“So they shot him?” he said evenly. “Did they say why?”
“Treason, I guess. He said the colonel was guilty of a lot of things, but I guess it boiled down to that.”
“Treason,” Turnbull said bitterly. That was the last thing Colonel Deloitte could ever be guilty of.
“That’s what he said,” replied the ops officer. “I think he just resented how the Colonel thought he was a piece of shit.”
“He?” Turnbull said. “Who is he?”
“Our new commander,” the major sneered – never before had Turnbull heard the word “commander” been uttered with so much contempt. “As our Command Diversity Officer, he was next in the chain of command.”
“Even though he was incompetent? Should have left the Colonel in charge. Karma’s a bitch.”
“Yeah,” said the lieutenant colonel.
“And where is this new commander?”
The officer gestured with his head. “Him.”
There was a major zip-tied nearby, his eyes wide and fearful.
“Pick him up,” Turnbull instructed the guards. They dragged Major Little over to Turnbull.
“So you murdered Jeff Deloitte. You aren’t fit to lick his boots.”
“I’m a prisoner of war,” Little said.
“No, I don’t see any JAGs around to lawyersplain me the Geneva Convention, and you’re no soldier anyway.”
“You can’t hurt me!” Little babbled. “I’m a prisoner!”
Turnbull drew the .45 from his thigh holster. Little’s eyes grew wide with panic.
“Colonel Deloitte was my friend, but he was also my commander,” Turnbull said. “So when he said he wanted you to go to hell, I take that as an order.”
“But I –”
After 24 hours of fighting, the townspeople didn’t even flinch at the sound of the 1911A1.
17.
A platoon of four US M1A3s, with the lead tank flying the stars and stripes from its whip antennae, rolled up Main Street toward battle positions to the north. The bumper numbers identified them as a brigade of the First Cavalry Division out of Fort Hood.
The tanks clanged and clanked past him, just another scruffy civilian with an M4 for all they knew. The combat engineers had cleared the wreckage, or rather, bulldozed it out of the street off to one side to make a path. The Walmart smoldered in the distance, the smoke adding to the unworldly haze.
It looked to Kelly Turnbull like one of the Third World hellholes he had spent much of his twenties fighting in, and not only because of his sleep deprived state.
Locals were moving around examining the damage, most armed. Some were wounded, but walking. Lee Rogers walked by with a handful of guerrillas, some bandaged, seeming dazed. But no one was panicking, no one was faltering.
“Hey!” Turnbull shouted at to a pair of young locals who were dragging a dead PRA soldier in a tanker’s jumpsuit toward the field mortuary. “Pick him up.”
They stared at Turnbull, confused. Turnbull’s eyes were fixated on the dead man’s right shoulder patch. It was from the Big Red One. Probably Afghanistan. Probably from when they were on the same side.”
“Pick him up and carry him,” Turnbull said. “Show some respect. He was a soldier.”
The young men hesitated and Turnbull stepped forward, angry. Message received. They carefully picked the PRA soldier’s body up off the street and carried it, this time gently.
Turnbull lay down his M4 and sat on a bench out in front of a barber shop. The .45 in its thigh holster rode up, but he was too tired to adjust it. Bullets had pulverized the barber’s pole. The shop itself had served as an aid station during the fighting and while the wounded had been evacuated, the floor was still littered with bandages and gore.
Turnbull shut his eyes. His ears were still ringing, but he could make out helicopters. A trickle of blood rolled off his scalp and ran down his cheek like a scarlet tear.
He opened his eyes again, but it took effort. The US infantry was spreading through the town, ready for contact that wasn’t going to come. The enemy was gone. Turnbull watched the soldiers advance, too tired to move. A clump of troops approached him, just some ragged, unshaven civilian in battle gear chillin’ on a bench in the middle of chaos.
He exhaled.
