Liberia jtf-1

by David E. Meadows

  The African Wars had taught him a valuable lesson. When infrastructure breaks down, disease, chaos, and violence follow. Thomaston had directed the pharmacist, who was one of only two people trained in medicine, to be a member of the patrol. The other person was a registered nurse.

  He hoped he was overreacting. He recalled during his career that most times every operation was overplanned and overpowering, but there were those few times when that planning saved their lives. Thomaston raised a hand to shield his eyes and looked south. Anytime now, American helicopters would appear over the tall rain-forest canopy and take them out of here. Was that a prayer? On the other hand, never assume anything to be quick and clean. When you plan for the worst, always plan for the long haul. Look at the Balkans. Fog of war and all that bullshit. We will have our troops in the Balkans for only one year. He still remembered the laughter that greeted the President’s statement way back then.

  When he had been sent to the Balkans, he had been a young Army captain. Only be there a year, he was told. Of course, no one on active duty believed it. Twenty-odd years later and they still had troops on the ground. The only way to remove ethnic hatred was educate it out. Look how Muslim madrassas educate violence in. Children are the keys to social change.

  “Time to do it again, Craig,” he said.

  The retired sergeant major nodded and shifted his position to the left side, slightly behind Thomaston. “I’m ready when you are, sir.”

  Thomaston stepped off, moving forward with Gentle in step to his left. He glanced around the outside of the compound. The tree line to the rear and the two sides was a good hundred yards away, while the front was off the road that ran through Kingsville and continued northward toward the main highway. Anyone approaching the armory would have to come along that road. The field to the left of the armory was where he would put tents if too many refugees arrived. There, they would be close enough to flee inside when the rebels showed up. What would he do about human waste? If he failed to address the disposal problem, then the question became not “if” an epidemic was going to occur, but “when.” Typhoid lurked around every corner when people crowded together and sanitation was poorly planned. He had seen the enemy typhoid and it was not a pleasant foe.

  The two men walked across the road toward two open double gates that swung inward. He needed to establish sentries and impose a schedule for the troops. He had ceased to think of the citizens of Kingsville as anything other than troops. They had to defend themselves until help arrived. If they didn’t, then… no need to think of it. They all knew what would happen. Right now, there was not one guard on the gate. Anybody could just walk in.

  Since he’d been an Army general, everyone believed, or wanted to believe, that he had the answers. Confidence in leadership was an essential ingredient to victory. A nice rush swept across his conscience. He loved this. Damn! He shouldn’t, but this was what he was trained to do. This was what he had done before and done well. It reminded him how much he missed the Army and its traditions. Why did life have to be so short? Where in the hell was a band when he needed it?

  “Sir?” Gentle asked.

  His mind was wandering.

  “Sorry, Sergeant Major. I was thinking about other things we need to do,” he said, hoping it sounded true.

  They passed through the double gates and continued toward the grassy knoll that occupied the center of the roundabout. A white flagpole surrounded by small white rocks stood in the center of the knoll. Thomaston glanced upward. The American flag hung listless slightly higher and alongside the Liberian flag. It was hard to tell the two flags apart when they hung like that. The fifty stars of the American flag and the one star on the Liberia flag were the only difference between the two.

  “It is a beautiful sight,” Gentle said, following Thomaston’s look. “We raised it when we started moving to the armory this afternoon.”

  “Do we have anyone who can play the bugle?”

  Gentle’s eyes narrowed for a couple of seconds before he responded, “Yes, sir. Master Chief Seams plays the trumpet.”

  “See if he knows how to play taps. We’ll institute flag ceremonies while we’re bivouacked here.”

  “Bivouacked? I tell you, Boss, most of these people aren’t even going to know what bivouacked means, much less how to spell it.” Gentle paused a moment. “Come to think of it, I don’t know how to spell it, and I can’t recall a United States Army operation where we ever bivouacked. We’ve ambushed. We’ve tracked. We’ve even slept in the saddle of our armor; but no, sir, we ain’t never bivouacked.” He let out a short chuckle.

