Called to Arms Again: A Tribute to the Greatest Generation

by J. L. Salter

He looked distinctly sheepish. “Time to take my blood pressure pill.”

  “Well, you already wrecked my pressure with your ridiculous alarm,” Irene snapped. “If Daddy’s old Springfield wasn’t plugged up, I ought to shoot you just for scaring me.”

  Bernie’s eyes got very large and he looked past Irene to her husband.

  “She wouldn’t really shoot you, Bernie. But like as not, she’d whack you pretty good.” Pete stuck out his chin. “Now be sure that alarm’s completely off so we don’t have folks wetting their pants out here.”

  “I can silence it, but it’ll keep beeping every five minutes ‘til I take my pill.”

  “How does it know if you took yer Bless George pill?”

  “It doesn’t. But the instructions on how to stop this stupid alarm are under the box with all my pills.” He referred to a clear plastic container with twenty-one compartments — medicine for one full week. “It’s back at my house.”

  Pete just exhaled loudly and focused again on the opposing force.

  Bernie shrugged. “What about my medicine?”

  Ellie clasped the top of his shoulder. “When this is over, we’ll go get yer pills and divide them up amongst us all. I suspect everybody’s blood pressure’s gonna have a workout today.”

  “But I can’t share any, because the insurance only gives me ninety pills every three months.”

  Ellie looked him straight in the face. “I was kidding, Bernie. I used to be a nurse. I understand meds. Now tuck that watch away somewheres so it don’t skeere everybody when it goes off again. Then get yerself focused on the other side of this barry-cade.”

  As Bernie fiddled with his alarm, he looked around like the beautiful watch fairy might swoop down and provide assistance. But she didn’t. Bernie unbuckled the watch and buried it in his pants pocket under a sweaty and soiled handkerchief.

  When the second mortar barrage began everybody ducked at the barricade except Lyin’ Leo who couldn’t hear Vegge-zilla’s muted report.

  Oranges.

  Chet reached behind Isaiah and tugged Leo’s sleeve. “Better get down. Unless ya want ta ride the ambulance.”

  Leo looked around, saw everybody else hunkered over, and searched for a more protected space. He didn’t see one on his end of the barricade, so he just crouched against the left flank of Wade’s truck bed.

  A symmetrical orange landed with a dull splat about fifty feet in front of the defenders.

  Pete was distressed. “Still too short. Who’s got that phone?” It was right next to him, in Kelly’s hand.

  Kelly called in the correction.

  After a pause, another orange landed within about twenty feet farther than the first one. Shortly, the third orange landed, a bit farther toward the enemy. The barricade defenders relaxed a bit since Wade seemed to fire Vegge-zilla in waves of staggered three.

  Pete was surprised and very pleased to note there had still been no gunfire from the gangsters. No probes yet either.

  ****

  Task Force Wade

  After he’d fired his second mortar barrage’s first round, Wade plopped down on the ground and waited for Roger to report the signals from Joe’s observation post.

  From the rafters of the unfinished duplex, Joe moved the binoculars from his face and motioned with his hands in front, about three feet apart.

  Roger translated for Wade: “Aim longer for the next two rounds. First one’s still too short. Aim longer.”

  Wade tapped the pipe again and then fired the second orange quickly.

  The phone in Roger’s pocket rang.

  Wade wiped sweat from his eyes. “If that’s Kelly again, tell her I don’t need no back seat shooting. Already got me a spotter.”

  Roger wasn’t listening to Wade. “Kelly says the first one was fifty feet in front of their barricade. Second orange was plus twenty feet. Try to find the range of the lead truck, somewhere in front of the third duplex on the north side of that street. She says it’s about eighty more feet.”

  “Eighty feet! This ain’t no field mortar. I ain’t got calibrations on this thing.” Wade reached down near the base where knobs might have been. “It’s just grip and rip. Point and shoot.”

  Which he did.