“Who’s in charge here?” asked a nervous US Army lieutenant, geared up and cradling his carbine. On his left shoulder, as with all of them, was the oversized First Cav patch – a triangular shield-shaped symbol with a black diagonal stripe from left to lower right, and a black horse head silhouetted in the upper right corner. His platoon sergeant and radio operator stood behind him, weapons ready. Turnbull just stared at them for a moment.
“Not me,” he replied. “Not anymore.” With the rumble of the armored cavalry coming up from the south, Turnbull had gone back to the command post and found Dale.
“It’s all yours,” Turnbull said. “You’re in command.” And then he left. Dale was too busy to follow him.
The young officer in front of him persisted.
“The locals said you’re their commander,” said the lieutenant.
“Not me, LT,” replied Turnbull. “You’re looking for an insurance salesman named Dale, right up the street in the command post. Can’t miss it.”
That ended that exchange. The platoon leader turned to his RTO, grabbed the handset and began speaking rapidly into it.
“Your guys put up a real fight,” said the sergeant first class as he waited for his young lieutenant to do his radio thing. Turnbull noted that the NCO had a Big Red One combat patch on the right shoulder of his uniform peeking out from under his body armor. They had probably walked the same dirt together somewhere along the line.
“Yeah,” Turnbull said. “They did.”
He’d spent the last few hours organizing the remaining defenders of the town in case there was a counter-attack, making sure there were guides to lead in the US forces, and to setting up teams to evac the wounded and pick up the dead. Plus carrying out his former commander’s last order.
None of the townspeople objected. Major Little’s own troops basically shrugged. A couple guards had started moving Little’s body to the field mortuary where the PRA bodies were being collected, but Turnbull stopped them.
“Not there. He doesn’t get to lie with soldiers.” They dragged Little off in the opposite direction to who knows where.
“Want a cigarette?” the sergeant asked as the lieutenant continued speaking into his mic.
“No,” said Turnbull. “Some ruby slippers maybe, Sergeant. There’s no place like home, you know? Assuming you have one.”
“Roger, sir,” replied the NCO, somehow sensing this was an officer even though he resembled a heavily armed hobo. The sergeant looked around at the wreckage of Jasper. “I’m guessing this is going to be my home for a while.”
“Probably a long while. Be careful. Listen to the locals – they know the terrain. They know how to defend it.
“The Joes are already calling it ‘Indian Country.’”
“So did the bad guys. Except I guess now the Indians are on your side, despite you being cavalry.”
“I hope they don’t hold grudges,” said the sergeant. The lieutenant signed off.
“Let’s move,” he told his men.
“Watch yourself,” Turnbull said. “Take care of your troops.”
“Always, sir.”
The trio of soldiers walked off. Turnbull shut his eyes again.
Turnbull collapsed back onto the bench. His eyes forced themselves shut despite his efforts.
Grrrrrrrrr.
Turnbull shook his head, but the growl didn’t go away.
Grrrrrrrrr.
He felt a weight on his lap.
He forced open his eyes.
That stupid dog was on his lap, growling at him, the dead frog hanging out of its mouth.
Grrrrrrrrr.
“You lived,” Turnbull said, a little surprised. “How about that?”
The dog dropped the flattened
frog on the bench and came forward and licked his face.
“Oh, no,” Said Turnbull, pushing the puppy away. “That’s disgusting. You have dead toad breath.” But he didn’t make the dog get off his lap.
“You’re alive,” said a lieutenant colonel who had approached from the south. The nametape on his uniform read “FLYNN.”
“I don’t feel that way right now, Clay,” replied Turnbull, petting the puppy and not at all surprised to see him. “Hey, you changed your fake name again.”
“What?” Deeds looked down at his nametape. “Oh, right. So, you have a friend. I didn’t peg you for a dog person.”
“I’m not.” The dog growled at Deeds. “But I think maybe I could be.”
“Helluva fight,” Deeds said.
