by Cliff Deane
“Oh, yeah, I see, but come on, Jay,” asked Levi, “how much meat can we really expect to get from bunnies? Is this project really going to provide a serious dent in our meat requirements?”
Jay chuckled and said, “Well, let’s see, in about six weeks we will be able to prepare a meal which includes rabbit meat. We will have nearly eight hundred rabbits ready to process and since each rabbit will produce from eight to twelve pounds of meat, and just using the eight-pound number that’s six thousand, four hundred pounds of the healthiest meat in the world. And don’t forget the fur; we’ll turn the pelts mostly into gloves and hats. We can also speed up or slow the production down to suit our needs. I don’t know, Genrul, do you think this project is going to put a serious dent in our meat requirements?
Levi was stunned, “Jay, did you say six-thousand pounds a week?”
“Yes, sir, but there is a problem; very soon, we are going to have close to a thousand new kits and we will soon to be up to our ears in Rabbit Poop.”
“Why is that a concern, Jay, just dump it. I don’t see the problem.”
“Oh, we could dump it, but rabbit poop is not only a fantastic fertilizer, it also decomposes into perfect topsoil; so, if we can keep it, we’ll have a good head start on improving the soil when we decide to stop for good.
You see, what we hope you can do is get us a dump truck, a big dump truck, or two, to put the poop in so we can have a great big pile of it when we add the magic ingredient that will turn the rabbit droppings into the perfect topsoil. Why, in six months we could have several tons that will grow anything.”
“Magic ingredient,” asked Levi, “and what would that be?”
“The magic ingredient is earth worms; we use Red Wigglers to be more exact. Shoot, we been doin’ this for years and years, and that’s why we brought close to half a million of those little poop eatin’ critters along with us. Oh, and we’ll also recycle any uneaten greens by digging a hole in the droppings, dumping in the veggies, and covering them up.
So, can you get us a dump truck, with a canvas top? If you can, by the time we get to Texas, or wherever we’re goin’ we can have tons and tons of topsoil that will grow anything."
“Jay, I only see a couple of concerns with your request; first, getting a dump truck may prove problematic. Hopefully, our diesel guys can get one running, but what I’m most concerned about is having a smelly honey wagon in the middle of our convoy, and let’s be honest; that will have a big impact on morale.”
“Oh, no sir,” smiled Jay, “rabbit droppings don’t smell, so that is no problem. Urine, of course, has ammonia in it, but we have already vented the trailer to remove that smell.”
Levi smiled and said, “Really, rabbit crap doesn’t smell? Well, okay then, I’ll have Colonel Smith look into finding a couple of running dump trucks.
Wait, did you say you have nearly half a million worms already? Where are they?”
“Yes, that’s right, mostly, they are kept cold in plastic containers until we need ‘em. They’ll be fine for months just balled up and covered with soil. Then, when we want to put ‘em to work, we grab a handful and put them in those deep pans you see under each cage. Now, this pan is, oh, maybe two inches deep in poop, so far, that has begun to decompose and has grown warm. Then we added the worms and they too warm up and have started eating. It’s Mother Nature working at her best.”
“Okay,” said Levi, “but why are you so sold on those Red, uh, whatever their name is? Won’t any earthworm do?”
Now Jay chuckled and said, “Yes, any worm will eventually turn the droppings into soil, but Red Wigglers are like ordinary worms on steroids. They eat and breed very fast. Their production is ramped up to probably three to four times faster than ordinary worms; and another benefit is that if there is a place to fish nearby our new place, we have a constant supply of fishin’ worms.”
Levi was duly impressed and said, “Jay, that is truly fascinating. I am seriously impressed and doubly pleased that you agreed to join our wandering band.”
Jay beamed and said, “Why thank you, we’re awful glad you asked us.”
Jay again smiled widely and said, “Genrul, in, oh, say, another eight weeks, at full production, we can provide about six thousand pounds of meat per week, and lots of warm rabbit fur for gloves, and such. Most of the ladies in our little tribe are very good at making all kinds of clothing from rabbit fur.”