  ****

  Opposing Force

  Vegetables and fruits raining from the sky in front of the barricade line was still a complete mystery to the disorganized hoodlums — as were the loud explosions from who-knew-where. The second barrage, coming so soon after the second bomb explosion, caught everyone by additional surprise and landed much closer to their own lead truck.

  “Where’s all that junk coming from?” Foss looked around. “We ain’t safe down here!”

  “I can’t see it, man, but the sound’s coming from over there somewheres.” Herve pointed in the direction of the open common area, which was scarcely visible from that far down the hillside.

  “I ain’t seen no more guns up there on that line.” Foss held up one finger. “So maybe they just got that one rifle we heard a while back.”

  “I don’t know, man.” Herve was still crouched low. “But I ain’t been looking too hard since they started firing that cannon over there.”

  “We need recon,” announced Foss.

  “Forget recon, man! They got a cannon shooting stuff at us, they got something else getting blowed up somewheres over there.” Herve pointed. “And I think that guy digging holes with all them wires was putting bombs in the ground, man.”

  “If they put ‘em in the ground, they’d be mines, idiot.” Foss’s look of supremacy changed to one of concern as he mulled over that possibility. “How many holes?”

  Herve moved to the other side of the lead truck’s rear. He peered around the north side toward the space just east of Leo’s driveway. He pointed as he counted. “I don’t know, man. Maybe ten or eleven bombs buried in there with wires sticking out, man. Plus all them other holes. Who knows what else they planted up there, man.”

  “Guess they ran out of time and didn’t get all their fancy mines set.” Foss was thinking again. “That means we can walk through using the empty holes and won’t get blowed up.”

  “Yeah, well you better find one of Dante’s homeboys for that tip-toe dance, because I ain’t sending my hommes across any bomb field, man.”

  “Mine field.” Foss was a stickler for accuracy.

  “I don’t care if it’s a stinkin’ daisy field, man. My guys ain’t going through it!”

  “Okay, okay, okay. No sweat.” Foss felt uncommonly calm. “We don’t need to go through that patch of ground anyhow.”

  Herve looked at his bald partner with a bit of a squint and wanted to ask something… but didn’t.

  “While I think a minute, you talk to them.” Foss pointed toward the barricade and then shifted to a more comfortable crouched position.

  “I ain’t no talker, man. What’cha want to tell ‘em?”

  “See if you can provoke them into playing a few cards. We got to know what else they’re holding.” Foss looked satisfied with his own brief explanation. “Let’s move up there a bit so I’ll have a better look while you’re yammering.”

  Foss and Herve approached cautiously, hunkered over and moving fast. They both ducked behind a large Chrysler parked along the north side of Placid — about eighty feet away from the barricade.

  Herve briefly waited, thinking maybe Foss would change his mind and do the talking himself. Foss just nudged Herve roughly with an elbow.

  Herve yelled, “You folks got the wrong idea, man. We’re just here to relieve you of a few possessions, which it looks like you got plenty to spare. Ain’t no reason nobody gets hurt. Just put down that gun, man, and clear out this street and we’ll go back to work. We only got about eight of them houses cleaned out and we need to keep moving, man.”

  Those eight duplexes held sixteen condos, so the invaders already had a pretty good haul.

  Foss punched his lieutenant’s shoulder. “You don’t tell them how many we do
ne. We’re trying to get info from them, not blab away all our business.”

  “Well, do you own talking, man. You didn’t tell me what to say ‘til I was already done.”

  “Yeah, well, too bad. But I did get a look. I saw at least three or four rifles. Plus some other stuff. Need a better look.” Foss grabbed Herve’s sleeve. “Step out in the open a bit and draw their fire, so I can see what else they’ve got.”

  “You crazy, man? I ain’t going to dangle myself out in the street just so you can see what they shoot at me, man. That’s nuts!” Herve pointed over his shoulder. “Bring Dante up here, man. He’s just stupid enough to do it.”

  Foss agreed with Herve’s assessment and waved to Dante to move forward.

  ****

  Barricade

  At the barricade, most were surprised to hear any dialog attempted from the enemy. Except Leo, who didn’t hear it, and Pete who’d been expecting it for some time.

