Called to Arms Again: A Tribute to the Greatest Generation

by J. L. Salter

  “What do we do when we’re there?” Hauler D13, a Hispanic of medium height and weight.

  Foss interceded, which he figured was needed to re-position his own authority. “Once you’re behind all the old folks in the street, then they’ll be in our crossfire. Got it?”

  D13 nodded, but his partner — D15, a huge black man — had a question. “When we get the crossfire working, that means we’ll be shooting at you and you’ll be shooting at us. Don’t sound right.”

  Foss was rather patient under the circumstances. “Aim low, shoot at the folks behind them cars and trucks.”

  “I got a better idea, man.” Herve wasn’t jockeying for leadership, he was just being practical. “Don’t shoot at the middle at all. Just shoot at both ends of that blockade, man. That way if you miss, the bullets just go off somewheres else. Got it?”

  “Where you guys going to be shooting?” D13 was still skeptical.

  Foss waved Herve off the question. “We’ll concentrate on the middle of the barricade, since you guys’ll be way off on the sides of the street, up against them houses. See?”

  There were several flaws in this plan, not the least of which was the pronounced curve in Placid Lane, but all the parties were evidently satisfied the issues of trajectory had been resolved.

  Both of Dante’s haulers nodded. Herve’s loaders just looked at each other nervously.

  Herve actually predicted these issues were moot, since he did not truly expect any of the four even to get that far. But he kept his own counsel.

  The prospective flankers dispersed. It didn’t take long for the probing teams to reach their respective retaining walls.

  A Garand shot rang out from the North flank. Herve’s two loaders fell back to their side of the twelve-by-six-foot bed of jagged rocks and scrambled for cover on the east side of the sturdy retaining wall.

  “Where’d that guy come from?” H2 whined. He was short and slender, Hispanic.

  “Don’t know.” H7 was black, medium height but very stocky. He looked around quickly. “They sure got lots of old dudes with guns out here.”

  H2 groaned. “I think Foss brung us to the wrong neighborhood.”

  The two loaders leaned back against the thick cement and panted heavily. Both wondered what on earth they’d gotten into.

  “What you think about all this number business? Foss calling us numbers.”

  H2 shrugged. “Kinda stupid. If he can remember my number, he can remember my name.”

  “Well I think it stinks. That Foss is nuts.” H7 leaned closer. “After I get my share from today, I’m outta here. That bald buzzard can just kiss my big butt goodbye.”

  On the south end, hauler D13 peered cautiously around the twelve feet of thick hedges. He’d heard the rifle shot from the north. As he turned to tell his partner nobody was on this end, a defender’s shot whizzed near his head. Both haulers scrambled back and hunkered down behind their retaining wall.

  “This is crazy, man!” D13 hadn’t been on the receiving end of gunfire recently. “Hauling stuff out to trucks is one thing. But playing army against a bunch of scary old guys with guns ain’t exactly good for my health. I got a condition.”

  “Yeah, you got a condition.” Hauler D15 sneered. “It’s chicken…”

  Neither Foss nor Herve could see what had happened but they heard the shots from the ends. Each surmised that both flanking probes were temporarily bogged down. Plus their central attack force was minus those four men. Now it was only Foss, his two lieutenants, plus loader H5 and hauler D16. Total of five. H4, driver of the large van in front, and H1, driver of the second truck, were both at their wheels where they belonged. Foss suddenly realized that H6, the driver of the stake-bed vehicle, was standing right beside him.

  “What the blitz are you doing here?” Foss looked around. “Why aren’t you in your truck?”

  H6 looked like he wished he had remained where initially assigned, but he mounted a defense anyway. “Had to take a whiz, dude. While I was out, I wanted to see what’s going on up here. Can’t see nothing back down there around the curve, dude.”

  “Well, git back to your truck, idiot!”

  “My loader’s up here.” He pointed to H5. “Besides, nobody’s bringing out nothing anyways.”

