The Red White & Blue

by Harry Kellogg III

  “Yeah, well this is a pretty big deal as well. Plus, Cranston is here and is under my control. So, let’s use him while we can.”

  “Yes, sir…”

  Frank left the room and then the General went over to the mirror and thought, I need a shave and a trim. I’d better get a change of uniform as well. Sarah though my right side was my best. Now, how can I explain this fuck up of an Advisor program without getting in trouble…shit maybe I should call this off. Ah, what the hell.

  He crosses over to the intercom and buzzes the corporal outside.

  “Bring me my best uniform, Corporal.”

  Something is heard coming from the intercom, but is unintelligible.

  “Yes, that’s right. Now snap to it! Oh, and get me that wiz kid barber that Philips always talks about. The one who used to work in Hollywood. Get him in here within the hour with his barber kit and ready to work.”

  The intercom says something and the General walks back to his mirror and takes out his comb.

  ***

  If you will recall, General Green was the commander of the 10th Armored Division. The Division was decimated by the General’s inept leadership near the beginning of the war.

  He was tortured by Beria himself.[10]

  ***

  Where the Fuck, Was He?

  He awoke with a splitting headache, and without the faintest idea where or even what he was. He guessed he was recovering from a concussion, but had no other recollections of what was going on. It was either really, really dark or his eyes where covered, or maybe even damaged. I mean there was nothing. He tried to move his hand and arm to feel his face and he swore he was moving it but he felt nothing on his head at all. He tried swinging his arm around and as far as he could tell there was nothing happening.

  What the hell he thought? Am I going crazy? Maybe they have me tied down he thought, but no, he would feel the straps. Possibly, a chemical induced paralysis? God forbid he was physically paralyzed. If that was the case he, would put an end to his life. There was no way he was going to live like a sack of potatoes. He thought he had a … a… partner? What was the word for it? Yes, he remembered how she smelled so that was something. WAIT, he did smell her! Just now… oh, thank God you’re here…honey. The smell of you is just what I needed.

  Memories started to flood back of a long necked beauty with a face of an angle and legs that were, so shapely, he could stay wrapped up in them forever. Sharon, my beautiful Sharon was here. Oh, how much he wanted to see her. He tried to speak, but nothing came out…in fact, he could not even hear his heart beating. He started to panic but that did absolutely nothing. Nothing moved no screams came out. He couldn’t even cry as far as he could tell. What was happening to me?

  There, he felt something! It was his foot, his glorious foot, and it itched! Thank God, it itched. He didn’t care if it drove him mad … his foot itched and he could feel it!

  Now, how could he parlay that into something that he could move or twitch? He had to assume everything he was not experiencing was temporary, otherwise he would go mad very quickly. Interesting how he still had some thoughts and memories. There was one of a young boy…his son no, was he a nephew or maybe his little brother? How old was he, for God’s sake? Let’s see Sharon was in her mid-twenties, he thought.

  What the hell was that? Oh shit it hurt! What a wonderful feeling…it hurt like hell and something never felt so good. Well, maybe that was a getting a little over the limit he could endure. Then, it stopped and he felt a breath of fresh air on a patch of his skin or some kind of appendage in the middle of his body.

  If he could feel that, why couldn’t he feel his arms or legs? And, what in the world was he feeling something with? Oh, for God’s sake, it had to be his penis of all things. It must have become…active when he was thinking about Sharon and that pain was … who knows what?

  He was probably cold and wanted to sleep.

  Then, he smelled Sharon again. Come closer my beloved, please make this nightmare disappear. He drifted off into a dreamless eternity.

  “Jeessusss look at that one. Wholly shit its still breathing.”

  “Not for long, you can’t live like that for long, I hope. And, it’s not an ‘it,’ Simpson. That was an American tail gunner just a half an hour ago, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Yes, Sir. But, it’s just so hard to think of them as human.”

  “It’s not an option, Simpson.”

  “Should we put him out of his misery Sir? He can’t live long like that and he surely wouldn’t want to. We would be doing him a favor I’m sure.”

  “He hasn’t got long, private. You can tell by his breathing.”

  They were staring down at an armless and legless pile of flesh that had once been Sergeant Wilcox. He was a former football hero for the US Air Force team before the Second War. He was considered so handsome that he was sure to end up in Hollywood soon after the war. Now, he was a burned lump of bloody flesh lying there waiting to take his last breath. His arms and legs had been either blown off or cauterized by the ensuing fire on his plane, or they had been burned off. There was nothing left to even wiggle. Somehow his head was still on and he was breathing quite well through what was once his nose. It was now two large holes like you see on a skull with no flesh. His eyes and ears were gone with just holes remaining.

  “How long are we going to sit here with him, Sir?”

  “That nurse that was here said he had a few minutes to live soldier. So, it’s not too much to ask that someone be with him during his final moments, now is it private?”

  “Well, hell, I don’t know, Sir. I don’t know about these things. You think he can hear us talking about him? I hate to think the last thing he heard was me complaining.”

  “Then stop complaining.”

  “May I, Sir?”

  “May you what soldier?”

  “May I sing to him, Sir?”

