by T A Walters
“What the hell?’ The fat man’s eyes opened big and round as he stared back at Viktor.
“Why this is an Ots-14 Groza. I prefer it to a UZI because it shoots a 7.62 by 39 mm round that will take you apart at 700 rounds per minute. Would you like to try it?”
The fat guy began to smile, “If ya don’t mind?”
A quick slap on the rotating bolt, “Well it’s your body.”
Viktor leveled the barrel of the weapon on the fat guy, and like the noise of a jackhammer sawed the man nearly in two. “Ain’t that something,” Viktor remarked as he stepped over the dead man while heading back around the building to his vehicle.
However, taking a shortcut from the back door to the front of the diner, the thin man and Willard met up with Viktor with their favorite brand of pistols when they swung open the front door. It was as if Viktor expected this as he ducked behind one of the men’s pickup truck. The one thing he didn’t mention to the fat guy before he blew him away was the weapon he held was a model 75 mm (OTs-14–4A with a grenade launcher mounted,) but then he figured they surely must have seen the big barrel under the smaller barrel. “Oh duh?” Viktor mused aloud. “Time to blow this pop stand.”
Taking a break to reload their pistols, Viktor popped up like a toy jack-in-the-box nightmare and fired off a grenade from his weapon into the diner.
A moment to take cover from the heavy debris falling down; it was still raining splinters when he got back up and walked over to his vehicle.
Back on the road, Viktor came upon a small figure of a woman hitchhiking. Standing alone, with a dark blue tote on wheels nearby, she held an outstretched hand and a begging plea for a ride with the tipping of her thumb. Like a tattered sail of a ghost ship lost at sea, the woolen scarf she wore around her neck flapped in the cold wind.
From the side of the road, gravel peeled forth a trough from beneath Viktor’s husky off-road tires. Coming to a stop, Viktor hopped out of his vehicle to assist the young lady with her tote. “Let me help you with that,” said Viktor.
She glanced nervously at the woods behind her.
Seeing her do so, Viktor said, “I know, I’m falling for the oldest trick in the book. Why don’t you call your friend to join us?”
Pinning her arms against her stomach, she bit her lip. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Viktor smiled, not looking back at his unattended vehicle, “There is a man in my vehicle. Yell at him to get out.”
“He is desperate for a ride,” she pleaded.
“He is armed. Yell at him to get out.”
Viktor paused, waiting for her to comply with his wishes, and when it was clear she would not, he released her tote and stood up straight. Her mouth dropped open in awe as she was suddenly threatened with the muzzle of Viktor’s machine pistol in her face. “I would like not to have to ask you again.”
“Richard! Come out of the truck, please!”
Viktor grabbed her by the arm and spun her around in front of him. Under her tattered coat, he could feel a frail and trembling young woman. Softly she cried, looking up at him, “He’s my brother, and we haven’t eaten in days.”
It made sense to Viktor when he saw Richard slowly approach them. From the looks of his gaunt face, he too was thin. He held a smile that wavered, his eyes ping-ponging about as he slowly approached them. In his hands, a hunting rifle he kept trained on Viktor. “Mister, you’d better drop that gun, or else I’ll shoot!”
Viktor never experienced such stupidity. Here it was, he holding a machine gun to his sister’s head and the brother demanding he drops his weapon? Viktor slowly repositioned the barrel of his machine gun to the small of her back, knowing that a 7.62 round would easily rip through her and through her brother. She seemed to pick up on Viktor’s strategy and began wailing commands at her brother, “Richard no! You drop the rifle and show some respect.” She turned her head aside and looked up at Viktor, “Please, don’t shoot us. His gun is empty … it has for a long time, which is why we’re hungry.”
Viktor knew the people around here were suffering and would continue so until most died off leaving behind a whole new world. But he didn’t want to be amid such hopelessness. He didn’t want to see and talk to the people who were slowly dying. It brought him too much pain from his childhood; watching his mother starve while she made sure he had food to eat.