  “What do you mean, nobody’s hauling?” More steam radiated from Foss’s bald scalp.

  “I ain’t seen three haulers for a while, dude. And you just sent two other haulers out yonder.” Then he motioned toward D16. “The only other hauler is right here with youse guys.” Driver H6 shrugged. “Like I said, nobody’s hauling.”

  Foss stammered. No words could describe how thoroughly his grand plan had crashed. Not only were the haulers too slow, but now they weren’t even hauling! Nobody was emptying condos or loading trucks. The entire operation had ground to a halt because of four vehicles, a trailer, and at least sixteen trigger-happy old people defending their street. Plus, somebody was blowing up bombs somewhere and firing dangerous produce. Any thoughts Foss had ever harbored about conducting large-scale crime logistics seminars were forever dead and buried. “Dante, git your idiots in gear or I’m cutting their shares to half. Understand?”

  Dante sent D16 toward the rear to locate the three haulers who’d not been seen recently. Dante guessed they were dawdling inside the condos trying to weigh what was most valuable with what was easiest to carry.

  Foss took another tally of the neighborhood defenders. There were seven men and five females at the central barricade and two people, probably men, in the garages. Plus, he’d learned they also had at least two more shooters, one on each far end. He shouted again. “Okay, okay, okay. I’ll give you points for pinning down my guys on the ends. But, hey, you messed up. Because you only got nine guys against my whole army. So it’s all over. Put down them blitzin’ guns and move all them cars and trucks!”

  ****

  Ellie’s retort was indignant. “You should’ve stayed in school, punk. We got four strong women here who can beat the Bless George stuffing outta punks like you.”

  Irene quickly counted in her head and realized she felt honored to be identified as a strong fighter.

  “That’s like… five women!” Ashley shouted and whacked her shovel’s handle on the street surface.

  Ellie agreed. “Yeah, five women. Plus we got the entire American Legion Post on the way here right now.” Oops, she’d let Baldy see another card. Well, Bless George, I bet they never heard of the American Legion anyhow. Ellie’s face showed disgust as she turned toward her colleagues. “So much for trying to scare them.”

  Chet straightened up slightly, raggedly cleared his throat, and called out. “We’re the guys that fought in wars ta protect this country, so punks like you can roam into nice neighborhoods and steal all our stuff. We screwed up somewhere and now we’re durn mad about it. When my buddies from the Post come down here, you’ll see just how mad. We got forty members, from World War II all the way to Vietnam and Desert Storm. Every one can kick your scrawny butts back ta New York City or whatever rocks ya crawled out from.”

  His was also a stirring speech. Not as succinct as Ellie’s “stay at the barricade” soliloquy, but lyrical in its exaggeration.

  “Keep yakking, old man,” yelled Baldy. “Won’t do no good hiding behind that flag.”

  Chet looked over his right shoulder at the red, white, and blue. Then he cleared his throat as loudly as a car wreck. “We ain’t hiding behind that flag, Baldy… we’re protecting it.”

  A shot rang out — zinging near Chet but hitting no one.

  Another shot on the north end of the line — Norm. Herve’s two loaders had tried another push around or over the jagged bed of erosion rocks.

  ****

  “I’m hit! That old geezer shot me!” H7 cried out. “Hey Bro, bring a doctor! I’m bleeding!”

  H2 also yelled his testimony. “Hey, he’s serious! There’s blood all over and he’s bleeding on me!”

  Foss was concerned, but not about
the casualty. He checked his watch. “We got to git the blitz out of here and quick. We’re gonna bust through this old age club and git things back in gear.”

  “The whole American what?” Dante turned his belated question to Foss and Herve.

  Herve shrugged. “It’s like Shriners or something, man.”

  Foss just stared at both of them.

  Herve ignored the silent rebuke. He sent loader H5 to go check on the casualty and bring in the north flanking team. He sent driver H6, who’d abandoned his vehicle, to the south flanking team to assess their prospects of getting behind the defenders… and, if those prospects were nil, to bring them in.