  “Why, yes of course you can Simpson. Go ahead son. I’m sure he will like it. You just go right ahead. Wonderful idea boy, just wonderful.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  In a surprisingly soulful voice, Private Willard Simpson started singing a very pure melody accompanied by the words of the hymn “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” It floated over the area covered by the wreckage of the St. Louis Bomber, a B-29, that had crashed along with a dozen others near Cairo. Just feet from safety, it had literally exploded just before its wheels touched down for no apparent reason. Wilcox…Arnold William Wilcox was the only one still alive, and then he wasn’t.

  The nurse came over and checked the charred remains, and knew he was dead just before Private Simpson had finished the second verse. She stayed silent and let him finish. She felt no sadness anymore. There were just too many dead and dying to feel another loss. She wondered if she could ever feel again. Would she ever want to hold another person who wasn’t dying? Could she hold someone and not have the memories of what she had witnessed come flooding back.

  As Simpson finished, she pronounced Wilcox dead. Simpson noticed that she was wearing some very expensive perfume. He knew that because that was the only thing of value his momma had possessed. She would put it on for very special occasions like funerals and weddings.

  All three started to walk back to the camp and the Private mentioned the perfume.

  The St. Louis Bomber was one of 15 that didn’t make it back to safety. Another 10 had landed on the islands of Crete and Rhodes. LeMay had gathered all his resources for an attack on Baku. He had 359 heavy bombers left when the raid started and 321 after. The fighters scored 46 confirmed kills and the gunners on the bombers scored another 14. The number of kills meant that the Soviets were taking heavy losses as well. Yet, they still kept coming in ever increasing numbers.

  General Green, POW

  General Green was beside himself…literally and figuratively. His Soviet captors had set up some sort of film studio in one of the adjoining cells and he could hear his confession being edited. He was in Lu
byanka Prison and had been for a good 2 months. The Reds had tortured him, albeit in very subtle ways. Ways that didn’t leave a mark. The technique that finally got him was putting a rag over his head as his upper body was bent backwards. Then, they pour water on the rag. He couldn’t really breathe, but he couldn’t really drown either.

  He had read about this torture once before it was called “the water cure” or “water torture,” and torture it was. He was prepared to withstand any physical torture and believed he would die before they could break him but this monstrous technique worked to make him say anything they wanted and would do anything they wanted to do if they prevented you from killing yourself first.

  Green tried to figure out different suicide ideas, but his keepers had vast experience in preventing individuals from ending their pain. These ghouls were experts at keeping people alive who didn’t want to be alive. The short balding interrogator was the worst. Green had seen the guy’s picture somewhere, and knew he was some Soviet big shot.

  At one point the General thought that he could break the chair he was tied to when they left him alone for a few minutes. He had actually got one of his feet free and had hopped over to the cement wall. With all his might, he had smashed the chair against it. The chair wasn’t even scratched. The chair might as well been made of steel for all it mattered. Another time he had shaken himself loose and tried to run head first into a wall. But, he didn’t get a good enough start. The wall was too close, and at the last minute he flinched and just knocked himself out.

  He never got another chance after that. They even put some kind of cage around his head that was tied to the rest the straight jacket he was put in. The only way he could kill himself was to drown. Ironically, nearly drowning was what he was enduring for hours at a time.

  It is truly amazing how the human body resists drowning. He had heard that there was a time when you just gave up trying and slipped away. Not with this water torture. Your body fought for all that it was worth. Your brain would not let you rest as it, too, struggled to survive including lying through your teeth about all you believed in and against anything you loved.

  You actually know you are dead but you are not. There is no peace. Just, your whole body screaming in pain. You would do anything to make it stop…anything. He had never been more panicked in his life.

  So, they let him recover. Then, they set him in front of a camera and told him to read a ridiculous confession about American and NATO war crimes that dwarfed anything the Germans and Japanese did. Basically eating babies alive type stuff. It had been too long since they had stopped the torture, he supposed and he rebelled.

  Back to the chair and the water soaked rag. The next time they tried, he was totally broken. All, the bald guy had to do was to look at him and he would have killed his two year old daughter if told to. It was terrifying that he could be brought to this state. He did remember where he had heard about this torture. It was during the trial of General Tojo, the Japanese war criminal. Tojo was hung and one of the reasons was that he had used this very technique on American prisoners.

  General Green had read about one of the prisoners, who experienced this water torture and thought, what a weak individual. Now, he knew better.

  It was further torture to hear his own voice denouncing his very beloved country and way of life, disowning the oath he had taken as an officer when he had graduated. But, he was helpless. You just could not will yourself to die in the short run. He supposed, he would be able to kill himself over a long period of time. He had heard of people wasting away. He was definitely losing weight. But then again, all his torturers had to do was wave that rag in his face and he would eat all they wanted for a long as they wanted.

  The food was impossible to choke on, a kind of porridge with who knows what was in it. He would have eaten maggots if they waved that rag in front of his face. He would have eaten his own hand given the panic caused by that torture. It was so profound, it defied description.

