and Awards. May he rest in eternal peace.

 

Therapy

        You asked me to tell you and the others a story.  You tell me that if I tell a story, it will help with the healing process.  Help with my healing and the healing of others. I tried to explain to you that some things are much too difficult to talk about.  But you insisted that I share an experience, a story! When I try to talk about it, my voice leaves me, my mouth becomes dry, I begin to shake uncontrollably and a myriad of emotions well-up inside me.  I get the overwhelming urge to escape to a safe place, to push my thoughts back, back to the dark place in my mind where they belong.  You tell me to relax and to take deep breaths.  

So... I decided I would attempt to put it on paper. When I first began, I had no idea that it would be so easy. Once I got the hang of it, the thoughts in my mind became words on the page very easily.  It was if the words were already on the tips of my fingers, waiting to be placed on the keys of the keyboard.  I made myself comfortable in the chair, knowing I might be there for a while, and I began to allow the words to fill the page on the computer monitor.

It was several hours before I finished writing.  I walked to the bathroom to wash my face, realizing I needed a shave and wasn’t sure when I had bathed last.  My stomach ached for food.  I had not eaten since I began to write and was very tired and felt like I had just humped for four days without stopping.  I thought to myself, “How am I going to ever be able to talk about it?  Although writing it is not as difficult, it is exhausting.”

 

In Country

I had just turned twenty-four years old and was on my second tour in Vietnam. My Platoon was on a search and destroy mission and had been in the bush for about a week. I wasn’t sure how far from the Base Camp we were. But I didn’t trouble myself with that stuff.  I trusted Staff Sergeant Hill and my Squad Leader. I just needed to concentrate on keeping the PRC-25 radio dry and staying alive to do it. We were searching for the enemy but had no contact, so we headed toward a known to be, friendly Village. When we got there, we would call for re-supplies and do a little good-will stuff that we usually did. Giving food and medical supplies to the Village people help build support and make allies.

My eyes popped open, and I made eye contact with the Platoon Sergeant.  Staff Sergeant Hill had his hand on my shoulder.  Nor he or I said a word. He just moved on to the next guy and then the next.  As he continued to wake the sleeping Marines, I began to get myself ready for the day’s hump.  I checked the PRC-25 radio; it was dry.  I would do a radio check later. I then scarfed down some canned beef-n-potatoes, beef and rocks as we used to call them.  I took a swig of water from my canteen, imagining for a moment the taste of my mom’s fried eggs, gravy and biscuit and a big glass of lemon-iced tea, Sun brewed.  I caught the signal to move out from the corner of my eye. Quietly, I got to my feet, checking the safety on my M-16, while scanning the dense jungle for movement. 

Off to my east, just peeking through the treetops, I could see the red morning sun casting its brilliant rays across a sky that was reflecting it back down to earth. What is it the Sailors say?  ‘Red sky in the morning, Sailor heeds the warning.’  Damn, another day of rain. 

I saw the thin green line of light coming directly toward me before I heard the crack. I knew that a round from an AK-47 was on a collision course with human flesh. At that same instant, a round slammed into my helmet just above my left eye. Jeff, in front of me, spun around. He had a neat little hole in the center of his forehead. His eyes were still wide open. As he died, I could see his pain, his sorrow, his anguish, and anger in his eyes - his eyes.  My finger closed around the trigger as I struggled to find a target. An enemy I couldn’t see, an enemy who had ambushed us and scurried back into the jungle, taunting us to give chase.  Obeying the cease-fire order, I found the Corpsman kneeling next to me. The AK-47 round that hit my helmet had also found human flesh. There was a cut on my left check and a small piece of my left ear was gone. I could hear the Platoon Sergeant talking to the Squad Leaders. We were going to the village as planned, a two-hour hump from our current position.  If and when the village was safe, we would call for a medevac to get him, Jeff and the other three seriously wounded Marines out of the field.

The expected two-hour hump stretched to over three hours, as we blindingly made our way toward the village through a torrential downpour. The rain had come. My legs felt like they were lifting lead boots each time I took a step. My head throbbed like a bass drum.  But I was thankful for the rain as it washed away some of Jeff’s blood and bits of brain matter from my fatigues.  I couldn’t get the look in his eyes out of my head.  The harder I tried, the louder I heard Jeff saying, “Don’t forget me. Don’t leave me here.”  His eyes were pleading, his mouth not moving.  My squad took turns carrying Jeff, which also proved to slow us down a bit.  It didn’t matter though, he didn’t deserve to be left behind, no one did.  Besides, that’s the code.  No one gets left behind. 

There was absolutely no sight of the enemy during the morning hump.  But we were pretty sure we’d find them at the village.  Sarge had a couple of our guys scope it out when we got close.  Everything looked normal, as normal as we were used to anyway.  Two of our best long shooters took positions to cover us as we entered the Village.  I remembered how the Villagers avoided eye contact as we talked to them or passed them by.  I was told that they were just modest people and making eye contact was considered to be rude.  I couldn’t help but think about what my father had taught me.  “Son, make eye contact when you meet people.  Only your enemy avoids eye contact.”  Only the enemy avoids eye contact I whispered to myself. 

