Red Vengeance

by Brendan DuBois

  “Thanks.”

  With Thor by my side, off we go.

  * * *

  I do ask around the encampment, and no one’s too sure where the Captain has ended up. I pass Bronson and decide to keep on passing him, so he can keep his bitter mood all to himself. I also pass by the mess tent—just a huge tarp with some portable stoves being watched over by two cooks—and Thor whines, and I know he’s telling me how hungry he is.

  “Lighten up, big guy,” I say. “At least you got something to munch on from Dad.”

  But there’s no line at the serving counter, and I’m so tempted to stop and grab some late breakfast. Yet I recall what Captain Wallace earlier told me to do: write the report, present it to her, and then get something to eat.

  Near the other Stryker, there’s a call of, “Sergeant Knox!” and coming around the corner with rags and a wrench in her hand is Private Balatnic. Seeing her smiling and slim face under her huge helmet just makes me feel warm and comfortable for a moment. The last time I saw her had been up at by the birch tree back at the horse farm, before everything went south with a vengeance.

  “Hey, Private, good to see you,” I say.

  Still holding the wrench, she wipes at her hands and says, “Good to see you, too. Last time we were together…thanks for helping me out back there.”

  “Glad to do it,” I say. “Hey, think you could help me out?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m trying to track down Captain Wallace. So far, no joy.”

  Balatnic points with her wrench. “I saw her go over there, just five minutes ago.”

  I look to “over there.” Just an open spot between two pine trunks. “Where does that go to? A latrine or something?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” Balatnic says.

  An older soldier by the front of the Stryker yells out, “Hey, Private Balatnic, we still got work over here if you can tear yourself away!”

  “Coming, Sergeant!” she yells back, and with another smile, she goes back to work, and I go into the woods.

  * * *

  There’s not much of a path but I can see where someone has been, by the disturbed pine needles on the forest floor, a couple of small, broken or bent branches. I feel silly walking through, carrying an officially typed report in hand, but orders were orders: Captain Wallace wanted my report, and I wasn’t about to give it to her first sergeant or anyone else.

  Thor pokes around and then stops. I stop as well.

  There’s nothing unusual that I can tell is going on, no smell of cinnamon, no click-click noises.

  But he’s stopped.

  “Stay,” I say, and I push ahead.

  I now hear a stream, and the woods open up and I see some large boulders on either side of the flowing water. I push forward and there’s a small tumble of rocks before me, then a larger boulder, right by the boulder, and sitting there, all by herself, is Captain Wallace.

  I start to open my mouth and just as quickly close it.

  Wallace has her helmet off, as well as her protective gear and MOLLE vest and everything else. Her torso is just clad in an olive-drab T-shirt, torn and repaired here and there, and she’s hugging herself tight, rocking back and forth, back and forth, and she’s sobbing.

  I’m frozen in place.

  Wallace’s face is bright red and tears are wetting her cheeks, and I recall the last time I saw her, back under the tarp by her command Humvee, and her eyes were swollen there as well.

  The sobbing continues, and I feel like I’m intruding and violating something very private, something that no one in the company should see or know about, and I step back.

  And knock over a rock.

  Wallace lowers her arms, picks up a 9 mm pistol, whirls and aims at me.

  I freeze again.

  She stares at me, cheeks wet, eyes red and swollen.

  I don’t know what to say.

  So I don’t.

  I hold up my carefully written and typed report, lower it down on top of a near boulder, put a smaller rock on top of it.

  Hands up again, I slowly turn and walk back into the woods, and Thor is there, waiting patiently for me.

  “Come,” I say, and we go back to the encampment.

  Chapter Ten

  I do get something to eat, though being one of the last ones through the line, it’s cold coffee—with grounds floating around the bottom—and equally cold oatmeal and strips of bacon. But since they were about to clean up, I managed to get double rations for Thor and me.

  He sits by my feet and I hand him cold lumps of oatmeal, which he nuzzles and leaves alone, and I give him greasy strips of bacon, which he eagerly takes. I rub his head and see the gray and black of his bandages, and when I bring my dishes back, I ask one of the cooks, “Where’s the medical tent?”

