A loud blast rang out, echoing through the belt, followed by the staccato bark of weapon fire on full auto firing in short bursts. They heard rifle crack after rifle crack, some impressively loud even to the two seasoned hunters.
Fifty yards to the north of Joe the belt made a right angle turn, continuing down another line protecting the north side of the Littleton’s house from the cold winter winds. To the south the belt suddenly stopped, opening up to clear sky and a glimpse of the west end of Dave's garden.
Joe pointed to himself, then to the north edge of the belt, indicating he would take the watch over that area. John understood that he should cover the south. This made sense, since John had a shorter range weapon, and the southern end of the belt was only twenty yards away.
John glimpsed a figure run into the area he was covering, and let fly with both barrels at once. The man went down, the vest covering his midsection not able to stop a head shot. John shot ninety-five percent at skeet. Joe was even better with a shotgun, averaging ninety-eight percent.
A split second later John heard the lightning like crack of the Mosin. Another “Crack-Boom” followed closely on the heels of the first, followed quickly by yet a third. He turned around to see if Joe had more than he could handle, yet only saw one body at the end of the belt.
Joe's lips moved as he fired another shot. The body he was aiming at jumped a little as the round tore completely through. He had mouthed the name of his wife “Mary” as he pulled the trigger. This continued as he racked another round in the rifle. This time he mouthed the name of his oldest son as the big Russian rifle thundered yet again.
“Joseph,” Joe growled as he pulled the trigger, the only sound following a hollow metallic 'tink' as the firing pin struck on an empty chamber.
Unaware, Joe kept cocking the rifle, and pulling the trigger, repeating the names of his slain family with each morbid click.
John almost threw up when he realized that he could see bloody patches on both knees of the deceased attacker. Joe had made the man feel at least three of the shots.
“I think he's dead Joe,” John said, reaching over to touch Joe's arm, hoping he would snap out of it.
One by one, the full auto bursts coming from the other side of the belt fell silent. The firing finally stopped from the front of the house, and John was worried they might have more visitors.
“Better load up Joe,” John said softly as he put two new twelve gauge shells in his own shotgun.
Joe stopped firing the empty weapon, and stared at the body for a few moments. He shook his head and then cocked the bolt on his rifle back, dug a stripper clip out of his belt pouch, and slid it home in the magazine. A metallic 'chink' sound followed as the empty stripper flew up and out of the gun. In one fluid move he slammed home the bolt and shouldered the weapon, aiming at the corner of the belt.
After a few minutes, the heard a familiar voice shouted out from the house.
“Joe, John, are you guys ok?”
“We're fine Dave,” John shouted a reply.
“Got two down back here. Everybody in the house ok?”
“You guys want a hummer?” Dave shouted back in response.
“Or maybe two?”
As they exited the deer blind, John noticed some blood and a small hole on the back of Joe's shirt.
“You're hit Joe,” John said.
A surprised look came on Joe's face as he looked down at his front, and saw blood slowly creeping down his shirt from a matching hole in the front.
Joe tried to turn his head and screamed in agony, as the damaged muscle in his left shoulder cramped.
“Dave! Joe's been hit. Get your lazy butt out here!” John hollered, his voice loud enough to echo between the trees.
Dave and his son Kyle came at a flat run, Kyle carrying a box that looked like a large tackle box with a red cross on the two piece lid. As Kyle open the box, Dave carefully but quickly opened Joe's shirt. After examining the wound, Dave relaxed.
“It's ok Joe.... nothing but muscle, and it went clean through. Looks like the bullet never expanded, so the damage is minimal.”
Dave had done a stint in the first Gulf War as a medic, and he was experienced with all manner of battlefield wounds. He quickly cleaned, anesthetized, and sutured the wound. He then bandaged Joe up, and helped him carefully to his feet. Shock and the adrenaline leaking out of his system combined to make Joe dizzy, so Kyle put his arm over his shoulder and gave him support as he stumbled back to the house.
“If you guys hadn't of came along, My boys would have been caught flat footed out there in the garden. I owe you big time John,” Dave said after Joe was out of earshot.
“Don't thank me, thank Joe,” John replied.
“Coming to check on you was his idea. I just thought it a good'un. Dave, let's keep an eye on Joe, I think he flipped his wig a bit. He didn't just shoot that guy, he hurt him and then hurt him some more… before he kilt him.”
Dave walked over to the body in question, and a grim look spread across his face. He pondered the corpse for a second.
“After what happened, do you blame him?”
John paused at that, and thought for a little bit before replying.
“I guess not. Heck, I just shot a guy in the face with two loads of buck... Who am I to criticize?”
Dave picked up the weapons, and then had John search the bodies for anything useful, then they carried the loot back to Dave's front porch. Next, they checked the bodies up front, searching them thoroughly. Looking at one soldier, John gave Dave a puzzled glance.