  Pete was thinking strategy. Leave them guessing. He held out his free hand, palm horizontal and facing down.

  Ellie understood: No reply to the enemy, yet.

  Baldy and Chico, obviously part of the criminals’ leadership, were presently crouched behind Art’s Chrysler and the toady-looking punk was on his way forward.

  Their spokesperson had talked a bit like a rural Kentuckian but still somehow manifested a Hispanic accent. It was like the gang leader on Hill Street Blues had been raised in McCreary County.

  Diane nudged Kelly. “You think Chico there is the leader?”

  “Might be the mouthpiece. But I think Baldy’s the one in charge.” Kelly pointed toward the ugly shaved head. “He looks like a killer to me.”

  “No way Toady’s in command.”

  Kelly nodded her agreement.

  ****

  Opposing Force

  Dante hustled forward and joined Foss and Herve behind the Chrysler, where the three leaders huddled for a moment. Then Herve and Dante scurried back down the hill to the safety of the lead truck. On Herve’s signal, driver H4 put the vehicle in gear.

  Scrunched down, H4 eased the largest van along Placid’s north side and stopped in front of the third duplex, where Frank resided — directly across from Melvin’s and Florence’s. The front of the big truck was now about one-hundred-fifty feet from the barricade. It stopped, motor idling, and H4 waited inside. The passenger, runner H9, got out and cautiously approached Herve and Dante, who’d been trailing the back of the van like soldiers would follow their own tank into enemy territory.

  Foss had watched from the rear of the Chrysler until the lead truck stopped. Then he sprinted down the hill to join the others behind the huge van. Time for another pow-wow.

  The fourteen-foot enclosed truck also moved up until it was directly in front of the second duplex on that street, about one hundred feet behind the largest vehicle. That left the stake-bed with the long trailer down on North Pleasant.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Wednesday at 2:09 p.m.

  Boom! The third bomb exploded back at the hay bales.

  ****

  Task Force Mitchell

  When the third bomb exploded in the distance, Mitch’s Marauders were still monitoring the pickup parked down at the entrance to the subdivision.

  “Hey, they’re taking off!” Steve, with the best eyes, determined one was Hispanic and the other probably Oriental. They were H3 and H8 on the Foss list, but Steve couldn’t know that. The pickup headed east on Great Vista burning rubber a good bit of the way toward Highway 27. “Can’t see that intersection from here, but I bet they turned north.”

  Mitch craned his neck, to no avail. “You think they warned anybody around those other trucks?”

  Gary cupped his hands around his eyes and scanned areas around all three remaining vehicles. “Don’t think those other guys even know these two just bugged-out.”

  “Good. That’s two down.” Mitch figured a squad leader might verbalize such an observation.

  With the two criminal lookouts already gone and their own task force presence not yet detected, the Marauders had finally gotten into their assigned kickoff position and were poised to move into the enemy camp.

  Mitch got to his feet and waved his hand for the others to follow him. It was probably the first leader-like thing he’d done right.

  ****

  Task Force Wade

  Everybody’s nerves were tense, so when the third bomb went off at the hay bales, Wade had nearly yelped. It might have been disappointment that the intervals were so skewed. But it was just as likely because Wade’s Warriors were physically closest to those loud explosions.

  A breeze cut into the neat fifty-foot vertical plume of smoke and scattered it haphazardly.

  Wade lowered the Vegge-zilla barrel slightly. Then he leaned over and took a rough sighting. Still unable to see either the barricade or the enemy trucks from his position, he aimed the tip of his pipe right over the middle of the retaining wall behind Pete’s condo. That seemed like it could represent about eighty more feet, once it arrived on Placid Lane. Wade checked the wind again with a moistened finger and seemed satisfied. “Give me three more oranges.”

  Roger handed over the explosive fruit and signaled to Joe to resume spotting.

