Battle in the Ashes

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh, yes. With complete verbal instructions on where to shove it. What is Wink’s position now?”

  “Backed up to the north-south Interstate,” Beth said. “With Moi’s people taking shots at his men.”

  Ben chuckled. “Worked out just like I thought it would.”

  “You goddamn stupid African bastard!” Wink yelled into a microphone. “What the hell are your apes shootin’ at my people for? We’re all in this together now. Ben Raines is after both our asses, you idiot!”

  “Give me that microphone!” Moi said, grabbing frantically at the mic. “And will somebody please get that goddamn goat out of my office!”

  “Do you hear me, you burr-head?” Wink shouted.

  Ben and his team were gathered in the shade of a lovely old tree, having lunch, drinking coffee, and monitoring the conversation. And immensely enjoying every word of it.

  Moi got his volatile temper under control and keyed the mic. “Are you suggesting that I actually link up with you and that pack of morons you command?”

  “I damn sure ain’t whistlin’ Dixie!” He turned to an aide. “That is one dumb nigger over there.”

  “Praise Allah for small favors,” Moi muttered. “And then what, Wink?”

  “Well, hell, you dumb gorilla—we fight Ben Raines and whip the bastard. Then when it’s over you stay on your side of the line and we’ll stay on ours.”

  Moi then knew he was attempting to converse with a lunatic. Raines’ Rebels had just proven themselves over an army of about one hundred and fifty thousand, seasoned combat veterans. And now Wink Payne, self-proclaimed preacher and all around flake, actually thought he could defeat Ben Raines’ personal battalion of Rebels. Moi knew from months of monitoring open Rebel frequencies, that the First Battalion of the Rebel Army was comprised of the toughest, hardest, and meanest men and women who ever wore the black beret of the Rebels.

  “Well, are you gonna answer me, or not, you ape?” Wink yelled.

  Moi keyed the mic. “Are you listening, Ben Raines?”

  Corrie handed Ben the mic. “Oh, yes, Charles,” Ben said. “I’m listening.”

  Wink Payne was sudden rendered speechless, something quite novel for the man.

  “My name is Moi Sambura!” Charles/Moi yelled.

  “Your name is Charles Washington,” Ben replied. “Your father was a well known and highly respected scientist and your mother an educator at a very prestigious university in New York State. You hold a PhD. You founded the Back to Africa movement just before the great war. The way you, and your people, choose to live, peacefully, is of no concern to me, Charles. But peacefully is the key word. I won’t tolerate closed borders in this country. Not for me, not for you, not for any group. How you dress, how you worship, is strictly your business. None of mine. You open your borders and stop hassling whites, and we’re out of here. That’s a stone cold promise.”

  Moi looked at the speaker for a moment. “Brothers and Sisters in the Rebel Army. Arise and kill the white devils around you!” Moi screamed the words.

  A black Rebel squad leader, who was resting on the ground, opened his eyes. “That is sure one loudmouthed motherfucker.”

  “Is that your answer?” Ben asked.

  Silence greeted his words.

  “Moi,” Ben said. “Listen to me. Neither you nor Payne has a chance. But it doesn’t have to be this way. The killing can stop right now. Keep your weapons, you know how I feel about Americans having the right to be armed. Keep your nation intact. Call it what you wish. Let’s just stop the hostilities.”

  “I hate that son of a bitch!” Moi said, after Ben’s words sank in.

  An older man on Moi’s staff asked, “Why, Moi? What has Ben Raines ever done to you? He’s certainly never done anything to me.”

  Moi stood silently, trembling with rage. He didn’t just hate Ben Raines. He hated all white people just as deeply as Wink Payne hated all black people. Neither Moi nor Wink had ever learned that there are good and bad among all people, and that color has nothing to do with what is in a person’s heart.

  “How ’bout me and my people, Raines?” Wink screamed into his mic. “You goin’ to give us the same offer you just give to that nigger?”