“What in the H... What in tarnation did you boys shoot them with?” he asked, one grey eyebrow lifting in disbelief.
The lightly armored Humvee door had a neat hole drilled in it where a soldier had been hiding. Parts of the ceramic armor from the front of his bullet proof vest were poking out the back side of the body. The huge hole was a ghastly mess.
“Solid bronze hand cast bullets in hand loaded three seventy five magnum are amazing, aren't they?” Dave said with a deadly glint in his eye and a sardonic twist to his mouth, and then left the statement hanging in the air.
After a few seconds, Dave pointed out two more bodies.
“Sue got those with the seven millimeter Remington mag. We had the kids keep them busy with the Shotgun and the AR's while we were picking our targets.”
Five men were sprawled on the ground, two in the driveway and three in the yard. Five shots from the two powerful guns had taken their deadly toll. Dave and Sue had always gone hunting together.... and they always got their respective deer. They were firm believers in the 'one shot, one kill' principle of hunting.
After rounding up everything useful that the attacking soldiers had brought John took stock of the situation.
There were two Hummers, a pile of six M-16s of which five were usable, and the commanding officer’s side-arm which had been shot out of his hand with a shotgun and was worthless. They also found the ammo carried by each Humvee; two ammo boxes, each three quarters full of five point five-six millimeter military ammo.
“You would think they would have something bigger than a coyote rifle,” John said with disdain.
“Save one for Joe, you guys take the rest.”
“I didn't mind them in the Gulf!” Dave replied.
“Just an oversized .22, as far as I am concerned,” John stated sarcastically.
“Whatever,” Dave laughingly responded while shaking his head.
“That young stink is probably thinking I am an old fart right now... Wish I had a dime for every time I have been called that,” John thought to himself while watching Dave.
John smiled and went into the house to check on Joe. Still shaking his head, Dave watched John go into the house.
“Gotta like that old fart... Just something about that boy,” he stated to no-one in particular with a snicker.
6. (Equal and opposite reaction)
Joe had a problem… a very serious problem. He was sitting at the t
able in the Littleton's house, yet could not even tell where he was. In his mind he was still in the deer blind looking through the scope on his rifle. Over and over he watched the scene replay in his mind.
A wise man named Newton once said that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newton was talking about physical forces, but how true it was for emotional forces as well. Joe had seen the face of the man he shot, as the man came cautiously around the corner of the belt. Something ugly, nasty, and mean had boiled up in Joe, and then he had acted.
With every pull of the trigger he had placed all of the blame of the death of his entire family on this one face, and he had dealt with the attacker brutally and mercilessly. He could still see the man’s pale white face. A face painted with agony, shock, and utter terror stared back at him in his mind’s eye. Reaction was setting in, and now his own conscience would not let him forget even one sound, one action, one flash from the end of his barrel, one scream, or one bounce of the body after he pulled the trigger.
Joe had killed before, but only by necessity, and never a man. He had shot various animals for meat and had found it necessary to put down some sick dogs in the past, and was now understanding the simple fact that a man is not an animal. He could not escape the fact that he had just deprived someone of their own son, husband, or father and no action the man may have done to others was causing Joe any mental relief.
When he was younger, Joe had suffered from a very bad temper. At that point in his life he had been a very a violent man. Then Mary had come along, and he changed. Little by little, bit by bit, Joe had come to love peace and deeply learned to love his family.
These were somewhat unfamiliar emotions and would have been considered as a weakness to the younger version of himself.
Joe hated the 'old' version of himself with a passion.
Now that a little glimpse of the old version had popped up its ugly head, Joe hated himself. He could find no excuse in his own mind for what he had done, despite the events which had led up to his reactions. He was learning that emotions, especially strong ones, are rarely logical, and that old clichés provide no salve to the soul. Joe was learning that wounding others leaves wounds within which cannot be seen.
As John walked through the front door, Dave's wife Sue met him. She had tied her red hair in a ponytail, and her face looked worried.
“John, you better take a look at Joe, something’s very wrong. I think he may be going into shock or something. He is just sitting there staring into space and mumbling,” She stated, a worried expression on her face, “Maybe the wound is worse than Dave thought? I'm getting worried. I asked him if he was OK, and he didn't even blink in response. It is like I wasn't even there,”
“Where is he?” John asked
“At the table in the kitchen,” she replied
John hurried into the kitchen and saw Joe just as Sue had described him. Joe’s face was a mask of intense pain, but John had been there before. Momentarily, it took John back deep into a foreign jungle, blasts echoing all around him, and full grown men the size of American teenagers shooting at him. The taste of blood mixed with cordite, mud, and sweat filled his mouth with the flashback of memory. He had faced these demons long ago, and yet still had nightmares occasionally. His back still ached where his ticket out of the delta had left a huge scar.