  “You getting awful talkity in your old age, aren’t you, Sergeant Major?”

  Gentle scrunched his face for a moment, his lips curling outward as if he was sucking a lemon, and then he smiled. “You know, General, it’s a horrible thing to say,” he said quietly. “But for some perverted reason I’m enjoying this. I shouldn’t, but it makes me miss the Army. Damn. I find me looking forward to the battle that is coming and you and I both know it’ll come. It’s not an ‘if.’ It’s a ‘when.’ ”

  Thomaston threw his hand up, acknowledging a group of men and women who were drinking water from a large Coleman’s jug set up near the corner of the building.

  “What’s worse, Sergeant Major, is that I know how you feel. I doubt those who’ve never served would understand.”

  Gentle shook his head. “I don’t see how they could. I’m not sure I do.”

  “Maybe we’re looking forward to seeing if the skills that kept us alive through so many close calls during our active-duty years are still fit and tuned?” He shook his head. “Damn, Craig.” Thomaston needed to provide focus. The last thing these people would tolerate would be him acting as if this was fun.

  “With your knees and my back, I kind of doubt we’re the same ‘fit and tuned’ as you say. Plus, there has to be a better way to find out how old you are.”

  They stepped onto the knoll. Two ancient Civil War cannons contributed by the Frederick, Maryland, Chamber of Commerce flanked the flagpole. Two pyramid stacks of black-painted cannonballs fused together balanced the tableau. A lot of Army history had occurred since Union forces had used these cannons. Now here they were in Africa. Cement plugs filled the barrels of the old artillery pieces. Of course, Frederick had changed hands so many times during the Civil War these could be Confederate cannons. Either way, the gesture had been nice, and it never ceased to amaze him how native Africans would run their hands over the barrels exclaiming in amazement at the fact that the Americans had cannons. Guess if you’ve never seen them, then they must seem modern.

  Tawela Johnson waved from the top steps where she stood watching the working party unload the truck. The trucks were bringing the food and water from the homes and businesses throughout Kingsville. He knew later the part-time residents would scream and holler when they returned to find the doors to their homes broken from when the townspeople were liberating food, water, and arms.

  The young woman raised her M-16 and pushed it into the air above her head several times. Another person anxious for combat with no idea what she was asking for. He clenched his fist and responded by jerking it skyward a couple of times. A broad smile, revealing white teeth, stretched across her face for a moment before she lowered her weapon. She straightened, standing as tall as her short stature permitted, and saluted with her left hand.

  “Don’t laugh. At least she is trying,” Thomaston said out of the corner of his mouth to Gentle. He returned the wrong-handed salute.

  “I believe I have heard that she shoots better than she salutes.”

  “I hope that’s true for all of them. Let’s take a look at the rest of the compound, Sergeant Major. We need to see how they’ve parked the vehicles. We don’t want them so close to the building that if they’re hit they’ll turn it into a firetrap, and we don’t want them so close to the fence they prevent us from defending the perimeter.”

  “There’s not many,” Gentle said, poi
nting left of the building. “I had the men drive the smaller vehicles south into the jungle and hide them. That way if we have to make a run for it—”

  “Our Army doesn’t run.”

  “That’s true, General. But we don’t have our Army here. What we’ve got is a bunch of civilians looking to you—”

  “And you.”

  “—to turn the tide. You can see it in their faces. They believe that because you’re here, nothing can defeat us.”

  “Don’t think I don’t know that. But what the two of us know, and probably most of these veterans can guess, is that we have little to defend ourselves with except guts, gumption, and a few weapons.”

  Rounding the corner, Thomaston touched a nearby windowsill as they walked. The windows went completely around the building. Definitely built for show.

  The same brick wall, chain-link fence, and razor-wire construction as at the front surrounded the quarter-acre lot behind the building. Thomaston counted five SUVs, a school bus, and five Silverado pickup trucks, along with several personal automobiles.