  Ben sat in his camp chair for a long, silent moment. Then he sighed and lifted the mic. “Yes, Wink. I am. Can you and your followers live in peace with people of color?”

  “That depends on the people of color, Raines.”

  “Interesting answer,” Ben said to his team. “I wonder if he realizes just how profound it was?”

  “You expect me to live side by side with that ignorant Cracker, Raines?” Moi shouted the words.

  Ben recalled Cecil Jefferys’ words: “Only the best and the brightest and the mentally toughest will survive, Ben. Sooner or later we’ll have to deal with the stragglers and the outcasts and the ones who hate for no good reason.”

  Ben slowly lifted the mic and spoke calmly and carefully. “Yeah, Moi, I do. And the same goes for you, Wink. I’m going to call a cease-fire for the rest of the day. It’ll stay in effect until 0600 tomorrow. You two get together and talk this over. See if you can find some common ground. Canvas your people; see what they have to say about it. If the two of you can’t work something out, at one minute past six in the morning, I’ll blow you all right straight to hell.”

  “How about our women and kids?” Wink asked.

  “They can leave anytime they choose. They will not be harmed.”

  Moi tossed the mic to the table and stalked out of the room.

  Wink handed the mic to his operator and sat down, his face mirroring the man’s inner fury.

  “Too much hate between those two,” Jersey said. “It isn’t going to work, General.”

  “I don’t think it will either,” Ben replied. “But at least we can say we tried.”

  ELEVEN

  By the middle of the afternoon, women and kids began leaving the contested areas, a few elderly people with them.

  “Corrie, tell our medical people to treat the very young and the very old,” Ben said. “The rest of them can go to hell.”

  “One of Moi’s people to see you,” Cooper said.

  “Show him in.”

  “Moi will never agree to your terms, General,” the white-haired black man told Ben.

  “Then he’s got a problem.”

  “Black and white will never get along, is that it, General?” the elderly man asked.

  “No, that isn’t it. That is probably true with Moi and Wink, but the rest of us can, if we work at it.”

  “Suppose we just want to live alone?”

  “Fine,” Ben told him. “Just do so in peace with open borders. But if you want any help from us, you’ll have to abide by Rebel law. And don’t tell me that I owe you anything. I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

  The old man chuckled. “I can remember when my people weren’t allowed to vote.”

  “I guess we’ve come full circle then. Because none of us are voting now. And probably won’t for a long time.”

  The man held out a part of his robe. “You should try one of these. They’re really quite comfortable.”

  “It is your right to wear it, and my right to think they look silly as hell. But I don’t have the right to taunt you for wearing it. Do we understand each other?”

  “Quite,” the elderly man said. “I am free to go?”

  “Mister, you are probably the most free you have ever been in your life.” Ben paused. “Most free?” he muttered. He shrugged. “It’ll do.”

  The old black man stared hard at him for a moment. “You must realize that Moi and his hardcore followers will fight to the death.”

  “It won’t be a very long fight,” Ben assured him.

  “And his death won’t bother you?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “You have to be the hardest man I have ever met, General Raines.”

  “You might be surprised just how much compassion I have in me, Mr. Wha
tever Your Name Is. But since I’m the one who can give it or withhold it, it’s up to me to decide who gets it. And Wink Payne and Moi Sambura, I assure you, are not on the list,” Ben pointed to a chair. “Sit down. You want some coffee?”

  “Real coffee?”

  “Yes. What is your name?”

  “Franklin Sharp. And yes, I would like some coffee. It’s been years.”

  Ben hollered for a fresh pot of coffee and it was there in half a minute.

  The elderly man sighed contentedly after the first sip. “That is so good. I had forgotten how good.” He smiled at Ben. “Are you surprised I did not take a Muslim name?”

  “Damn little surprises me anymore, Mr. Sharp.”

  “Mr. Sharp? How odd to hear a white man say that.”

  “You’re my elder and you’re polite to me. Why shouldn’t I be polite to you?”

  Franklin smiled and sipped. “Moi had us believing you were a Negro-hating devil.”