The search for weapons and other unauthorized contraband continued well into the afternoon. Just as I started to enter a hooch at the far end of the Village, I heard a muffled explosion followed by a cry for a corpsman.  Damn, another booby trap.  Still standing in front of the thatch door of the hooch, the hair on my neck stood at attention. The air around me became chilled and I shivered.  I had just heard a sound all Marines expect, but dread.  The sound was the slamming forward of an AK-47 breach bolt as it put a round in the chamber.  My legs felt weak; my arms were numb. Nearly lifeless limbs moved in slow motion as I kicked open the thatch door of the hooch.  Instantly, I found myself closing my finger around the trigger of my M-16.  My mind was barely able to receive and translate what my eyes sent screaming in.  I was screaming!  Screaming as green, white death came my way.  My own muzzle flashes blinded my eyes to the horror before me. The rounds from my M-16 were hitting their target.  Hitting a boy, a boy who couldn’t have been more than 15 years old.  He wore nothing more than black pajama bottoms, no shirt and bare feet. The bullets cutting a path across the boys’ upper body from his waist to his left shoulder, tore away flesh. Blood covered the hooch walls and me.  The boy's life left him as quickly as Jeff’s’ had left him. I saw the same pain, sorrow, anguish and anger in his eyes. As he died, I stood there motionless for what seemed like an eternity. From across the Village, I heard Sergeant Hill calling my name, “Radio Up!”

An hour later, we put our dead and wounded on the chopper and stood in silence as they headed south and east away from the Village.  Sergeant Hill gave the signal to move out.  We disappeared into the jungle, leaving behind a burning Village, grieving and crying widows, mothers and children. “Damn... the rain again and the river we had to cross.  I can’t wait for nightfall so I can rest, to sleep…” 

 

Reality

My eyes popped open, and I made eye contact with the VA clerk. He had his hand on my shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked.

I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow.  Scanning the room, I realized where I was.

“The doctor will see you now.”  

Slowly getting to my feet, I felt the dampness of my clothes. I was drenched in my own sweat.  Quickly I scanned the room one more time.  Thank God, no one had noticed my state.  I followed the clerk to the Doctor’s office.

Jerome

         

Jerome came to the Platoon in late summer of sixty-nine. His number had finally come up and he was about to be yanked from the streets of Chicago and sent to Vietnam. Not wanting to be another statistic of the many Black Soldiers killed in Vietnam, he enlisted in the Marine Corps. He had heard the Marines were invincible lean, mean, killing machines; looking for a few good men and he knew he was just what they wanted. As far as he was concerned, he had proven his grit many times on the streets of Chicago. On his fifth-tenth birthday a rival gang member cut him during a turf war. But, after a few weeks in the hospital, eighty-seven stitches and two pints of blood, he returned to the streets. Later, when he stalked and killed the white boy who had stabbed and cut him, his homeboys looked up to him as if he was a hero. The attention and admiration just added more fuel to his inner fire, making him more prejudiced and self-centered. Jerome bragged about how he had beat the boy down with a baseball bat and then cut his throat and watched him bleed-out.

 

“Don’t think about rat’n me out, there ain’t no body, I made sure of that.” He boosted.

It wasn’t long before Jerome had the reputation as the Platoon Storyteller. The stories were always the same and the main character was Jerome himself. Before joining the Marines to kill communists, he was being groomed by a powerful organization that put the KKK to shame. He was going to hone his killing skills while in the Marines so he would be a better Soldier for his people, for the BLM. I later learned that the BLM was the famed Black Panther Organization. ‘The whole world will very soon know the power of the black people.’ He would say.

We all just let him tell his stories and preach from his soapbox. I for one knew he had a terrible problem and felt sorry for him. The only thing that really bothered me was the way he treated Richard.

Richard and I became fast friends in the few months I had been in the Platoon. Richard was cool, he had heart and enjoyed life. He was black. Before joining the Marines, I had only known two black people in my young, sheltered life. Back home there had only been one family of black people in the whole County and the boy was younger than me. When I left home for the Marine Corps, he was starting high school. But in boot camp platoon, there had been ten black men and fifty white men, but thirteen weeks later there was just sixty lean mean fighting machines-brothers-Marines. Staff Sergeant Taylor, the Senior Drill Instructor, was also black and for whom I had grown to respect and admire. After graduating from basic training, I was convinced that being prejudiced was just plain ignorant.  

Jerome was always ragging Richard about being “A Flake." To him Richard was worse than we Crackers. I respected Richard for the way he stood up to Jerome and the other Black Brothers in the military. Dapping in or checking in was kind of a ritual back then and every Brother was expected to do it anytime and anyplace.

Richard, Danny, Mike, and I were eating in the mess hall at Kadena Air Force Base, as we often did. Their food was much better than ours back at Camp Courtney. Jerome and a few of his Bro’s came in, put their plates on a table, and started going around the room, checking in. When Jerome approached our table, he made eye contact with Richard. Richard looked straight into his eyes and told him, he’d check in later, after he finished his chow. He added that he wasn’t going to disrespect his P’s, by getting up from the table now. Jerome left saying something about Richard being a "Flaky Cracker Lover" that would get his one-day.