  “Over yonder,” he says, “and best you hurry up. We’re heading out in about ten.”

  I go over to where I think yonder is, and there’s a Humvee with a Red Cross trailer. A plump female captain wearing eyeglasses and a white coat with captain’s bars on the collar is at the rear of the open trailer, carefully putting cardboard boxes in place.

  “Captain Pulaski?”

  “The same,” she says.

  “May I see you for a moment?”

  Back still turned, she says, “Sick call was at eight a.m. That was nearly two hours ago. Unless you’re gonna die in front of me, I suggest you wait until sick call this evening.”

  “But it’s not for me, Captain.”

  She starts to say, “Well, who’s it for then—” but she turns and halts, and she smiles widely. “Well, look at you, you good-looking boy.”

  I know she’s not talking to me, and I’m okay with that. She comes down and kneels in front of Thor, rubs his ears, scratches his chin, gently pats the side where he’s bandaged, and checks the cast on one of his legs.

  “What’s this brave fellow’s name?”

  “Thor.”

  “How long has he been with you?”

  “Two years.”

  “Handsome, handsome lad.”

  Thor is open to meeting new people, and can either be reserved or fall all over himself to show affection. For Dr. Pulaski, he goes around in a circle a couple of times, and then gently flops over, paws drooping, tongue oozing from his mouth, bandaged belly exposed.

  Dr. Pulaski laughs and gently strokes his belly, and I say, “Don’t let appearances fool you. He can be a stone-cold killer when he wants to be.”

  “Mmm, I’m sure,” she says. “What does he need?”

  “His bandages are getting pretty dirty. I was hoping they could get changed out.”

  “Excellent idea. Hold on for a second.”

  The veterinarian-turned-people-doctor gets up and goes back into the trailer, moves a few things here and there, and then comes out. She kneels down and says, “Okay, Thor, let’s see what’s what. Will you stand for me?”

  Thor does just that and she starts cutting away the bandages with a small pair of scissors. Thor stands there stoically, letting her work. She gently unrolls the bandages, exposing burnt-off fur, burnt and sutured skin. Tears come to my eyes, but Dr. Pulaski talks to Thor in a soothing voice, checks his skin, and slathers on some ointment.

  “Somebody did nice work here. The cast is in pretty good shape, too. Who was it?”

  “Hero Kennels, outside of Albany.”

  She nods. “Know it well. They do good work.”

  “Do…do you know if they survived the attack on the capitol?”

  “Beats me, Sergeant,” she says, unrolling a fresh bandage spool. “If there was any mercy in this world—which I now sincerely doubt—dogs and cats would never, ever be hurt again. Okay, pal, let’s put on a fresh bandage.”

  She gently works on my boy, and I’m happy to see the snow-white fresh bandage being wrapped around him. “Those sutures are looking good. They can probably come out next week. Where did he get these injuries?”

  “Creeper attack.”

&n
bsp; “He with you at the time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Battle Creeper?”

  “No,” I say, recalling that desperate one-man and one-dog stand we did together, on our journey last week to Albany. “Transport Creeper…it was moving on a refugee camp, Brooklyn North.”

  She fastens the bandage and rubs Thor’s head. “I thought I recognized you. There was a little story in Stars & Stripes, with a photo. You’re the sergeant who killed that Creeper by knifing the crawling bastard. Yeah…hell, you got the Silver Star for that, didn’t you? From the President himself, at the Red House.”

  I stand up. “Thanks for taking care of Thor.”

  She gets up, too. “My pleasure. It’s nice to go back to my roots. At least dogs, cats and horses…they may whine, but they sure as hell don’t complain all the time.”

  Pulaski gathers up the bandage scraps and says, “Hold on for a second, will you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Back into the trailer again, and there’s a thumping noise, and she swears, and then she emerges. “Here. Thought I had some left.”