  ****

  Everybody on the line, except Deaf Lyin’ Leo and possibly Chet, had heard the flanking loader scream that he’d been shot. So Pete knew exactly who’d shot him and where the punk had tried to breach their defenses. He craned his neck northward where Norm continued his vigil over his own retaining wall’s erosion bed extension. From the barricade line, however, Pete couldn’t see around the west corner of that condo. So he told Isaiah to go relieve Norm.

  Isaiah looked incredulous that he’d have to leave the barricade even for a few moments, but he followed orders. He took off due west, zigzagged up Placid, paused briefly behind the bulldozer, and then ducked north at the duplex beyond the one which included Bernie’s unit. Isaiah made his way around the building and called out before he approached Bernie’s deck where Norm was posted.

  Startled at first, Norm turned quickly. After he recognized his friend, Norm waved him in.

  “You okay?” Isaiah panted, out of breath.

  Norm nodded, not very convincingly.

  “Pete wants to see you.” Isaiah motioned. “On the street. Meet him behind the dozer.”

  Norm just stared at him for a moment.

  “Before you go, what’s the deal here?” Isaiah took a deep breath to try to stop his panting. “You just guarding that wall and pile of rocks?”

  “Yeah. Don’t let them flank us.” Norm seemed a little dazed.

  “Okay. Got it.” Isaiah cleared his throat and held up his revolver. “Trade me?”

  “Oh, sure.” Norm absent-mindedly handed over the Garand and dug two cartridges from his shirt pocket.

  Isaiah slapped his upper arm gently. “Take off.” Then Isaiah checked the chamber to be certain it had a live round and trained the rifle on the north end of the retaining wall.

  Norm went back the same way Isaiah had come. He hit the street about fifty feet behind the bulldozer and trotted to the east, toward the huge machine, while hunched over slightly. From behind the massive machine, he waved to get Pete’s attention. Norm tried to whistle, but his mouth was too dry.

  Pete had been watching for Norm. He said something to Ellie and Irene, and then headed toward the dozer. In a crouch, Pete left the street surface and walked slowly along the grassy north side of his own condo and his new adjoining neighbor Alice. When he got to northwest corner of Alice’s unit, he looked east toward the enemy, took a deep breath, and then hurried to cover behind the big D-8.

  Waiting behind the huge vehicle, Norm looked toward the enemy clustered around their two largest trucks and wondered how frequently they fired up the hill. He suddenly couldn’t remember hearing any gunfire except his own recent shot which wounded the hoodlum who’d tried to flank them.

  The bulldozer was angled slightly in the street. Pete and Norm sat on its left side track, away from the enemy. The heavy treads and pads vibrated noticeably while the engine idled.

  Pete put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You did what you had to, Norm. Where’d you hit him?”

  Norm pointed to his own right forearm.

  “He’ll be okay.” He looked toward the enemy. “Important thing is he won’t do us any more harm.”

  Norm shook his head and his body shivered slightly. “All that time training stateside, I never shot anybody. After we landed in France on V-E day, I never shot anybody. All through Germany after that, I never shot anybody. Pete, I’ve never shot anybody before, ever.”

  Pete nodded. He had one hand on the forestock of his Winchester, its butt plate on the pavement. His other hand squeezed Norm’s shoulder. It wasn’t the time for words.

  Shortly, Norm’s shivering subsided. He looked back in the direction of the north retaining wall. “I didn’t want to let you down, Pete.”

  “You did fine, Norm, just fine. Don’t worry. Now just sit here a minute and catch your breath. Isaiah’s a good man to guard that flank.” He looked north as he said it. “How much ammo you got left?”

  “One in the chamber.” He nodded in the direction of Isaiah, who held the rifle at present. “I gave Prophet the two in my pocket.” Then Norm held up his left fist, the fingers bloodlessly white. He opened them slowly, stiffly, and revealed two more .30’06 cartridges in his palm. They were covered with sweat and grime; his palm was white where he’d been unconsciously squeezing them.