The C-130 rumbled down the runway like the fat clumsy bird it was. There was always a bit of anxiety mixed with excitement when I flew, but I smiled and let out a ‘Devil Dog’ growl like everyone else did. Once airborne, the pilot took a heading south by southeast taking us away from The Rock. The Rock was the name we Marines had given to the Japanese Island of Okinawa. We (I) hated that place. In a few hours we would be landing in the diamond of the South China Seas also known as the Philippines. Subic Bay and the surrounding towns like Olongapo City were every Marine’s paradise. Escapes like these were welcomed events, even if it meant we might be sleeping in the bush and eating from the streams. Captain Carpenter was the Platoon Leader my first year with Air-Naval Gun Fire Platoon. The Captain was an A-4 Sky Hawk, Jet Jockey that really loved to fly. He knew from experience that every pilot flying over a combat zone needed good spotters on the ground. He was with us on our trip to Subic Bay. The Captain took every advantage of ensuring that if and when he returned to combat, there would be trained Spotters on the ground. As I settled down in my jump seat and closed my eyes, I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. I took long, slow breaths through my nose and listened to the drumming sound of the plane’s four turbo props. I drifted off to sleep. Richard woke me by punching me on my shoulder and yelling in my ear. “Wake up Johnny Boy, we’re here!” he said showing his big pearly whites. “I wasn’t asleep,” I protested. “Yea, checking your eye lids for holes right. I’ve heard that one before.” He chuckled. We both laughed, thinking how he sounded like a ‘DI’. Richard reminded me of Staff Sergeant Taylor, and I once told him he would make a great DI. He replied that he was getting short and had no intention of re-upping in the Corps, let alone being a DI.

The hump from the Airfield at Cubi Point to the Upper MAU Camp was exhausting. We were all loaded down with our 782 gear, communications equipment and sea bags. This was also part of our training program that the Platoon Leader had devised. He always reminded us that we had to be in tip-top shape if we wanted to survive in the bush. I had developed the ability to block out pain and other distracters and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I also knew I wasn’t the only one having trouble blocking out the constant whining and negativity coming from Jerome. I respected Captain Carpenter for his ability to ignore the underlying contempt Jerome had in his comments.

“Go ahead and flag down a ride if you want Marine. Just remember, there aren’t any Jeepneys or Tricycles in the jungles of Vietnam.”

“Roger that Sir.” Jerome replied, shifting his sea bag higher on his back.

The Upper MAU Camp was a series of old Quonset Huts that housed Marine Amphibious Units when on deployment in the Philippine Operating Area. Fortunately for us, there was no MAU in Subic when we arrived. Not only did we have the whole camp to ourselves, there was only one Aircraft Carrier in the Bay, the USS Enterprise. Even with about five thousand Sailors onboard, Olongapo City would be practically empty. We found our designated hooch and clambered in and set about getting our gear stowed and our bunks made up. Before the Captain left for the Bachelors Officers Quarters (BOQ) he reminded us about the 2330 (11:30pm) curfew. “We have a sunrise flight to Wild Horse Creek bombing range tomorrow, so no over-nighter.” 

The Philippines had been under Marshall Law for a long time and Olongapo had a strict curfew. The bars, restaurants and tattoos parlors all closed at 2330, and everyone had to clear the streets. After the Captain was well out of ear shot, nine Marines quickly hit the showers, got dressed in civilian clothes and made a beeline for the bus stop. It was a good hump from Cubic Point Airfield, but it was an even longer one to the main gate down in Subic. This was Jerome’s first time in Subic, and he kept talking about how he was going to show these little brown whores what a real man could do. At one point I had gotten tired of his mouth and told him he was taking the wrong attitude about these people.

“You better not talk the same crap out there Bro. Just have a good time and go with the flow.” He told me he didn’t ask for my advice and reminded me I wasn’t his Bro. “That’s the attitude I’m talking about.” I replied and left it at that.

Liberty

We showed the Armed Forces Police (AFP) our Military ID’s as we passed through the gate and headed toward the Canal Bridge (Shit River). The stench of the canal wasn’t as bad as I had remembered, but then I realized it was still early. The stench was always at its worst when you had to cross the canal on your way back to the base. The smell of meat on the stick reached my nostrils and I started to salivate. I didn’t care if it was pig, chicken, dog, cat, or monkey meat. I had never gotten sick from eating it and besides, it was delicious. The little girls all dressed in white were there in the banca boats, in the canal holding out the white paper cups for us to toss pesos into. Little boys, not more than seven or eight, were swimming in the filthy water next to the boats also calling out for pesos. I always had the same weird sick feeling in my chest when I saw them begging that way. This was one thing I couldn’t share with my Peeps though. “Marines are tough, lean, mean, fighting machines and there was no room for softies on the team.” Once we were on the corner of Magsaysay and Gordon we spilt up. We all agreed to meet just inside the main gate right after the curfew and catch the bus back to the MAU Camp together. If you were not there by straight up mid-night, it was assumed you were doing an over-nighter.