  She’s holding a clear plastic bag, tied at the top. There’s a colored cardboard box inside. She opens the bag, revealing…an old box indeed. Dog biscuits. The lettering is faded but still readable: MILK BONE.

  Thor whines some, wags his tail. Even I can smell the dog biscuits. Pulaski reaches into the faded box. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve kept these, or how many times I’ve been tempted to empty it. When we’ve been traveling hard, not stopping for meals. Or the times we were on short rations. Or the times civilians have come by, begging for food, for scraps, for anything edible.”

  She took the biscuit out, broke it in three pieces. “But our dogs…most of the time they’re starved or roaming without a home. If I can, I give those dogs I find a little something special.”

  Thor lifts up his head, gingerly takes the offered dog treat from her hand, and licks her fingers. “There’s nothing wrong in that, is it? I mean…if there’s anything I hate about the Creepers is the way they’ve killed, and keep on killing, the innocents. Humans…we’re all guilty of something. But dogs…cats…horses…why should they die?”

  Another dog biscuit is offered and gently consumed. “Maybe I’m more guilty than others. Maybe these dog biscuits should have gone to a starving old woman, or a hungry child…But I don’t think I did anything wrong.”

  She looks to me and I say, “I think you’re right.”

  A smile. “I think you might be lying, but that’s okay. I made my peace years ago.” To Thor she says, “One last bite, friend,” and the broken biscuit is gone. But she takes out one more, hands it to me, and says, “For later.”

  “Thanks,” I say, as I slide the precious treat into my coat pocket.

  “There,” she says, wrapping the plastic tight again with the Milk Bone box inside. “Enough left for a while. In the meantime, word I hear is that we’re heading back to Battalion after fueling up at Vihan’s Crossroads. Better food, bunks and showers. Get yourself squared away, sonny.”

  It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed an adult to call me sonny, but considering what she did for my best bud, I let it slide and leave to get squared away.

  * * *

  Back with First Platoon, I help Thor up in the truck, and climb up, seeing Balatnic and De Los Santos. There’s slightly more room than yesterday, and I know better than to ask: I’m sure the extra space here is due to yesterday’s casualties. The truck starts up and other engines grumble as well, and I take a quick look around. I’m stunned at what I see, or what I don’t see. The place looks like no one had been here, everything’s gone, no scraps of trash or debris left behind.

  I say to Balatnic, “Your captain runs a tight outfit.”

  “None tighter,” she says, and a few of the other soldiers snort or make rude noises. I check out who’s on the truck and with a trace of innocence in my voice—just a trace, mind you—ask, “Where’s Sergeant Bronson?”

  De Los Santos adjusts his eye patch. “I hear he has a blister on a foot.”

  Another soldier says, “Maybe his butt.”

  “Or his head,” someone adds.

  De Los Santos says, “There’s a difference?”

  Laughter, as the First Platoon leaves the bivouac, and goes out to join the other vehicles. The wind feels good against my face and for once, I have a relatively full belly after my late breakfast. Two soldiers are up forward, leaning over the truck cab, one with an M-4, the other with an M-10, just in case we run into enemies, either foreign or domestic. The rest of us, me included, stretch out, try to get some rack, because one of the oldest rules in any army—past, present and future—is that you sleep and eat whenever you can.

  So we travel, and run right into the other army rule, that things can go to shit in seconds.

  * * *

  Up ahead there’s a roar of horns blaring, in a staccato pattern, and First Platoon is up as one, ready to go, weapons in hand. I don’t know what the hell is going on but I’m on my feet, too, as the truck brakes to a halt at the side of the road. Balatnic and another soldier drop the tailgate, and out there the two lieutenants and Sergeant Bronson are screaming, “Go! Go! Go! Perimeter B, set up Perimeter B!”

  I don’t know what that means, so I stick with Balatnic as she races to the side of the road and flops down. The truck starts up and backs away, the rear gears whining, and the other trucks move away as well.

  We’re now on foot.

  I smell smoke.

  I look down the road, at the roadhouse, and there’s just a billowing cloud of smoke. Thor is with me, whining, and I tell him to settle down, which he does, reluctantly.