  “Where are the other buses?”

  Gentle shook his head. “Not enough room for them. I had them parked at the edge of the jungle and the distributor wires pulled so they couldn’t be used.”

  “You’re right, Sergeant Major. I guess as long as we had them, we had a chance to make a run toward the border, but we both know that our only hope now is the Navy fleet headed this way.” He looked at his watch and his eyes cast to the south. “They should be off the coast.”

  “Probably parked for lunch.”

  Thomaston stopped and stared at the vehicles. Parked so close that to move any but those at the front would cause all of them to have to shift.

  “How many militia do you have?”

  “Thirty, General. When the two patrols return, that should raise our numbers back to thirty-six. We should also count the men and women who want to fight.”

  “Oh, yes! They’re going to fight. They have their weapons and they’re going to have to use them. What we need is to disperse the militia among those who are untrained. When the fight starts, they need to understand they are to respond to our orders without question and without hesitation. Do you have a muster sheet of those inside?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then make one, Sergeant Major. Have someone start a roster identifying everyone. Names, ages, and addresses. While you’re at it, get their next of kin.”

  “Yes, sir. If you don’t mind me asking, General, what are we going to do with this list?”

  “If we have to evacuate in a hurry, Sergeant Major, I want a master list with us so we’ll know who we have and who we are missing. Assign someone — a teenager — or better yet, get Marge Sweeney to do it and tell her we need it in alphabetical order. If anyone can manage that, she can. And she’ll keep it as accurate as she does our accounts at the store.” Thomaston paused for a moment. “Yeah, Marge can do it if she don’t lose those Coke-bottle glasses of hers.”

  “And the bad part of this muster is it will help us track the dead and the wounded.”

  Thomaston waved his hand as if encompassing the compound and the crisis. “All of this is new. To me, and to you,” he said, poking himself in the chest and then Gentle. “We were comfortable American expatriates used to conveniences, expecting an American way of life always to be there, and while we never admitted it, enjoying having the Africans fawn over us. Even here…” His thoughts faded off.

  He looked up for a moment as if expecting to see aircraft crossing overhead, but only a hot sun filled the cloudless sky — not even a contrail disrupted the sea of blue. No aircraft! Usually you could always see a contrail or two as international flights crossed overhead. His eyes narrowed.

  No satellites for their communications, no commercial flights visible, and no contact with the United States force that was headed their way. It was as if he and the others in Liberia had dropped off the map. Would the United States allow this large number of Americans to die without trying to rescue them? What if Admiral Holman has been ordered to turn around? It wasn’t something Thomaston wanted to think about right now. He reached up and pinched the top of his nose near his eyes, blinking several times. Africa made everyone appreciate air-conditioning. They always say that if you want something bad enough, that’s how you get it—bad.

  “General, you all right, sir?”

  Thomaston looked at Gentle and shook his head. “No, Sergeant Major, I don’t think I am. I don’t think we are.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “If the enemy shows up in the next hour, we’d stand a snowball’s chance in hell of stopping them. We have a lot to do.”

  “Begging the general’s pardon, I think we are further along than you imagine.”

  Thomaston punched him gently on the shoulder. “I would never argue with a sergeant major, and I do know we are where we are because of you, Craig.”

  Tawela Johnson ran around the edge of the building, her M-16 across her chest at port arms.

  “Here comes our one-woman army,” he said, causing the sergeant major to turn his head.

  It always amazed Thomaston when he saw how a small woman like her carried a weapon. But then he recalled the number of women who worked for him during his career who were still marching when bigger, stronger men had fallen out. Of course, there were those lying alongside the road also. Upper body strength helped, but he truly believed tenacity was the real strength of a soldier. Give me a person with tenacity over someone with intellect any time.

  She stopped abruptly, shifted her weapon to her left hand, and saluted. “General, you better come out front, sir,” she said urgently, turning and motioning him to follow.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, his pace picking up as he followed her.