At 2330, Magsaysay Drive was filled the entire length by Marines, Sailors, Fly Boys, and locals. All either heading home or back to the base. At the corner of Gordon Avenue and Magsaysay Drive nearest to Cannel Bridge, Jeepneys and Tricycles picked up passengers to get them to their homes. The Armed Forces Police (AFP) and Filipino Constabularies (PC’s) were out in force keeping the crowds moving along. I was slowly picking my way through the crowd when I spotted Richard and Danny. I came up next to them and tossed a greeting. They both briefly glanced my way smiling as they checked-out the hot streetwalkers grabbing at Squids and Jarheads. The bar girls had warned us to be careful of the streetwalkers. They were usually girls that were not allowed to work in bars because they had VD, or they were not real girls. A Marine friend of mine had spent the night in jail for hitting a Benny-Boy that had grabbed his crotch. The PC that arrested Mike had told him, “I saw what he did, but you can’t hit him like that.” Mike spent the night in jail for punching a gay Filipino kid. 

Back inside the base we were all there by 2345 except for Jerome. At 2400, straight up mid-night just as we had discussed the rest of us caught the bus back to the MAU Camp. When we walked into the hooch there was Jerome lying on his rack snoring like a bull.

 

Training

As the sun came up over the mountains east of Cubi Point, we were all standing in formation next to the CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter. Captain Carpenter approached, and we came to attention. Lance Corporal Danny Stamper stood out in front of the formation and saluted as he reported, “All present and or accounted for, Sir.” Captain Carpenter returned the salute and told us to stand by while he checked on our departure time. While we waited, one of the guys asked Jerome for the ump-tenth time what had happened to him the night before. Jerome would only say that he was going to get his stuff back and that bitch was going to get hers. He would not elaborate and avoided talking about what had happened. We could only imagine that he had gotten with the wrong kind of girl, one we had all told him about. She must have ripped him off and left him with just his ID card to get back on base. Sometimes they take it all, including your clothes, and possibly your life.

After a short wait, the engines of the Sea Knight came alive. Upon direction, we boarded the Helicopter with Captain Carpenter taking up the rear. Each of us claimed a jump seat and strapped in. Seconds later we were airborne, heading away from Cubi Point on our way to the bombing range. 

There it was, the Observation Post (OP) standing about three hundred feet above the ridgeline and nearly a thousand meters from the valley floor. On previous flights out to Wild Horse Creek, Pilots set down on an open area below the OP. Expecting to be dropped off below the OP, I began to mentally prepare myself for the climb to the top. Suddenly the Chopper banked hard to the right and circled the OP. Captain Carpenter barked out over the noise of chopper’s engines, “No climb today gents, we’re setting down on top.” Danny, Richard, and I looked at each other with wide open eyes, as the Pilot brought the huge bird low in over the OP and began to hover. The rear ramp came down. The Crew Chief spoke into the intercom directing the Pilot's movement. Slowly descending he put the rear landing gear on the rocky cliff, with the ramp just inches above. Captain Carpenter barked again, “Big step gents, stay low and get clear!” He went out first, and we all followed one by one. When I exited the bird and got clear of the rotor wash, I turned back to see Danny stumbling to get to his feet. My Kodak 110 camera was tucked in my flack vest and before I could retrieve it, the chopper was already swooping down and away from the OP. The picture I didn’t get was of a monster Sea Knight hovering just above the OP with its rear landing gear a few feet above the ground. The forward half of the bird was out over the edge of the rocky cliff, as if hanging by a wire. I was filled with awe and pride to have had such an experience, but was pissed I didn’t get the picture. Running toward Danny I laughed while assisting him to his feet. Dusting himself off he growled, “You’re going to be the last one out next time.” I just laughed harder.

The next few weeks were filled with Tactical Air Support Missions, Naval Gunfire Spotting exercises and even Jungle Survival Training. There was no doubt that we were ready for combat in more ways than one. It was such a rush to watch an A-4 Sky Hawk loaded with 500lb bombs with snake-eye fins and napalm canisters swoop in on a target that you had just designated. Even at over a thousand meters away you could feel the concussion of the exploding bombs and almost feel the heat of the napalm. Looking through my binoculars I had watched as 5-inch Zoonie Rockets plowed the dirt and impacted a bunker on the side of a rising slope. It was such an awesome feeling to talk on the radio with a pilot and guide him to his target. I had the best job in the Corps, and I was good at it.

"In bound bird this is Beach Boy 26 Charlie interrogative your call sign and ordnance, over.” ----- “Roger Garfish, I copy Snake and Nap, Beach Boy 26 Charlie standing by, over.”

 

The Bolo Knife

Danny, Richard, and I were sitting on the outside deck of the American Legion Post 4 club overlooking Magsaysay Drive. This was our last day in the PI, so we were just soaking up some rays while sharing a pitcher of mojo. A couple of the other guys from our team saw us sitting on the upper deck so they came up to join us. One of them asked if we had seen Jerome, to which we replied we had not. He went on to explain that Jerome had found the girl that ripped him off and had pushed her around and threatened her. She told him to meet her at the corner of Magsaysay and Hansen today and she would give him back his wallet. “We were supposed to go with him, but he took off without us.” One of his Bro’s said. “We figured we could watch for him from here.” The other guy added.