Back then, he was Ronnie Brown, not Viktor Chernik, not a filthy and tattered Albanian child wandering the streets of Kosovo, but the son of an American family. His face heated by the anger he felt, and rage began to boil inside him until he shifted the aim of his weapon at Richard and fired off a burst of bullets that barely missed the head of the frail man holding the rifle.
Crumpling and sinking to the ground, Richard clapped his fists to his ears, dropping his rifle and a few metal objects. As Viktor approached him, the young man covered his face and slightly jumped at the sound of Viktor’s voice. “So what were you going to do with that carbine? Beat me with it?”
Apparent by the way the man lie shaking, he was sure Viktor was going to finish him off. Instead, Viktor scraped his boot along the gravel, kicking two 7.62 rounds of ammunition the man took from him while hiding in his vehicle. “So,” Viktor began, “what did you have in mind with these two rounds you stole from me?”
Viktor connected the toe of his boot to the man’s midsection as he lied on the ground. A second sharp kick to the stomach and Richard cried out in pain. “Take your fist out of your mouth and answer me, you fool.”
With an arm that shook like a dead twig in the wind, Richard pointed to his rifle laying a few yards away. “I was hoping they’d fit.”
Viktor turned loose a belly laugh. “I believe that’s the second dumb thing you did today. Why if you managed to chamber that thing you call a rifle with anything other than a 30 caliber round, you might blow the breech off and possibly your head too.”
He looked over at the girl who stood to shiver from either the cold wind, fear or both. “Her name is Rita, and she’s my sister.”
“Shut up. I don’t want to know that.” Viktor angrily grabbed Richard by the collar of his coat and dragged him up to his feet. “You and your sister go over there and put your backs to the big tree over there.”
Rita whimpered to her brother, “He’s going to kill us, execute us, he’s–”
“Shut up and get over there.”
As the two did precisely as Viktor ordered, he heard Richard say as he bowed his head, “Lord forgives us, and I stole those bullets to hunt for … we are so hungry … please.”
Viktor watched, surprised as Richard reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the remaining chunk of salami and cheese and offered it back to him. “Please, I don’t want to go to my death a thief.”
Lowering his gun to his side, Viktor remembered how his mother taught him to pray, and though he wasn’t sure there was a God, he holstered his machine pistol and stood there staring at the two pathetic ones he was intending on putting out of their misery.
“First tell me of a paving company and directions to find it.”
Richard raised his hand to rub his brow and at first confused by the question spoke with certitude that Viktor became hopeful things would go his way … for once.
“There is a place not too far away–a sand and gravel pit where trucks come and go,” he told Viktor. “And, yes, they are the same ones I see on road construction sites!”
Viktor smiled. “Keep the food.” He told Richard, then turned and waved them to follow him to his vehicle. “Your god has heard your prayers to live, and now, you will show me the way.”
Chapter 11
~Chapel of Fallen Souls~
Vietnam Reservation
“Let it be known that on this day, a brave man and fallen soldier be laid to rest here among so many of our brothers of war.”
In conclusion to a 21 rifle salute, Stevens was left behind by those who knew him, and a great many who didn’t. Scuba Bill stood in silence apart
from the many attending the graveside services. What he saw was a small miracle brought to each and everyone here on the reservation and to all those of the combat family of Bill’s convoy. It was a gift of bonding and brotherhood brought to them by Stevens alone in ways no other protocol could provide.