  “Get those dried off and cleaned up a bit. Don’t want to foul-up that receiver.” Pete’s smile was tense.

  It took Norm a moment to register what he meant. “I didn’t even know I was holding them.”

  “I know, I know. You’re okay, Norm. Just rest here a minute. Then go give Isaiah that ammo. Then you come down to the barricade. Got it?”

  “Okay, Pete.” He kept looking at the cartridges in his left palm. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Your flanking team made it around the enemy and I don’t think they were spotted.”

  “Force Mitchell made it around the left flank?” He looked he’d just opened a Christmas present from a rich uncle. “How many men?”

  “Not certain. At least four, maybe five.” Norm shook his head. “They were moving low and fast. Just coming out of the woods at those dirt piles.”

  “How long ago?”

  “I wrote it down because, with everything going on, I thought I might forget.” Norm reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of newsprint torn roughly from an old flyer he’d found on Bernie’s deck.

  Pete grabbed it. In large, uneven numerals, it read: 2:12. “What’d you write with?”

  “All I could find was a piece of charcoal from Bernie’s grill.”

  He checked his watch and then looked at Norm’s. “So, that’s about seven or eight minutes ago.” Pete rubbed his chin. “That’s at least enough time for them to get up to the third enemy truck. Maybe further along. They’ve probably made initial contact with some of the rear guard. Good. Good.” He nodded. “That’s the best news I’ve had this afternoon.”

  “Can I keep that?” Norm pointed to the scrap of newsprint.

  He nodded slowly and handed it back. “Good work, Norm. Good work.” He squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “Now get that ammo to Isaiah and then join us on the barricade. Got it?”

  “Got it, Sarge.” He carefully folded the scrap.

  “Stay back behind that blade.” Pete patted the warm, thick metal of the huge semi-U blade as he passed, hunched over and walking stiffly back toward the north edge of his own condo, and then — after checking down the hill to the east — moved to his position in the middle of the barricade.

  There, he briefed Ellie.

  ****

  Task Force Wade

  Over to the southwest, just beside the knoll which had been Vegge-zilla’s interim mortar pit, Joe had barely touched the golf cart’s back seat when Wade took off and careened down the steep slope of the common between the back sides of Cordial and Placid. They were headed east at a high rate of speed. Down hill.

  “Look how smooth this hill is.” Wade seemed to be narrating a tour bus ride. “We’re riding just like warm suntan oil sliding down Miss October’s left…” Despite Wade’s colorful unfinished metaphor, the terrain was anything but smooth.

  “Wade!” Roger screamed. “We can’t hurl ourselves down this…”

  Before Roger could think of the correct noun, Wade had already gunned his golf cart’s souped-up engine, with available
horsepower known only to him. They were practically flying!

  “I know a lawyer who’ll break you down to your last tractor and freezer!” Roger gasped. “If I live through this, I’m gonna sue… eeee!”

  The hill descent took away what remained of Roger’s breath.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Wednesday at 2:32 p.m.

  Boom! The fifth bomb exploded at the hay bales. Not nearly the loudest, but it generated the most smoke.

  ****

  Task Force Mitchell

  Steve looked invigorated at the sound of the fifth bomb. He seemed actually to try to inhale the smoke from that considerable distance. Then he patted Gary’s shoulder. “Which side you want?”

  “I’ll take the right and work my way toward that big moving van.”

  Steve checked the safety on his newly-acquired .380. “Okay, let’s rock.”

  The most lethal Marauders had been unleashed. Armed and ready.

  ****

  Main Battlefront

  While still terribly loud and unpredictably startling, Wade’s fifth homemade bomb had decidedly less effect than his first few explosions: just a momentary flinch. And a hope — among the enemy — that somebody, somewhere, would eventually run out of explosive charges.

  Foss gathered the rest of his available men and ordered suppressing fire on the barricade so that nobody could get up for a shot. His exact words were, “Shoot the blitz out’ve ‘em!”