It was true, from the deck of the Post we could see the intersection just a few clubs to our left. A couple of hours passed by while we drank mojo and talked about going to The Nam. Danny, Richard, and I were next up on the rotation, and we promised we’d look out for each other no matter what.

One of the other Marines with us noticed Jerome first. He was stumbling down the middle of Magsaysay headed for Hansen Street. “Hey Bro’ what’s up!” He yelled at Jerome. Jerome didn’t even look up; he just lifted his fist in the air and shouted, “Black Power Man!” 

Just as he dropped his hand a Tricycle came speeding up from behind him. We all watched in disbelief as a huge Bolo Knife suddenly appeared from the sidecar. A slim brown arm was wielding the weapon with ease. Jerome never felt a thing as the heavy, razor-sharp Bolo cut his head clean off. Just like in the horror movies I had seen as a kid, his body seemed to take two or three more steps before it collapsed on the ground next to its head. His eyes were still open.

Why Does the Osprey Cry

The crescent moon hung high, casting dim light - reflecting off the surface of the creek. Swirls of smoke like fog trailed behind a dark figure. A figure that was slowly creeping along the creek bank. Moving from tree to tree, the man was being careful to remain in the shadows. Just a few yards away; on South Fork Road was Sam Hurst. He was on horseback completely unaware that he was being stalked. Stalked not by an animal but by a man; a man that was intent on just one thing; murder. Calmly, the would-be murderer stepped out of the shadows and onto the narrow dirt road. In his right hand was a pistol. Sam’s horse came to an abrupt stop, nearly hitting the rider in the face as its head came up. The man in the road spoke first, giving Sam a cordial greeting. “How do you do on this fine evening Mr. Hurst - Mr. Sam Hurst?” Sam immediately recognized the person blocking his path and waving the pistol as Bob Fields. Bob Fields was a drifter and thief. But at the moment, he was holding down a job at the sawmill where Sam was a Foreman. As Bob reached for the leather bridle on the horse, Sam replied sheepishly, recalling the encounter they'd had earlier that day. “Good evening to you Mr. Fields.”

Bob Fields prided himself for being cordial and polite, but with the introductions out of the way; He grabbed Sam by the jacket sleeve and yanked him to the ground. Sam’s left foot was still in the stirrup causing him to hit the ground hard landing on his face. Bob laughed out loud, confident there was no one else around to hear. Sneering, he told Sam to get on his knees as he walked around behind. Sam Hurst was sure he was about to be killed. As he quietly whispered the Lord’s Prayer, Bob shot him in the back. The force of the bullet knocked him forward, killing him instantly. Bob went through the pockets of his victim, finding only a few coins and nothing more. Reaching for the reins of the bridle, he swiftly mounted the horse and rode off into the darkness towards Jackson.

Caroline Clemons sat in front of the mirror, pulling the brush through her long black hair. She had just finished with her sponge bath of rose petal water. Her Sunday best dress was clean and freshly ironed. She was nearly ready. Soon the man she hoped to marry would be there. He had been courting her for many months, almost a year now. This man whom she adored was two years her senior, well-spoken, and well liked. The son of a local Preacher, he was also the Sunday service song leader and a deacon. After his graduation from high school, his father had given him a parcel of land up the holler. In the past few weeks, he had been building a small cabin there. Little by little it was coming along. Caroline often imagined the wonderful life they would have together in their own home. She wanted a big family. Although work at the Sawmill paid very little money, the work was regular and honest. They would do just fine. Now, sitting in the front porch swing, she eagerly waited for her man. Hour upon hour, she waited but he did not come. She was very worried. He had never missed spending a Friday evening with her.

Waking early on Saturday morning she prayed that her man was safe. After her father’s morning chores, he would be going into town. She made plans to go with him. Everyone in the County went into Jackson on Saturday to buy supplies and visit with their neighbors. She hoped to see her man there. A long while later, riding in the family buckboard, she and her father arrived. A large group of men were gathered outside the feed and supply store. There seemed to be some kind of a commotion going on. Jumping down from the buckboard, Caroline’s father hitched up the mule. Pushing his way into the crowd, he asked what all the commotion was about.

Old man Jessup was the first to speak up. “Sam Hurst was found dead up on South Fork. It happened jest a couple of miles from your place, Mister Clemons, it wuz at the mouth of Bricky Branch. Shot in the back and killed he wuz.” Old man Jessup went on, “His pockets were empty and his horse wuz gone. No one knows who done it.”

Caroline had not heard any of the conversation. She was still sitting on the buckboard. Her father slowly turned around and walked over to her. His head was hanging down. Some of the men from the crowd were looking her way. She knew something awful had happened. Jumping to the ground, she reached for her father. “Papa! What has happened? What has happened?”

“Caroline, baby girl… I’m afraid I have some bad news. Sam Hurst was killed last night. He was shot.”