“Just one thing, Genrul, we can only produce that quantity of meat and such, if every one of our group is freed up to work the line.”
“My friend, you have just been placed in full command of your entire group.”
Now, Jay laughed and said, “Always have been, Genrul, always have been.”
Both men laughed, and Levi said, “Yes sir, I guess you have. Jay, I want to thank you for your contributions to the ROA, and to me personally.”
“Aw, shucks,” blushed Jay, “ain’t no need for all that. It just comes down to we help each other out, ‘sides, I got a feelin’ you meant it when you told me that color don’t count no more. You did mean it, right?”
“Yes sir, before God Almighty, I meant every word. We just don’t have room for those stupid hatreds anymore; from either side. You with me, brother?”
“You know, Levi, I think we are going to build a better world, together.”
The two men shook hands as Levi said goodbye, and left to find Gus to share his new knowledge of rabbits, but more importantly, how their food situation had dramatically improved.
***
Chapter 6
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
Two Patrols
16 October 0830
LRRP Patrol
Enroute to Ft. Polk
The morning brought a medium gray overcast, with temps in the lower forties (f), but still flyable. The members of the LRRP boarded three Huey 1Js, supported by two Cobra Gunships, lifted off for Fort Polk, and points west. One Huey and two Cobras would follow the LRRP providing resupply, communications with the Convoy, and overwatch protection.
At 0900 a four-man mounted patrol set off to reconnoiter the route out to approximately ten miles. Two additional Mounted Troopers accompanied the patrol to return the mounts to the convoy.
Ambush
16 October 1030
Returning to convoy
Twin brothers Virgil and Artemus Moore had been afoot for nearly a year following the loss of their stolen pickup truck to other thieves. These two men had been raised on a farm in Alabama, but living on a farm meant work, and these two had no love for any kind of labor.
They were, however, damned good at drinking beer, which led them to the neon lights of skid row, well before the lights went out, and their station had not improved in the interim. Both men were of average height, with filthy, dark hair that hung in greasy strings to their shoulders. They were rail thin, and neither could, nor cared, to remember their last bath.
Virge and Artie survived by living off the scraps left behind in homes and business’. Theft, rape, and murder were not strangers to these animals. From a historical perspective, they were bushwhackers in the classic sense.
“Hey, Virge, them boys a’ridin’ horseback sure has nice rides; ya’ think we should’a tried to pick ‘em off when we had the chance?”
“Yeah, Artie, I think we screwed the pooch on that one, a’course they wuz six of ‘em; still, I’d love to have me a horse to ride. I am sick to death of walkin’.”
The two men trudged along the road following the Mounted Troopers in the hope that they might be able to steal a couple of rides.
“Did you see them nice saddles and them rifle holster thingies? Man, they even had nice sidearm holsters, too,” said Artie.
“Yeah, yeah, I seen ‘em, but I wuzn’t aimin’ to take on six of ‘em, but yeah, their gear looked first class. You know, iffen we could cop a couple of them horses and their ‘quipment, hell, we’d be shittin’ in tall cotton. Why, people respect folks that got horses nowadays.”
Virgil, the leader of this miserable crew, said, “Well, sorta’, I mean, I seen an old Clint Eastwood cowboy movie; shit, hit din’t look ta be all that hard.”
“Yeah, I remember that’un, old Clint was living high with them hogs, but he still left off to earn some money by killin’ folks. Hey, you ‘member that blind gunfighter in nat movie?”
“Oh, hell yes,” laughed Virge, “he done throwed open the shit house door and kilt that feller while he wuz takin’ a dump. Yeah, that was a good’un.”
Artie cackled and asked, “Virge, you think we really could learn to ride us some horses?”
Virgil snorted at the question and said, “Why a’course we could; all you gotta’ do is just put your foot in that foot holder thing and throw your leg over the horse’s back, and boom, we ridin’, I mean, come on, how hard can it be?”
Artie wasn’t wholly convinced, but Virge was the brains of the outfit. He said, “Yeah, a’course, how hard can it be?”