“Yeah,” Turnbull replied. “I’m too tired for my debrief now. But yeah, a helluva fight.”
“There’ll be plenty of time for debriefing, Kelly.”
“You know that they killed Deloitte,” Turnbull said. “Apparently he preferred to die like a soldier than live as a butcher.”
“We heard that through a radio intercept. I’m sorry.”
“There was a time I’d have taken a bullet for him. We were on the same side then. And then we were fighting each other here. I don’t mind fighting, Clay, but I’d rather fight people I hate. And I didn’t hate him.”
“Civil wars are the most vicious wars,” Deeds said, sitting. “You take everything bad about a routine war and add betrayal to the mix.”
“How the hell did it ever come to this?”
“I don’t know, Kelly. It wasn’t hard to see where things were headed. It’s like we were steering the Titanic by committee and no one would turn us away from the iceberg right ahead.”
“So what now?” Turnbull petted the dog, which continued to regard Clay warily.
“So, we gave up a little bit of Virginia, and now we have a little bit of Indiana. The bad guys tried to create facts on the ground, and the locals stopped them for long enough for us to move. And when the PR saw they couldn’t stop us, they caved at the negotiating table. You were a big part of it.”
“So it’s all about lines on a map?”
“You don’t really believe that, Kelly.”
Turnbull looked out across the town, and thought of Langer, Wohl, Bellman, that kid Kyle – all dead. The bodies of those killed fighting had been carried off, but there were still wrecked vehicles pushed to the side waiting to be dragged away. The façade of Main Street was pocked with bullet holes. The Walmart had burned down to the foundations. There was a blood splatter in the middle of the street in front of him. He couldn’t tell whether it was from a local or one of the PRA troops.
“What’s it matter what I believe?” Turnbull asked.
“It matters to you. I’m just not sure you’ll admit it. It matters to these folks. In the end, this place was their home. They fought for it. Without the guys like you to help them, they would have lost it, and probably their lives too. If you hadn’t made it ungovernable…”
“I just showed them some tricks. They did the fighting. And the dying. Most of them were amateurs, just regular people.”
“That’s what the British probably said around 1775.”
“Except these were our own people we were rebelling against, at least they had been.”
“That’s another thing the British probably said around 1775.”
“Wait, doesn’t that mean you’re kind of comparing me to the French?”
“I’d never do that when you’re packing heat, Kelly.”
“So what now?” asked Turnbull, not truly caring. He’d never been so tired.
“Now we occupy it and defend it. It’s ours again. I expect they’ll try to instigate instability, make it hard for us to govern.”
“Like we did to them?”
“Exactly.”
“Not quite. There’s one key difference.”
“And that is?”
“They’re the bad guys,” said Turnbull.
“I always enjoyed your rejection of moral equivalence, Kelly.”
“I’ve seen them in action, Clay. PVs, PSF, PBI. And I’m telling you – I’m not going to play nice anymore.”
“Did you ever?”
“I tried it out for a little while. I got burned. People died. You don’t put your hand on a hot stove twice.”
“Good, because we need you again. And your unique perspective on not playing nice.”
“I’m not sure I’m finished here yet.”
“Sure you are. They can clean up the mess on their own. In fact, they should. It’s their home, not yours. You’ve done your part. Time for you to go home.”
“Where is home, anyway?”
“Good point. Maybe you should take some time and find yourself one. After all, you fought for your homeland. You should actually have an actual home in your land, not just a string of FOBs, safe houses, and BOQs.”
“I guess he needs a home too,” Turnbull said, ruffling the dog’s fur. “But I’m too tired right now to think about it.”
“You can sleep on the Blackhawk. Get your stuff.”
“You’re looking at it.” Turnbull stood and stared at his M4 for a minute. He left it on the bench. Somebody else would put it to good use here. And he still had his .45.