  Up in his perch, Joe squirmed around some of the uprights to get a better view of the lead truck. Being a temporary Warrior was not by any means a comfortable job but it was the most adrenaline he’d experienced in many years.

  Though Wade had misjudged the timing of all three bombs so far, he wanted to keep his mortar fire on schedule, so he began the third Vegge-zilla barrage without further delay.

  Whump.

  The first orange hit in the street near an enemy vehicle. Correct range. From his observation post in the rafters, Joe signaled the okay sign, both hands clasped together. He also nearly lost his balance.

  Roger patted Wade’s shoulder. “Joe says dead on. Fire for effect.”

  Before Vegge-zilla’s barrel could move very much, Wade loaded and fired the next two oranges quickly.

  Whump. Wade paused only enough to watch the compressor tank’s gauge before pulling the stiff lever. Whump.

  ****

  Barricade

  At the explosion of the third bomb back up the hill, everybody on the barricade had flinched, but fewer defenders hit the pavement that time.

  Pete reached over Irene, tapped Ellie on the shoulder, and then held up two adjacent fingers. Ellie understood: two more explosions before they’d need to make a play, unless something else developed first.

  Irene observed and wished her husband had tapped her shoulder.

  Pete was gratified that the enemy obviously still had no idea where the explosions had come from or what had actually exploded. The criminals were equally clueless about the vegetable and fruit barrages. More importantly, the enemy had not yet begun firing.

  Wade’s third Vegge-zilla barrage had begun so soon after the third bomb that Deaf Lyin’ Leo thought the first mortar round was an echo from the larger explosion. Oranges again. None of the determined defenders ducked that time, but Kelly and Ashley both watched the sky carefully.

  The first orange hit the street right beside the largest truck. Five thugs scrambled for cover and thirteen citizens at the primary barricade raised a lusty cheer. Deaf Leo also whooped, but slightly later than the others. Norm and Stanley couldn’t see from their positions on the far ends, but they surely took heart in the enthusiasm of their comrades.

  Not as many cheers for the second missile, which hit the metal top of the twenty-four foot van, resonating loudly and sending citrus pulp in a fairly symmetrical seven-foot radius.

  The third orange hit loudly, though most barricade defenders couldn’t see where. But a noisy groan on the other side of the big truck suggested that one of the thugs just “took one” for his team.

  Occupying the best vantage point, just inside Leo’s garage, Melvin raised up his thumb to signal a hit.

  From the left
end of the barricade, Earl saw that stricken gangster drop like a sack of fertilizer. He was runner H9, who’d just left the front seat of the van and joined the leaders. “Wow,” exclaimed Earl, “I never thought Wade’s Vegga-thing would be anything but a curiosity.”

  Pete continued to assess the status of his unit. Other than his initial warning, no shots had been fired yet. As expected, the enemy had attempted intimidation and sent frontal probes for intel, but no direct physical contact. No evidence of patrols on the flanks yet either. Except for the single hit which just then KO’d the thug beside the truck, Wade’s volleys of produce had served only to keep the thugs under cover and restrict their movement. Otherwise the enemy was unharmed, though covered with citrus pulp and juice… and very, very angry.

  But they had not advanced enough to breech the barricade.

  Good job, Lawrence.

  Though nobody else was near him at the north security post, Norm pointed to the far east end of the dense stand of woods to the north of the subdivision, which roughly bounded Great Vista Boulevard. “Hey! Unless I’m dreaming, it’s the American Legion!”

  The newly formed patrol was flanking the enemy, moving wide around the north side. Norm wished he could tell somebody without abandoning his post. Without shifting his eyes from the zone he zealously defended, Norm allowed a faint smile to crease his weathered face, and that made his bushy eyebrows twitch slightly. Task Force Mitchell was in position and the enemy had no idea.

  Norm checked his watch, 2:12, and looked around for something to write with.

  ****

  Opposing Force

  Foss had banged his knee when he dove just beneath the large van’s substantial rear bumper at the first whump of the third barrage. “Blitz! Blitz! Blitz! What the blitz is shooting all that junk?”