  “Well, sir…”

  One of the militiamen, wearing sergeant stripes on crisp, sharp camouflages, appeared at the corner of the building. The beret sat atop a large Afro hairstyle. The sergeant saluted. “General, there’s some people out front who just drove up. You may want to talk to them, sir. They be kinda excited right now, but we calming them down. They from the east—from Monrovia.”

  Thomaston glanced at the name tag — ROOSEVELT. He was good with names. Seldom forgot a name once he had seen it and pronounced it a couple of times. He thanked the sergeant as he and Gentle walked past. Sergeant Roosevelt, automobile mechanic, and Tawela Johnson, waitress and general worker at whatever job was available, fell in behind the two.

  * * *

  Abu Alhaul laid the paper plate on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and belched. The women provided good meals. Abu Alhaul patted his stomach and wiped his hands on the long white robe that reached to his ankle. He never ceased to amaze himself. He was a legend in his own mind. Pulling the water bowl nearer, Abu Alhaul splashed his hands in it, bringing a handful of water to his lips to wash the food particles from his beard and mustache. The near-worship by those around him was his due because he was empowered by Allah to interpret His word. They should watch, wait, and worship his every action. Their lives were his to give in the service of Allah, and he expected those who followed him to be ready to martyr their lives as he dictated. For he also believed their lives were his to take. He pushed himself up from the floor of the home they occupied. Mumar stood several inches taller. Abu Alhaul looked at the taller African, and knew he had it in his power to have the man taken outside and his legs chopped off above the ankles. Then the jet-black man would be the same height as him.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked, turning for a moment to Mumar Kabir, an ecstatic rush permeating his body. Abu Alhaul sucked in a deep breath — a sharp quick pain struck down his right and left sides. He quickly hid the slight grimace. Allah knew when to remind His followers of their mortality.

  Taller and five years younger, Mumar Kabir stood slightly behind and to the left of Abu Alhaul. Mumar was always there. Even when Abu Alhaul would have preferred some solitude. The man acted fierc
ely loyal. He said the right things about gladly giving his life for him, but he was African and African loyalty, like the Afghanis’, ebbed and flowed with the moment. Abu Alhaul touched the dagger on his right side.

  “Yes, Great One,” Mumar responded, looking in the same direction at the long line of armed pickup trucks. They had liberated several heavy machine guns from the Liberian Army camp in Monrovia.

  The voice never indicated the level of mesmerized adoration that Abu Alhaul expected. He didn’t fully trust Mumar, but he needed an African lieutenant if he expected the Africans to serve the cause of chaos. Abu Alhaul smiled as Mumar muttered a short prayer to Allah for the ease with which they had overthrown this heretic puppet government of the Great Satan. The way of Islam was set with challenges, but someday—maybe after decades—the world would become pure Islamic. Other religions twisted and spun Allah’s words to convince many that Islam was a heretic religion — a cult. They would perish along with the Jewish pigs who occupied the Islamic Holy City of Jerusalem. His was only one of many Islamic movements dedicated to bringing true believers into the fold and to die, like sacrificial sheep, in destroying those who failed to acknowledge the word of Allah. Abu Alhaul lowered his head to hide the slight smile he permitted himself. He was the word of Allah. He was one destined to pick and choose those who would martyr themselves in furtherance of Islam. The smile faded and he looked at Mumar Kabir. And who better than to die in this cause than Africans? That was their destiny.

  “Everything is nearly ready, Sheik,” Mumar said, his deep bass voice resonating within the close walls of the room.

  Surveillance two months ago had told Abu Alhaul they would find Humvees, weapons, and Americans at this sore on Africa’s butt called Kingsville. Twenty kilometers from this small town where he and his commanders prepared for the advance waited the heretic Americans. Americans who had brought death, destruction, and disrespect to the Arab world. He glanced at Mumar. Arab name for an African. How stupid the Africans were. They blamed the white man for slavery, when it was his own people — the Arabs — who’d fostered the practice, and still engaged it in some parts of the Middle East and Africa.