Sobbing deeply, Caroline fell to her knees. “He was on his way to see me, Papa. He was on his way to see me.

The Still

A few weeks before the murder, Sam Hurst, his younger brother Jasper and a friend were in the woods hunting. They were deep in the woods on Hurst property following the baying of their hound dogs, when they happened upon a moonshine still. In the dim light of their carbide lanterns, they could see that the Still seemed to be in working order. Actually, it appeared to have been used recently and was well kept.

“What should we do with it?” Jasper asked Sam. Sam began to kick and stomp on the Still.

“We're going ta tear it apart and make sure it can't be used no more.” He said.

“Let me get in on this!” Jasper's friend shouted. The three backed away a few feet, took aim with their shot guns and took several pot shots at the already mangled Still. Convinced the Still could not be used again to make Moonshine, Sam remarked that he’d come back another day and bring it out of the woods. Hearing the gun shots, the hounds came running back to the three. Gathering the dogs and their lanterns, the three men called it a night, and headed home.

Two nights later in the cover of darkness two men made their way along a winding path. A path that led deep into the woods of Breathitt County. Both men were huffing and a puffing under their heavy loads. Feeling their way along in the dark underbrush, they had been walking for the better part of an hour. Suddenly, the leader stepped off the path and began to move parallel to the ridge line above. His friend Lucas, following close behind, stumbled - nearly falling down the hillside.

“Keep quiet – You fool!”

Regaining his footing, Lucas mumbled something un-intelligible and sneered at his friend.

A few minutes after leaving the path, the two arrived at their destination. There, well hidden in a small swallow of ground, was a Still - A Moonshine Still. Bob Fields and his friend Lucas were partners in this Moonshine making venture. The Still was theirs. Both men were looking forward to mixing up a new batch. Having distributed their wares to the usual customers. They had used the money from their job at the sawmill to buy more fixings and enjoy a few leisure’s of life. Turning up the flame of the lantern, Bob could not believe what he was seeing. The Still was in a twisted mangled mess. The drum was shot full of holes and the copper tubing bent and broken. Pieces and parts were strewn about the site. Bob was furious. He was stomping around like a wild man, cursing and swearing he was going to kill the man that had done this to him. With nothing left to do; the two men set about salvaging as much of the equipment as they could. Even though there wasn’t much left that was good for nothing. Now, all the money they had just spent on fixings was wasted and there was none left to buy new stuff to fix the Still. Bob was fit to be tied. He was sure they were going to lose customers.

The Sawmill

At the ringing of the mid-morning bell the power plant running the big Saw Blade was shut down. Men began to meander around, drinking coffee and just shooting the breeze. Sam Hurst, Jasper and a few other men were crowded around one of the fire barrels.

A man rolling himself a cigarette spoke to Sam. “Heard you went hunt’n the other night Sam. Did you get yer- self a Coon?”

“Nope.” replied Sam.

“But we did find us a Still,” Cut in Jasper. “And it was a good’n too.”

“Who’s wuz it?” Asked one of the other men.

Sam replied this time: “Don’t know who’s it wuz, but it ain't good fer nothing no more. We busted it up. I went back up there to get it on Sunday, but it wuz gone. Somebody must ‘a come fer it. Nobody is gon’a make Shine on my Daddies’ property if I can help it.”

As the return-to-work bell rang; the men shared a laugh saying what a heck of a hunter Sam was, finished their smokes and coffee and went back to work.

Lucas ran as fast as he could to where Bob Fields was starting to move slats. He immediately went about telling Bob what he had overheard. It was all Bob could do not rush over to where Sam was and give him a piece of his mind. But he knew he couldn't make a big to'do about it in front of all of Sam's friends. He'd just have to wait for the right time.

It was a few days later at quitting time when Bob Fields approached Sam Hurst. Sam was at the sawmill Horse Stables putting the saddle on his horse Honey. Bob took hold of the buckle and passed it under the horse's belly to Sam.

“Thank you kindly, Sam started as he pulled the saddled down tight. But I can manage jest fine.” Standing straight up, he peered over Honey to find Bob Fields standing there.

“Jest thought I'd lend a hand and ask ya fer a minute of yur time, Mr. Hurst.”

Bob was attempting to be polite. After all, Sam was the foreman. Sam had walked around his horse and was now standing face to face with Bob.

“What can I do fer ya Mr. Fields? I've got ta be get'n on home. It's Friday, and I've a date with a pretty lady, who I don't plan on keep'n a wait'n.

“Well sir it's about that Still you busted up a few days back. It wuz mine. You an’ that Brother a yourn, owe me and my friend several dollars. We lost money on the Still and the fix'ns, and most of my regular customers have gone elsewhere fer their Shine. I think about ten dollars ought to cover it. What do ya say Mr. Hurst, does that sound about right to ya?”

Sam was taken aback. Surprised that Bob could be so bold, admitting the Still was his was one thing. But, asking to be paid for it was going a bit too far. Plus, Sam thought that his tone was too demanding and disrespectful.