They walked through town toward the high school, with the little dog trotting along at his heels. The helicopter had landed on the football field and waited with its blades rotating. In the parking lot, a platoon of US troops were mounting up into their vehicles again, ready to head north. Locals wandered by, men and women, young and old, most armed, looking grim, assessing the damage. Turnbull recognized some, but not all of the faces.
One thing he noted – they weren’t the faces of civilians anymore.
“Like I mentioned, there’s another problem we’re having,” Clay said. “I think you could help us with it.”
“You sure have a lot of problems. How screwed are you that I’m the solution?”
“Very. We can talk on the flight home.”
“I don’t think so. I’m going to sleep. And I’m not sure when or even if I’m ever waking up.”
Turnbull took off his cap, scooped up the dog, and trotted along behind Deeds in a low crouch toward the Blackhawk, the blades whirling above them. They were going to be the helicopter’s only passengers.
The crew chief helped Deeds in first. Deeds slid over on fabric seats and began buckling himself in.
Then the crew chief reached his hand out to help, but suddenly withdrew it.
“You can’t have an animal on the aircraft,” he yelled over the engine’s whine.
Turnbull ignored him and climbed into the passenger compartment without assistance, still clutching the puppy. He sat on the canvas seat with the dog next to him. It proceeded to growl at the crew chief.
“I said no dogs on the aircraft!” shouted the sergeant. It was bad enough to have to chauffeur some light colonel and his filthy civilian pal around like they were a couple of general officers, but this mutt was too much.
Turnbull stared, noting the chief’s body armor and that thinking between the eyes would be best. His Wilson .45 still had a full mag left.
Deeds leaned in, shouting above the engine roar.
“Son, let it go.”
“But Colonel, the regs say –”
“Let it go,” Deeds repeated in that voice he used when he was giving a direction, not a suggestion.
The crew chief grimaced, then waved his hand to the pilot. The engine revved up, the blades spun faster, and the aircraft lifted off as Turnbull himself buckled up and put on the headphones. He clutched the puppy tightly, leaned back, and shut his eyes.
“This is bullshit,” the crew chief sputtered into his mic, unable to let it go.
Turnbull didn’t even open his eyes as he keyed his mic and spoke just one more time before falling into a deep sleep.
“Stop talking.”
Author’s Note
Also, you’ll note that some of the details involving explosives are vague. That is purposeful. While field expedient explosives are real and can be deadly, this is not an instruction manual for making bombs and improvised explosive devices. You’ll have to trust me that the capabilities described here are real. Do not try it at home.
The big idea is that citizens armed with individual weapons can provide a powerful opposition to even a conventional military that is in the service of an oppressive government. The Founding Fathers knew exactly what they were doing when they enshrined the Second Amendment within the Bill of Rights. Let’s hope we never have to put their wisdom to the test.
KAS
18 May 2017
Kelly Turnbull will return in
WILDFIRE
About The Author
Kurt Schlichter is a senior columnist for Townhall.com, where his work appears twice a week. He is also a Los Angeles trial lawyer admitted in both California and Washington, D.C., and a retired Army Infantry colonel.
A Twitter activist (@KurtSchlichter) with over 100,000 followers, Kurt was personally recruited by Andrew Breitbart, and his writings on political and cultural issues have been regularly published in IJ Review, The Federalist, the New York Post, the Washington Examiner, the Los Angeles Times, the Boston Globe, the Washington Times, Army Times, the San Francisco Examiner, and elsewhere.
Kurt serves as a news source, an on-screen commentator, and a guest on nationally syndicated radio programs regarding political, military, and legal issues, at Fox News, Fox Business News, CNN, NewsMax, One America Network, The Blaze, and on The Hugh Hewitt Show, The Dr. Drew Show, The Larry Elder Show, The Tony Katz Show, The John Cardillo Show, The Dana Loesch Show, The Larry O’Connor Show, and The Derek Hunter Show, among others. Kurt appears weekly on Cam and Company with Cam Edwards, and averages four to five other media appearances a week.
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