  “Shit,” De Los Santos says. “Vee’s place got torched.”

  More obscenities, but we keep our position, aiming our weapons up the road where the trucks have disappeared. Their departure makes sense but still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, for it clearly signals that the trucks are precious, to be saved, and us grunts aren’t.

  A Stryker grinds its way past us, goes over a crumbling stone wall, takes up position overlooking a pasture.

  The smoke drifts to us, along with something else.

  The smell of cinnamon.

  I check Thor. He’s panting but looking around, definitely on alert.

  A runner comes up the road, says, “First Platoon? First Platoon?”

  “Here,” Bronson answers.

  The runner—a girl maybe twelve or so, not even bothering to wear a helmet—says, “Sergeant Knox. The captain needs to see Sergeant Knox.”

  Before Bronson can answer for me, I’m up with my M-10 and Thor, and we follow the runner down the road.

  * * *

  I guess the sight of the burning building is heartbreaking, and I’m sure it is, but I don’t have time to process that. The roadhouse has collapsed upon itself, burning along, and there’s a prewar pickup truck and automobile that’s been scorched. The trees around the dirt parking lot have been burnt too, and the smell of cinnamon is stronger. There are laser burns along the surviving parts of the walls, and Captain Wallace is there, with First Sergeant Hesketh and Dad. A young Indian boy is standing there, one of the kids from the day before who had served tea. His cheeks are moist with tears and his legs are shaking.

  Wallace says, “Sergeant Knox.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “Three Creepers attacked this location an hour ago,” she says. “You said you had an encounter earlier this morning with three Creepers. True?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She says, “Mohammed, Vee’s son here, he says they were three Battle Creepers. But you say otherwise.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say. “There were two Battle Creepers and one Research Creeper.”

  Dad softly says, “The boy might be wrong.”

  “He might,” Wallace says. “He just might.”

  She squats down before him, wets her thumb, wipes some soot away from his cheeks. The poor kid
looks like he’s a thousand klicks away. “Okay, fella, let’s say you come with us for a while, okay?”

  He nods, snorts some snot from his nose. First Sergeant Hesketh puts a large hand behind the boy’s head, moves him to a parked Humvee on the other side of the parking lot. The fires are continuing, and when Hesketh returns from placing the kid inside the Humvee, Wallace says, “First Sergeant, get a couple of details together. See what we can salvage, but make it quick. I want to get on the road and to Battalion as quick as we can.”

  She looks around, sniffs the air, and then looks to me. “Your dog. He sensing anything?”

  “Only that the Creepers were here,” I say. “They’re not here now.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that news flash,” she says, and she looks at me oddly, like she’s trying to see if I’m going to say anything about our brief encounter this morning, but she’s not going to get anything from me at the moment.

  Dad says, “Without the resupply, will we make it to Battalion?”

  Wallace sighs. “Yeah. But not with the margin of safety I’d like. Damn it.”

  “If I can make a suggestion, there’s an Air Force station within driving distance.”

  “Griffis? Nothing there but white coats and jet jockeys crying over their dead Eagles and Falcons.”

  “But there’s resources there and—”

  Wallace says, “With all due respect, Colonel Knox, no. We’re heading to Battalion. That’s it.”

  Dad just nods and I say, “Captain…where’s the rest of the boy’s family?”

  She rubs at her eyes. “Over there,” she says, and “over there” is the still burning rubble of the roadhouse.

  * * *

  In ten minutes we’re on the road once more, and there’s no more sleeping or goofing around in the rear of the truck. Everybody is up with their weapons at the ready, either M-4s or M-10s, and De Los Santos calls out, “Hey, Sully! This bring back any fond memories, you doing the Thunder Run back at Baghdad?”

  Thunder Run, one of the ballsiest moves an armored unit ever did: back in 2003 when a task force with the Third Infantry Division roared right up a highway into the center of Baghdad, in a probing move to see how deep and organized the Iraqi defenses were. Long story short, they weren’t deep or organized, but those armored forces racing in didn’t know that.