The day held handshakes, and stories and a great sense of teamwork were brought to bear in a dinner feast, where it seemed as if all became ‘old friends.’ Kat was, especially her old self when it came to organizing and controlling the menu on the ‘fly.’ When she ran out of extra hands in the culinary arts, she recruited Joe Wyatt and a few other men to assemble chairs and tables, peeling potatoes, husking corn, shelling peas, and even providing butcher services for beef and lamb. Penny was trying to figure out place-settings and how she should instruct the men to arrange tables. Scuba Bill went down to inspect the underground operation. The real ‘meat and bones’ of the Vietnam wartime military machine warehouse was built by excavating two 20-acre craters in the ground 30+ feet deep. Tons upon tons of steel rebar and concrete were poured into place, and from there solid concrete walls were poured conforming to a layout to house tanks, planes, helicopters, ground support vehicles, and a host of other wartime equipment. Other chambers housed tires, machine parts, and supplies. 12 gantry ways in the first 20-acre complex complete with lifts and PTO motors and gearboxes. The second 20-acre complex housed every type of utility item imaginable, several ton containers of MRE’s and old C-Rats, a mixture of other items from munitions to various ignition equipment and enough napalm loads to set the state of Texas on fire. Forklifts and stevedore machinery had its place in another chamber, and as General Pennock explained to Scuba Bill, the entire 40-acre complex was covered over with the excavated dirt. Tons of displaced dirt formed over the above-ground bunkers in the northeast section of the reservation. Four bunkers, each measuring twenty-one thousand square feet of storage area. All were stocked full of the things that made Scuba Bill’s heart pound.
“You know,” John said to Bill. “If I may call you Bill, I’d just like to say I am honored to have you and your combat units join up together with us.”
Bill turned and shook John’s hand. “The honor’s all mine sir.”
“You know, I was instrumental in delegating and supplying this outfit, and as you have now seen, most of it is far beyond a mere parade storage compound.”
“I see.”
“Twenty years ago, I suspected dire consequences we are facing now; when the nation’s defense takes a back seat to political opportunists whom in the end sell us down the river.”
“You saw this thing coming?”
“Indeed,” said John nodding his head. “If Vietnam didn’t teach us enough of what betrayal was, it became an exercise in survival. I was a major then, and what I saw was more to do with keeping one another alive long enough to go home. Of course, there were the ones who were ‘gung-ho,’ and I was one of the few.
It took a while after the war to sink in. To analyze this crazy jumble of historical events. The hippie movement, the politicians, colluding with our enemies and lobbyist for the buck they can tuck in their own pockets. Whenever a congressman on an 80 to 120 thousand dollar a year job may leave as a multi-millionaire in two years, one must wonder how that works. So I used the system to build this place for the exact purpose, we are facing today.”
Scuba Bill smiled. As helpless as one man can be, there is mounting strength in numbers. No one knew this better than Scuba Bill, and as it turned out John Pennock as well. “You sir, have done an amazing job in designing this outfit.”
John exhaled a sigh, “I could have been a dentist–I pulled enough teeth to do it!”
He was a maverick of a man and a wheeler-dealer, Bill thought. But more than that, John was an accomplished handyman that encompassed the mastering of the fundamental building trades. Plumbing, electrical, stone and woodworking were just a few of them. He seemed to be in heaven here on the reservation, where he could apply his skills each day. He was like a little boy in a sandbox here, never missing the chance to show Scuba Bill his collection of trenchers, bulldozers, front-end loaders and the like. His wife told Bill that during the days his toys were locked up underground, John was challenging to live with. Consequently, armed with only a tractor and plow, he prepared nearly 70 acres of ground for next season’s harvest of lettuce, onions, and celery. Of course, his main side-kick, John Kehoe (Ret. Army Major aka Idiot Boy,) was on hand to take orders from his General officer during those dreary days of toy lock-up.
“You know Bill,” said John wistful. “I’ve always dreamed of taking to the road in an RV when I retired. A diesel pusher would have been my choice to see the USA.”
Scuba Bill chuckled. “Well, as you can see, I have mine; a dangerous one at that.”
“Not if you considered having Idiot Boy tagging along with you!”
~~~~
There is no better way to grab an accurate census of an area than providing dinner ala family picnic for the entire community, as everyone shows up. Vietnam Veterans by the dozens, along with triple the number of sons and daughters and grandchildren, came together along with every member of Scuba Bill and Joe Wyatt’s battle convoy. Bill smiled. Seeing Joe Wyatt toting food trays loaded on his golf cart, and the energetic way he dashed back and forth setting out the dishes on one of the many picnic tables. Joe was a natural born leader as it appeared; having recruited the help of several youngsters to form a line that implemented a ‘bucket brigade’ style of passing food and dishes to various tables.