  “Moi is as much a racist as is Wink. Negro?” Ben asked. “Not black or African-American.”

  “After years of being called boy and nigger, when it got to Negro, that was quite good enough for me. Not all of us are black, I’m certainly not, so I don’t care to be called black, although it doesn’t offend me in the least. As for African-American, that’s rather a mouthful when faced with a long day of conversation.”

  Ben laughed. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that you’re a Baptist.”

  “Actually, I’m Episcopalian, and have been for many, many years.”

  “You look tired, Mr. Sharp. Have you eaten today?”

  “Ah . . . not since breakfast.”

  “Well, drink your coffee and I’ll have some food sent in. Then we’ll let the doctors check you over.”

  “That’s kind of you. But might I trouble you for one more little item?”

  “Sure.”

  Franklin Sharp smiled and said, “You wouldn’t happen to have a couple of pairs of Levis that would fit me, would you?”

  * * *

  “That old man is really something,” Cooper said. It was late and the camp was quiet.

  “Which old man, Coop?” Ben asked, turning down the lantern on his desk and closing a journal.

  “Mr. Sharp. He was a college professor when the war came. He’s just full of stories. He asked if the Rebels would accept a Negro as a teacher?”

  “Well, of course, we do. You told him that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. He was sure surprised. You know, General, we have a really bad reputation. There are a lot of damn lies being spread about us.”

  “For sure, Coop. Mr. Sharp wants to come live with us at Base Camp One, huh?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s sure welcome.”

  “I like him,” Jersey said. And Jersey didn’t have many kind words for a lot of people. “I think he’s a nice old man who ought to be able to live and work in peace. And he probably knows a lot, too.”

  “He might not be so friendly to us after we start killing Moi’s followers,” Ben put a damper on their spirits. “You all had better think about that.”

  “He’s kind of sad about that,” Cooper said. “But he told me Moi was wrong in doing what he did and should have taken your offer of peace.”

  Ben looked at his watch. “He’s got eight hours to reach a decision. After that I’ll make up his mind for him.”

  * * *

  Ben gave Moi and Wink the benefit of the doubt and waited until 0605. Then he turned to Corrie, standing to his left. “Drop them in, Corrie.”

  From miles away, the big guns of the Rebels boomed. When the first of the almost one-hundred-pound shells struck, Wink and Moi knew that enormous blast signaled the beginning of the end of their twin racist dreams.

  Ammunition was no problem for the Rebels. With thousands of rounds already stockpiled all over the nation, they had, in addition, thousands of rounds seized from the Blackshirt army. And Ben really walloped the positions of Moi and Wink. He kept up the barrage for six hours, with no let-up, turning the land in front of him into a smoking, hellish, no-man’s-land of pockmarked earth and burning buildings.

  The gun crews would stagger fire for half an hour, then the crews would stand down, hook up, and move forward a mile or so, and repeat their performance. At noon they had advanced to within sight of the eastern side of I-65. Ben called a halt to the artillery barrage.

  When the 105s and 155s ceased their booming, and the area had turned eerily silent, Ben ordered helicopter gunships and PUFFs to go in and strafe and rocket anything that moved.

  Ben was determined to keep his own casualties down to a bare bones minimum. The lives of ten thousand Moi Samburas and Wink Paynes were not worth one Rebel loss.

  At two o’clock that afternoon, Ben ordered the choppers and the PUFFs back to their temporary bases and told his people to mount up and advance.

  Not one shot was fired at them as they crossed the interstate into Moi’s claimed land. That land was now a smoking ruin, with a mangled body, or part of a body, littering the ground every few hundred yards. Wink and his people had scrambled across the interstate, fleeing from the crashing artillery rounds, and had run straight into the guns of Moi’s front line defenders. While the explosions boomed all around them, raining down fire and death, the two groups fought each other in hand to hand combat, with pistols and rifles and shotguns and knives and hatchets.

  “Idiots,” Ben said, standing in the midst of the body-strewn carnage.