“Mr. Fields, Bob, is it? First of all, make'n Moon Shine ain't legal. Second, that Still wuz on my land. Third, I don't drink it. I don't condone it, and I sure as hell ain't go'in ta pay fer it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I gots to be a go'in.”

Sam turned his back to Bob, put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up on Honey's back. Without giving Bob so much as a second glance, he turned his horse toward the stable door and rode out.  Bob was left standing there with his mouth open, having had much more to say. Shaking his fist at the man riding away, he swore under his breath. 

“You'll get yourn Mr. Hurst. Yes Sir, Mr. Sam Hurst you're go’in' ta get yourn!” He shouted.  

Honey

A Day or two after the killing, Sam's horse showed up on the Hurst property. She was dirty, covered in burs and looked worn out. Old man Hurst put her in the stall, brushed her down really good and fed her all the oats and grain she wanted. A few weeks later, after he'd cleaned and shined the saddle, he took her for a ride over to the Clemons Farm. Riding up the holler toward the Clemon's place, old man Hurst threw his hand in the air calling out to the man sitting of the front porch. Nelo Clemons recognized the old mare long before he could tell who it wuz sitt'n in the saddle. “Hello there. Come on up.” Nelo called back. Jessup Hurst dismounted the mare and walked her the rest of the way up to the house. After wrapping the reins, a couple of times around a porch post, he headed up the front porch steps. Shaking hands, Nelo offered Jessup a seat in a weathered rocking chair. The two men spoke briefing about the changing of the times, happenings at the sawmill and about the murder of Jessup’s son Sam. Nelo tried to give more comfort to his old friend by telling him how much he'd liked young Sam and that he would've been a good fit fer Caroline. With that, the conversation turned toward Caroline. Nelo told about how down and out she wuz and that nothing seemed to make her smile these days. Jessup asked if he could speak with her. He had something that might help brighten up her days and make missing Sam a bit more bearable. Jessup waited on the porch sipp'n on a jar of iced sassafras tea Ma Clemons had brought him upon his arrival. A moment or two later Nelo returned with Caroline in tow. She had put up some resistance, not wanting to see Sam's Pa again so soon after the burial of her beloved. Jessup and Caroline completed their greetings sharing words of condolences one to the other. Jessup was saddened by the emptiness he saw in Caroline’s face. Her deep blue eyes had lost their sparkle; her cheeks were pale and she much needed to run a comb through her long dark hair.

“Come on down here with me dear.” has he took hold of her hand.

They both walked over to where Honey was tied to the porch post. Jessup said. “Caroline, I think you know this old mare.”

Putting the bridle reins in Caroline’s hand, he continued. “Honey old girl, this is Caroline. You and her are go'in to be taking care of each other from now on."

Exchanging hugs, Jessup then made his way down the path leading out of the holler. Turning, he looked back. Fer sure; he saw a smile on Caroline’s lips and a sparkle in her eyes. Tears streaming down Caroline's face, she gleefully waved until Jessup was out of sight.

 

Turning of the Tide

Ten months and one week after the laying to rest her man Sam, Caroline rode Honey across the creek and up the holler to the Hurst Cemetery. She'd had Sam on her mind all morning long and throughout Church Service. It was a beautiful Spring Day. Having had rained for the past three days, the creek was running high. Following the holler round a bend and up a small incline, Caroline arrived at the old wooden gate of the Cemetery. Hitching Honey to a post nearby, she slowly pushed the gate open. Walking along a pebbled path she wondered at the wildflowers of various species and colors that covered the ground. She spent several hours praying and talking with God and her beloved Sam. Quietly whispering; she said, “I'll make him pay. Sometime soon the man that killed you will pay.” Gently touching the carved stone, she repeated her promise. The brushing a tear from her check she turned to go. Gasping softly, she noticed that the sun was beginning to set in the western hills. She had lost track of time. Papa was going to be awful angry with her if she didn’t make it back before sundown. Caroline and Honey cautiously made their way down the holler toward the creek. The long shadows made it hard to see jutting rocks and obstacles. Finally, the pair reached the creek and started across. Caroline was leading Honey as she waded across the swollen creek. Suddenly right there in mid-stream was the retched man people called Mr. Fields. Bob Fields was on his way to his Still. Yeap, the Still was right there up the holler on Hurst land just as it had always been. Caroline stopped abruptly and Honey stopped as well. But she pressed forward just a bit, so she was standing about a head’s length in front of Caroline. Neither Caroline nor Bob Field noticed that Honey was a bit spooked. She never took her eyes of the man approaching her lady. As Bob got closer, he barked; “A pleasant evening to you Young Lady. What you do'in out here so late? It's nearly dark. Lots of bad people out and about when it gets dark.”

Many thoughts and images went through Caroline's mind as she gripped tightly to the reins holding Honey by her side. Had God answered her prayers? Was today going to be the day Mr. Bob Fields paid for his crime? Looking straight at his eyes Caroline Screamed; “You're a devil of a man Mr. Bob Fields!” as she reached for the old shotgun hanging on the saddle horn.