“John, should I call Dave in?” Sue asked as she entered the kitchen.
“No… No… It won’t help,” John said in a thoughtful and compassionate voice.
“Sue, there are some wounds deeper than a bullet. No suture can close it, or anesthetic block the pain. Joe doesn't need medicine. He needs us.”
“What are you talking about?” Sue asked.
John took her aside, far enough so Joe couldn't hear.
“He killed a man,” he whispered to her.
Sue attempted to interrupt, but John waved her to silence.
“Sue, you kilt a couple yourself, and you will feel it later. Make no mistake missy, you will never forget a face... ever. However, you did it upon immediate need, and in defense of your family. Joe acted out o' pure vengeance, and didn't just kill the guy in self-defense. He practically butchered the guy.”
John then explained to her what had happened, both at Joe’s farm and in the shelter belt. Sue gave Joe a horrified look with a tinge of disgust, but before she could react John gave her a harsh look.
“Don’t you ever judge a man until you have worn his boots,” John replied with a hint of steel in his voice.
“Imagine it were your husband an young'uns were burning in the house over that hill. What would you have done missy?”
“I'm sorry,” Sue said softly, horrified at the thought and realizing just how close it had come to being true.
Finally, her own actions in the firefight came home to roost. Sue was faced with just what she had done, and she sat down at the table weeping uncontrollably.
John called Dave in, and pointed to Sue with the simple statement.
“Reaction.”
Dave lifted her up and hugged her to him, his face buried in her hair. As Dave comforted Sue, holding her tight in his arms, John knelt down and grabbed Joe's hands.
“Joe… Joe… Look at me boy,” John said softly but firmly while looking straight into his eyes.
“I know what you did boy. It's ok. Everything will be ok. Come back to me Joe… Joe, look me in the eyes son,” John stated.
Deep in his own personal hell, Joe heard a whisper of something lovely, something soft, of something kind. He sought it out. He started to focus his mind and saw the kind, knowing, sorrowful and yet loving eyes of his uncle. He felt the rough skin of his Uncle's hands reassuringly upon his own.
Joe was hurting, but he now had a choice to make. He could 'be a man' and bottle up everything, ultimately leading himself down the road to insanity. He could choose to separate himself from what he had done as if it never happened, or justifying the act within himself. This path would turn him homicidal, placing no value upon human life.
The last and best option was to accept responsibility for his actions and let the emotions out. Joe chose sanity and erupted into tears. He grabbed John as if he was a life raft in the middle of the ocean, or a tree in a hurricane.
He was terrified, and felt that if he were to let John go, his mind would dissolve into a whirling maelstrom.
“I… Oh he… John, what I did! No… No excuse. None,” Joe sobbed, stammering out his admission.
When Joe burst into tears, John knew he would eventually be fine. He had seen too many people take the wrong path, and had been more than just a little worried about Joe. It wasn’t an easy choice to make. John had seen men lost forever with the thousand yard stare, forever imprisoned in the hell of their own mind. He had seen others who just 'shook it off' and then become ruthless, cold blooded killers with little or no sense of remorse. They were no different than rabid dogs, and just as dangerous to everyone around them. He was glad Joe followed this path.
There is a simple fact that most ignore. Every man is Rambo in his own mind, yet truthfully has no clue about how he will react to any situation until he has been through it. Strong men have killed themselves for far less than what Joe experienced, and weak men have jumped out of windows simply because of a temporary monetary loss. Over something as stupid, meaningless, replaceable, and transitory as money.
All those men thought of themselves as Rambo, capable of taking on the world and anything in it bare handed. They all thought themselves able to deal with everything without emotion, steadfast to the end no matter the task or setback. However, when hit they fold like any man. All too often they do not get back up.
Joe had just shown he was made of sterner stuff. John was glad, as you never could tell. Some of the toughest talking thugs he had met in boot had dropped their weapons in fear during their first firefight, while some of the softest spoken had turned into tigers.
Dave, still holding Sue, looked over at John with the un
spoken question evident.
“He's going to be fine Dave. He's just been hit hard is all… he's getting up.”
Joe had stopped crying, the supply of tears exhausted, and was just leaning his head on John's shoulder, a shudder passing through him every few seconds.
“John?” Joe asked, his voice barely audible.
“Yeah son?”
“Can you help me get up? My shoulder hurts so bad I can't move, and this is really embarrassing. I feel like a little kid or something.”
John laughed, the movement causing Joe to wince. The flinch caused him to wince again, this time accompanied with a groan.
“Joe… quit being a sissy. You ain't been hurt that bad. You should have been with me when I got shot in the...,” John started saying, but was cut off in midsentence by a loud grunt from Joe.
Surviving in America: Under Siege 2nd Edition Page 4