Virgil looked down a long open stretch of road and said, “Holy shit, will you just look at that. Why, they’s only two men and a bunch of horses. Artie, I think our ship just come in. Come on, let’s find cover; we about to become men of property.”
“Damn straight,” echoed Artie, “this is gonna’ be our day, hot damn.”
The two bushwhackers took positions on the side of the road and waited for the approaching troopers.
The two seventeen-year-old Privates, Jorge Ramirez and J. R. Thompson were returning to the convoy with the four horses belonging to the, now dismounted foot patrol, which was approximately five miles ahead of the ROA Force.
The day was beautiful but cold, with a biting five mile per hour breeze that seemed to cut right through their jackets; these two inexperienced young privates were talking about women and not about their situational awareness training. They blithely rode directly under the guns of two natural born killers.
Just as they came abreast of the two vagabonds, shots rang out, striking both troopers and knocking them from the saddle. Moore was killed immediately, but Ramirez, though severely wounded in the right thigh, watched the two men approach him.
One of the men looked down at Ramirez and said, “Hey, Virge, this’un still alive, hell, you never could shoot worth a shit. You want me to finish him off?”
“No, we don’t need no more noise; is he bad hurt?” asked Virgil.
“Don’t know for sure, but he don’t look too good.”
“Okay, then just let him be, he’ll bleed out soon enough, but iffen he starts whinin’, just kick the shit out’ta him ‘til he shuts up.”
Ramirez’ had taken a round high in the left leg, but as he was lying on his side, in the fetal position, Artemus thought, from the blood pool that the young trooper had been gut shot.
The Cavalry Mounts had been trained to ignore weapons fire, and as a result, they stood around waiting for their riders. Jorge watched as the two men tried to figure out how to climb into the saddle for some time before they were finally able to gain, at least, a bit of success.
The horses were nervous as they had never been ridden by men who were not experienced in the fine art of riding. Still, their training allowed the two men to finally get into the saddle, and with even more significant effort managed to get the horses to go, at least somewhat, in the direction of travel that the brothers wanted.
The ambush had taken place at a crossroad, and not wanting to ride into the men, they knew must be ahead, turned north along a county road.
Shortly after, the men, who were entirely unable to manage the other four horses, left them behind.
Jorge sat up and using his first aid packet, began, with great pain, to stuff the coagulating material into the wound. He then removed his scarf, and tied it around his leg, just above the wound. His mount had not been taken by the murderous thieves and came to him when Jorge called out. The trooper managed to draw himself to his feet and cursing the pain he suffered as he pulled himself into the saddle, and began the three-mile ride back to the convoy.
Jorge was nearly unconscious from the pain and loss of blood by the time his mount, Cimarron, slowly entered the confines of the convoy.
The advance guard saw that Jorge was injured, and yelled out, “Medic, man down, as he took the reins and eased Private Ramirez out of the saddle and laid him on the hard macadam road.
Doctor Tom Monroe quickly made his way to the wounded trooper and immediately began the first aid necessary to stabilize the wound before having him taken to the Medical Truck.
Levi and Gus met the Doctor at the Aid Station and received the news that Private Ramirez would survive if he could avoid a severe infection.
Once Jorge had received sufficient painkillers, he was able to relate the story of the ambush. He informed Levi, Gus, and Major Page that the men had turned north at the crossroads where his friend, Private Moore lay dead.
“Sir, may we retrieve these murderous bastards, now?” asked Major Page, barely able to contain his white rage. Page had become the Commander of the Mounted Cavalry following the death of Colonel Leon Pickett, who had commanded the lost 2nd Brigade.
“Make it so,” replied Gus, and if possible, bring them back alive.”
“Yes sir, if we must,” grumbled Page as he turned to get one of the Cavalry Platoons mounted and on the way.
Gus also ordered a Cobra into the air to assist in locating the two men, and to provide overwatch in case there were more than just the two men.