At that same moment Bob took two long strides forward and reached out his hand for the reins that had now fallen into the swift moving creek. Honey took a step forward, hitting the evil man full in the chest with her head. Bob was knocked backward, nearly falling into the creek. Yelling a few curse words, he again reached for the reins of the old mare. Honey stepped back this time and came up on her hind legs. Neighing loudly, she brought her front hooves down with all the weight and force of her body. Two mighty blows landed on the head and chest of the would-be evil doer. A lifeless body floated off down the creek as Caroline came to the awareness of what had just happened. There she was standing in the middle of the creek with the old shotgun in her hands and Honey next to her. Honey gently rubbed her nose against Caroline's arm. The signal for Caroline to get up on her back. Caroline had regained her composure by the time she got back home. Her Pa had put a lantern out on the front porch as it was way after dark. After putting Honey up in the stall, Caroline headed up to the house. Her Pa scolded her a bit for being so late and her Ma just repeated how worried they were. Both seeing that Caroline was truly sorry, they left her to retire to her room. The images of that lifeless body floating off down the creek kept playing over and over in Caroline’s mind. She hardly slept at all that night. She didn’t know if she was glad or sad. She was just plain numb.

 

The Body

Very early on a Saturday morning, Steve and Bobby Haddix were down by the North Fork Kentucky River where Troublesome Creek emptied into it. The two young boys were fishing. Fishing was good this time of day, it also left the rest of the day for play and other important things. Bobby carefully skirted his way out onto a fallen sycamore that reached out over the river. There he would be able to cast his line into a small eddy that was close by. The big fish liked to hang out in the calmer water and Bobby was sure he would catch one of them. Just as he reached a spot that looked good for sitting, he saw something tangled in the naked branches of the fallen tree. Leaving his pole wedged in a crotch of the tree, he shimmed closer. There it was, a body. A who-knows-who body. The river had taken a toll on the body, and no one would ever know who this man was. Of course, the River and Caroline knew, the body was that of Bob Fields. But when the local newspaper posted an obituary for John Doe and asked for help in identifying him; Caroline never said a peep. 

On the day John Doe (Bob Fields) was put six feet under, Caroline rode Honey up South Fork to visit Sam’s grave. 

Robby Learns Something Important

 When you make others happy, you’ll be happy

A Warm Smile Shows the World You Have a Warm Heart

        Robby was perched on a high branch of a Cherry Tree with his Mother and siblings. The tree was in the middle of the city park. Robby liked the sweet smell of the cherry blossoms. He took a deep breath and sighed. The morning sun felt so nice. It warmed him. High up in the sky he could see big, white, fluffy things. They looked a lot like the stuff his Mother had used to build their home in the tree. And, on the street below he could see many strange creatures. Some of them were moving very fast.

“They must be in a hurry,” he thought.  

Then he saw one of the creatures sitting on a park bench. He wasn’t moving. Robby tilted his head and looked at the creature. The creature looked back at Robby and tilted his head.  

Robby called out to the creature in his little voice. “What is your name?”   

The creature tilted his head again and made a sound that Robby did not understand. Robby was annoyed. 

He yelled as loudly as he could. “My name is Robby, what’s your name?”  

The strange creature still did not answer. He just tilted his head and smiled at Robby. Giving up, Robby turned to his Mother.

“Momma, what is that strange creature there on the bench? Why does he not answer me when I ask him his name? When I tilt my head, why does he mock me? Why does he stare at me? Why…

“Robby please slow down. Not so many questions at once.” His Mother exclaimed, with a smile on her voice.  

“First.” She said, “The creature there on the bench is called Human. There are many of them. They are not like us and do not speak as we do. They look at us because it pleases them. They mean us no harm. We make them happy.”  

She continued, making sure to answer all of Robby’s questions. “When you think they are mocking you, they are not. That is their way of showing us how much they enjoy our singing.

“Momma, when will I be able to get close to the Human? When will I be able to sing such pretty songs like you do? When will I…”  

“Robby oh Robby, so many questions again.” She said lovingly.  

“But Momma, I want to know everything.”  

Again, Robby’s Mother answered all his questions.  

“When you learn to fly you can go near the Human, but not too near. Some of them do not know how delicate we are, or how strong they are. We never let them touch us. I will teach you to fly and then, together we will get close to a Human. I will teach you to sing, and you will sing wonderful songs with a voice everyone can hear.  

Robby was so excited he was jumping up and down on the branch, singing happily in his little voice. “Oh Momma! I can’t wait!” Robby was very happy that one day he was going to sing.

He was going to sing loud enough so that everyone could hear him. He was going to do his best, to make Humans happy.   

But most of all, he was happy that he had such a great Mother. She always kept him, and his brothers and sisters close to her. She made sure they were safe and had plenty to eat. Plus, she answered all his questions.  

Now he knew with patience and practice he was going to fly and sing like his Mother.

Every day Robby ate all his food so he would get strong. He needed to be strong so he could fly. He also practiced and practiced, singing louder with each passing day.  

Robby was getting closer to achieving his goals. He was going to be the best flyer, the loudest singer and the best bird and friend he could be. He was going to make his Momma proud. Best of all, he was going to make lots of Humans very happy.