  And what had he done, Oh God, to deserve this? What heinous crime had he committed? What sin would bring on such misery? How could you allow such fiends to exist, much less control over millions of lives? He had stopped believing in God, after the second session of the water torture. No God he knew would permit this abomination to occur to such a devote worshipper. All thought of mercy was erased. All thought of salvation was obliterated. All, in under 10 minutes. That’s how powerful this torture was.

  It is shocking to think that this torture was developed in God’s name during the Spanish Inquisition. It was designed to bring those who were damned back to the grace of God. It had the exact opposite effect on him. He, now, damned God with almost every breath. What have we done that has caused this and the previous world wars? Were we all being punished for the sins of Adam and Eve or for some more recent transgression? How can you allow the suffering of the innocent, who do not even know you exist, and feel what I have felt? Oh God, why has thou forsaken we? How can all of mankind be at fault?

  He heard the part that will haunt him forever being played over and over again from next door. Maybe he didn’t sound sincere enough. Maybe they were going to ask him to do it again…and he would…as many times as they wanted…as many God Damn times as they wanted.

  Quiet in the Pyrenees

  Not much was moving on the Pyrenees Line. The Red Army had been within 10 days of a major breakthrough into the tank country of Spain, when SAC had destroyed 70% of the Soviet’s oil production capacity with the four atomic bombs. The VVS and the invading armies moving into Turkey were demanding the large remaining stocks of fuel. In addition, the fuel shortage stranded many of the best Soviet army units forcing them to use many second line troops in their invasion into their ultimate goal, Spain. The invasion of Turkey, and then, the Levant was intended to destroy the US air force bases in Turkey, and eventually those in Egypt as well as to gain the Persian oil.

  For now, conditions on the Pyrenees Line were static, and that was just fine for most involved. The Soviet troops had been fighting continuously for six months and had defeated all they encountered. In the last war, they had not lost a major battle since the Second Battle of Kursk. It had all been a series of victories since then.

  Manuel cared to know nothing of this. He was lonely and homesick, and stuck up in these God forsaken mountains. He was not a Basque or a sheep herder. He was a former engineering student whose life had changed with the invasion of his homeland by the Ruskies. What the hell were they doing here, so far from their Steppes? Didn’t they have enough empty land to use, that they had to invade these mountains?

  Being an educated young man, he had been introduced to the concepts of Communism. He was ten when the Spanish Civil War had ended, and then Franco had the good sense to keep them out of World War Two. In a sense, the current fighting was a continuation of the civil war.

  So far, he had only one kill, and that was from afar. He had taken a wild shot at a movement in a bush to their front. The intended target had been thrown backward in a satisfying spray of blood coming from the head. Manuel loved the American M1 Garand. It had right amount of kick and strength of impact with eight shots in quick succession, if you needed them. Yet, the M1 was a true rifle and good at long range.

  The man he had hit was evidently an advanced scout for some kind of probing attack. Probably ordered by some new officer who wanted to show his power over the men. Almost all major military activities had ceased. He thanked God for that. He had heard the many horror stories of close combat on the mountaintops, and wanted no part of that lore. He much preferred the current stalemate, where they just looked at each other over no man’s land.

  He did get a chance to examine the body of the man he killed later that same day. He was a man, just an ordinary man. Fairly big as Spaniards stand and he was clearly not a Spaniard. Manuel had not been sickened by the sight of the almost headless body. He had already seen so many bodies during the war. This body was different to him because it was caused by his own han
d. He was torn between a sense of accomplishment and feeling remorseful that he had taken the man’s life. From what he could tell, the fellow looked very pleasant. In fact, Manuel could imagine sitting down over sharing a bottle of wine with the fellow and debating the world’s problems.

  Both Spain’s and Russia’s theories of governance allowed the majority of people to mate, eat drink, laugh, love, raise a family, and even complain. He had heard that in Russia, they still complained but not too loudly. Spain was moving away from Fascism when this new threat had occurred, and now had taken a turn back to the bad days. The turnaround brought up the question of which way was the best way forward.

  Manuel believed that this Stalin fellow did not follow the teachings of Marx in the least. He just used it as a cover for what was just your ordinary dictatorship, and that was very similar to what was happening once again in Spain.

  Some of the more educated questioned why Spain was fighting for either system. The Americans seemed to have a good government. Why can’t we adopt their way was the common refrain. The US had strong unions that protected the workers. Yet, ordinary citizens could still become millionaires with the vast majority being of the middle class. He was essentially from the Spanish middle class, having been allowed to attend university. He knew he would never be rich if he stayed in Spain, but that was okay.

  In Spain, you could not innovate or push new ideas to the fore. You could not progress in your career without bribing an official, or letting one have sex with you or your wife depending upon his preferences. He much preferred what he had heard from the Americans he had encountered, and the British as well. You are free to gain social status and wealth based on your talent. He really liked the sound of that idea.

  A shot whizzed close by his ear and he jumped back both physically and mentally. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, he had leaned too far forward and should have been an easy kill for that sniper across the way…but the sniper missed. He never missed. Manuel knew for certain that the shot was not a mistake. What was he thinking? Was this some kind of soldier’s truce, a way of circumventing an officer’s orders? I miss you and you miss me. Was that what was going on?