Colonel Susan Levins was not about to let any other pilot go on this mission; this one was all hers. Lieutenant Levins was the up pilot and was not at all happy about Susan’s decision. She said, “Colonel, may I, at least, go as your Gunner?”
Susan looked to her Gunner, Lieutenant Denver Carr, but before she could say a word, Carr held out his arms, in a pushing fashion, and said, “No, ma’am, my ship, my guns, and I want these shitheels as bad as anyone.”
“Roger that L T; sorry Kate, it’s his call, and I’m telling you right now to get over it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said a disappointed Lieutenant Levins. Kate came close to Susan and whispered, “Don’t worry, Mom, I’m good, and I’ll be here ready if you need me.”
“You da best, Kate, love ya, kiddo,” said Susan as she closed the canopy of her Cobra and returned the salute of her Crew Chief. The Cobra lifted smoothly from the helipad and roared off, in search of two murderers and thieves.
“Virge,” whined Artie, “this is bullshit, why it ain’t nuthin like I figgered it’ud be. Hell’s bells, Virge, we can walk faster’un this.
This damned horse is dummer’un a box of rocks, hell, I done said giddy-up, a hunnerd danged times, and ain’t nuthin’ happened.”
Virge said, “Shut up, Artie, we’ll get the hang of it; a‘course I ain’t sure it ain’t you that’s dummer’un a box a rocks; just keep workin’ on it, ya’ danged sissy.”
Virgil and Artemus had a two-hour head start, but with their inexperience with the mounts, their struggles did not allow them to get far.
Levi knew the Cavalry Troopers would be out for blood, but he hoped that they would not kill the murderers outright.
“Nest 6: Snake 6: Over.”
“Snake, this is Nest 6, go ahead: Over.”
“Roger Nest, we see ‘em. Have the posse turn right at the crossroads and travel straight for five miles. Oh, Lord, these two are not horse people. It looks like the horses want to return to the stable, and the riders don’t seem to have any idea how to control them.
Request permission to continue shadow until posse closes in; at that point, I’ll buzz these two geniuses and hopefully spook the horses into spilling the riders. If we’re lucky, they’ll get hurt and be unable to try to run. Over.”
“Good plan, Snake, stick with ‘em. How fast are they able to go?”
“Nest, it looks like they
are going nowhere fast; maybe half a mile a week. Six, you could time these guys with a calendar. Posse will catch up in less than an hour. Over.”
“Roger, Snake, have they seen you? Over.”
“No, six, I am nearly a mile away but have a clear visual. Over.”
“Roger, Snake, keep us informed. Out.”
Artie kicked his mount in an attempt to make some headway, and the shock to the horse caused him to jump forward, and then jerk sideways, throwing the rider to the ground.
“Nest, Snake, one of them fell off. If he hits that horse may I buzz them now to give the horses a chance to throw the second rider and escape? At that point, I’d like to put a few 7.62 caliber caps in their ass.”
“Roger, Snake, if they attempt to injure the horses, go ahead, you are authorized weapons hot, if necessary.”
“Nest, Snake, ten-four…OH NO YOU DON’T, YOU BASTARD! Nest, I’m going in and leaving the mic open.
Gunner, I’m going to buzz them from east to west and 100 meters north of their position. Stand-by for warning shots, and don’t hit those horses!”
“No worries, Banshee, I’ve got this.” All combat pilots have their own nickname; Carr’s handle was Gunner, and Susan’s was Banshee.
The Cobra roared down upon the men; their terror evident in their actions. Virgil’s mount reared up and threw him hard onto the macadam. Virgil landed on his tailbone which broke into several pieces. He lay on the road writhing in intense pain.
Artemus suffered a sprained ankle when he was thrown from his mount.
As Gunner sprayed the ground in front of the murderers, Artie raised his hands in surrender.
In a panic, the horses began running on the macadam toward the convoy. Banshee was sure the terrified horses would fall to the paved road because of their slick shoes. Luckily, they drifted to the shoulders and soon slowed down, tired and afraid, but unhurt, they began ambling along the road. Both Gunner and Banshee heaved huge sighs of relief.