  “They sure hated each other, didn’t they?” Coop remarked, looking down at a dead black hand still gripping a white neck, and a white hand still closed around a black throat. Both hands were stiff in death.

  “Maybe this was the only way it could end,” Beth said.

  “But if Moi and Wink made it out,” Jersey added, “it isn’t over.”

  “All right,” Ben said, adjusting the chin strap to his helmet. “Let’s end it.”

  The Rebels broke into squad-sized units and stretched out from the deserted towns of Lester in the north to Flat Creek in the south and slowly began working their way west, in the tedious and dangerous job of house to house searching and mopping up.

  Ben and his team found two black males and two white males huddled together in the basement of a country home. They were tired, dirty, hungry, scared, and weaponless.

  “For folks who claim they don’t like each other,” Jersey said, prodding them to their feet with the muzzle of her M-16, “you’re sure sitting mighty close. Move!”

  Outside, the quartet squinted and blinked in the light of the sun. “I think they’re suffering from battle fatigue,” she told Ben.

  “How could they be suffering from that?” Beth asked. “They didn’t fight!”

  “That one’s covered with dried blood,” Ben said, pointing to one of Moi’s men. “Have the medics check him out.”

  “It isn’t my blood,” the man stated. “The building I was in took a hit from one of your artillery rounds. I’m the only survivor. I was literally splattered with the blood of my brothers.” He stared defiantly at Ben. “Now their blood is on your hands.”

  “I can live with it,” Ben told him. He looked at Wink’s men. “What’s your story?”

  “You had no right,” one said.

  “I’m trying to put this nation back together, pal,” Ben replied. “And if I have to kill every sorry son of a bitch like you four to do that, I will. And I’ll have no regrets about it. Get them out of here.”

  It took over a thousand people two weeks of hard searching to cover the area. There was no sign of Moi or Wink. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. Many of the dead had been ripped apart by the hundreds and hundreds of artillery rounds, burned to unrecognizable char in blazing buildings, or buried forever under tons of crushing rubble.

  “I’d bet they made it out,” Ben said. “Their kind is hard to kill. They’ll pop up somewhere, spewing their venomous hate. We’ll see them again.”

 
; The survivors of the attack, black and white, mostly women and kids, had elected spokespeople. They came to see Ben, asking about their future.

  “That’s up to you,” he told them. “If you want to stay here and work together, rebuilding, we’ll help you all we can. If you want to go on hating each other, well, I can’t stop you from doing that, either. But if you choose that route, I can tell you what you’ll get from us. Nothing. Zero. You will get not one aspirin or antibiotic from my medical people. You will be totally alone. You will not receive food, protection, or any other type of assistance from us. And we’ll take the younger kids with us right now. Before any of you have the time to poison their minds with bigotry. Think about that. Give it a lot of thought before you reach any decision.”

  About half of them, nearly an equal number of black and white, agreed to stay and rebuild. Franklin Sharp and several dozen other men, black and white, ranging in age from twenty to eighty, had already agreed to stay. The other men and women, both black and white, sullen and with hate-filled eyes, told those remaining to go to hell. They left, the blacks in one group, the whites in another, each looking for their own peculiar version of Utopia on earth.

  “What do you suppose will happen to them, Ben Raines?” Franklin Sharp asked.

  “Oh, they’ll seek some isolated spot and squat, and there they’ll fester in their own hatred. Others like them will find them and they’ll grow. In numbers, not in mentality. Someday in the future the Rebels, or the organized law of that time will have to go in and fight them. Some people change, others don’t. Those that don’t take their hate to the grave.”

  “You should teach, Ben Raines,” the old man said.

  “I’m too much of an arch-conservative to teach, Franklin.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, Ben Raines. You are somewhat of an enigma, to be sure. But I have doubts that you even know exactly what you are. Except for being the man who rose out of the ashes of destruction and is attempting to pull a nation back together. You are most definitely that.”

  “But am I right or wrong, Franklin?” Ben asked.