Everyone except the children was hungry and could hardly wait to get started with dinner. The children were busy being children, turning somersaults, running and playing tag. If not for the total breakdown of the modern American society, an ice cream man and his truck could make a fortune in this community today.
With all calls: A call to duty, a call to fight, a call to assemble, no other call could beat a call to gather and say a prayer over a grand feast the likes of this one. There were racks of beef and pork ribs, barbecued to perfection, along with 80 pounds of hamburger and hot dogs compliments of the community butchers Jack and Tim.
Kathryn Colby or Kat prepared diced potatoes for her famous Colby family potato salad recipe. It was a southern kind using a mustard component and dill pickle, but she was satisfied that expanding the recipe to create enough for a few hundred hungry mouths would be acceptable. She smiled, knowing that the blister on her hand from the repetitive task of shaving and chopping potatoes were worth it. Mamma Dempsey offered several quart jars of homemade dill pickles and fresh mayonnaise to help give the potato salad a Kat dream come true. Kat told Mamma Dempsey that on her Italian side of the family, they preferred sliced black olive mixed in. Mamma Dempsey smiled and then told Kat she couldn’t imagine how that would taste.
~~~~
Scuba Bill was asked to join John Pennock in dinner prayer. He and John were seated at the head of the long line of picnic tables merged to form one massive table. At each one’s side sat John, his wife, and Penny with Scuba Bill. Joe Wyatt sat next, along with Kat and the table-side seating of the rest of the convoy personnel. Mitchel argued with Jess that sitting across from the baked beans was the equivalent to being seated across from the Prime Minister of England. Jess argued with Mitchel about the absolute power of baked beans, and Mitchel told her she would have to wait for his reply.
With things going the way they should at such gatherings as this, John Pennock insisted on Scuba Bill just call him JP as many of the folks in the reservation did. Adopting a casual protocol helped everyone get along well, and besides, there were plenty enough tough times ahead that being known to the enemy as having rank was not the best idea going. To Scuba Bill, it was the impression that this old general was a man who didn’t mind fighting shoulder to shoulder with the men. However, shaken by the thought of impending battles was the order that JP wished not to talk about, but rather enjoy their time getting to know one another at this picnic. There was time
to discuss business tomorrow–besides, there were the antics of the children to watch, good food to eat and much anecdotal communication to cover.
Idiot Boy aka John Kehoe shouldered his presence among JP and Ralph and Veronica, and so on like dominoes down one side of the table. Idiot Boy just wanted to say he was honored with the presence of the convoy and all personnel here at the picnic. John Kehoe was a very animated person who loved cartoons and the Beatles, and as far as JP was concerned Idiot Boy was still a just a boy. He was just a big old Boy Scout, and a lifelong buddy of JP who also referred to him as ‘Truck Dog.’ As a younger man growing up, Idiot Boy was known for his love of cussing and American Sign Language, but things changed when he met the love of his life, his ‘Angel,’ or as everyone else knew her, ‘Shirley.” So when the urge to cuss crept up on him, he would bark like a dog.
JP told Scuba Bill, “Idiot Boy loved to ride in the back of the Jeep and bark like a dog while going through downtown Saigon. It brought about some hard stares from the Vietnamese people.”
Penny remarked she had never seen quite the reaction on Scuba Bill when hearing this as Bill was in the middle of slugging down a mouthful of orange drink that shot out of his nose and mouth like a ruptured bottle of shaken soda pop. JP then dove into a memory of when he and a few others went looking for Idiot Boy who went missing in Da Nang; caught up with him sitting in the corner of the White Elephant restaurant dining room by himself wearing nothing but a giant bib and eating among several empty bottles of Harbin beer and several different bottles of Tsingtao brew. He was sawing on a humongous slab of water buffalo steak and singing the opening jingle of the ‘Flintstones cartoon show.’
Scuba Bill smiled at Penney when he saw Truck Dog aka Idiot Boy walk up behind General Pennock, lean down and whispered in a hoarse tone that most sitting nearby could hear.
