Two days later, they’d only advanced about five miles up the road and were definitely into the mountainous terrain. The Germans were digging in, giving up ground as slowly as they could. It was a grinding war of attrition, and the One-Fifty-Seventh was losing its share of troops. Joe was back on the line, five stitches closing his cheek and the piece of shrapnel in the medicine bag he wore around his neck.
Sergeant Kincaid was ranting and pacing as the squad slid back for chow. “I’m sick and tired of these damn machine guns! They’ve got us pinned, again! Captain Dawes wants volunteers to try to find a way to get behind them and ambush them as soon as it gets dark.” He glanced at Joe when he finished his rant and said softly, “You want to volunteer, Curry?”
Joe shrugged. “I … sure, I’ll volunteer, Sergeant.”
“Thought you might. You’re turning into a good troop, Curry. I’ll take you up to the CP as soon as we get chow.”
Joe didn’t eat much, suddenly not hungry when he realized what he’d volunteered to do, but he enjoyed the scalding cup of coffee as he waited for Kincaid to finish.
Two hours later, after an argument with Kincaid and the lieutenant, he crawled toward the drop off on the side of the road. He didn’t have a helmet, a rifle, or a pistol. His pack was sitting in the rear, and the only thing he had was his grandpa’s Bowie knife he’d pulled from its hiding place in the bottom of his pack. Once he was off the side of the hill, he sat up and spent the time necessary to go through his meditation. As his vision sharpened, everything turned shades of gray, but he could see almost as well as if it was light. His other senses heightened, and he warmed up. He took a few moments to ensure he could move without problems, and a low growl came from his chest. He moved quickly now; sure he could avoid any Germans he might see, long before they would see him.
He found a shallow draw and followed it up around the hill, staying low as he moved. He slid behind the first two machine gun nests without a problem, noting the trail they were using. He eased up to the top of the draw just below the third machine gun nest, then stopped and watched. We can do this, he thought. Footing isn’t the best, but if we’re quiet … we might be able to get all three of them.
Slipping back down the draw, he moved back until he was sure he was behind his own lines before he sat and said a short prayer of thanks to the gods for allowing him to get back safely. He stuck his head up and said, “Coming in.”
Shoemaker was in the first foxhole and said, “Abraham.”
“Lincoln.”
“C’mon in, Curry. I recognized your voice.”
“Thanks, Shoe. I think I found a way to get behind them.”
“Well, you’re the last one back. We were wondering if you’d been captured.”
“What time is it?” Joe asked softly.
“Almost midnight. You been out there almost four hours!”
“I … didn’t realize I was gone that long, but I made it up to the top of the hill behind the Krauts.”
He reported back to Kincaid, who took him to the Command Post and the Captain. “So, you think you’ve got a way to get behind the nests, is that right, Private Curry?”
Yes, sir. There’s a draw on the back side of the hill that goes almost to the top. We could get all three nests if we did it quietly.”
“Are you willing to lead them, Private?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Kincaid, get the best troops we’ve got to go with him.”
The sergeant saluted. “Yes, sir.”
As they walked out of the Command Post, Kincaid said, “Go wait by the wall. I’ll send them to you as soon as I round them up. Knives only, right?”
Joe said jokingly, “Unless you’ve got a few bows and arrows? Yes, knives.”
Kincaid chuckled. “If only,” and melted into the night.
Joe made his way back to the wall and sat on top of it, thinking of Oklahoma and warmth, the smell of the prairie grass and cattle. Just a few minutes later, Corporal Little followed by Miller, Begay, Harris, and Thornton walked up. Joe thought to himself, Well, well, well, a half-breed leading four full-blood Cherokees.
Little said in Cherokee, “You can assume your true form now, Joe. Let us go before we lose too much time.”
Startled, Joe stopped for a minute and slipped into the half-awake world, letting the wolf take over. He waved to them, and the six of them moved silently through the night.
At the first machine gun nest, Lewis pointed to the German sergeant closest to the draw and then at Joe. He nodded as Lewis and the others took out bows, strung them, then nocked arrows. Joe eased up behind the sergeant, grabbed his head and pulled it back as he cut his throat with ease, his heightened senses allowing him to smell the fear sweat, the tobacco, and some kind of sharply scented liquor. He heard the twangs of the bow strings being released and dispassionately watched all of the Germans fall. Lowering the sergeant, he nodded and led them to the next machine gun post. They repeated the same drill, again killing all of the Germans without a sound.
At the top of the draw, it was a little harder to get into position, and as he reached for the soldier in front of him, the German bent over and sneezed, causing Joe to miss his grip. Suddenly, Joe was in a fight for his life as the German cursed him and fought like the very devil to keep Joe’s knife from his neck while simultaneously trying to stab him with his bayonet. After a minute or so, though it felt like an hour, Joe finally slipped the Bowie deep between his enemy’s fourth and fifth ribs, then worked it around as the soldier tried to scream. He finally went limp, and Joe sagged to the ground, totally spent.
Little said, again in Cherokee, “We need to get back. Get up, Warrior. Lead us back. We are done here.”
Joe groaned and climbed wearily to his feet, panting as he led them back down the draw, around the hill and back to the wall. Lewis said, “Wait here, Warrior,” as the five of them disappeared into the darkness.
Saying a prayer of thanksgiving for his and the others’ safety, Joe came out of his totem and back to full wakefulness, seeing the world dim and his other senses dull with a deep, exhausted sigh.
Ten minutes later, Kincaid walked up with the five soldiers and said, “Took me a while, but these guys are willing to have you lead them on the ambush.”
Joe looked at him incredulously. “Sergeant, we just got back. Little was in charge, we—”
“What do you mean, just got back? I just now got here with Little and—”
Joe stood up and looked at each man, then said in Cherokee, “Are you guys screwing with me? We just killed every man in three machine gun nests!” He looked at Little. “You told me which ones to take out with the knife while y’all shot them with bows. I got two sergeants and a … corporal. We killed them all! You were there!”
Kincaid said, “Bullshit. You’re just dreaming.” He clicked on a flashlight, shielding the beam with his hand. “You couldn’t have …” He played the light over Joe and saw that he was covered in blood. He took a step back and said, “You just spoke Cherokee!”
Joe’s temper frayed, and he snapped, “Yes, because I am Cherokee, dammit!”
Begay began backing away, mumbling in Cherokee, “Spirits! The Nunnehi … the travelers.”
Kincaid stripped off his pack, helmet, and canvas belt, keeping his bayonet. “Little, you’re with me. Curry, show us those nests. The rest of you stay here, and be quiet!”
Joe looked at them in confusion. “What is going on?”
Kincaid said, “That is what we’re about to find out. Move out.” Joe led them back up the draw to the first nest and Kincaid chanced using his flashlight. Cursing softly, he said, “One with a knife.” He slit open one of the German’s tunics where the blood was and sighed. “Not a knife or a gun. It … looks like a war arrow wound.”
Joe said, “I told you!”
“I know. I … believe you now, but we need to check the other two nests.”
“There’s a trail they used. It runs right behind—”
“Show me.” Joe led them up to the second nest and Little cut away a tunic, shook his head and looked at Joe in wonder. At the third nest, Kincaid used his light again and said, “My God, it’s … an abattoir in here. This one looks like he was torn apart by an animal! We have to get back and tell the Captain. He’ll want to move tonight to consolidate these positions before the German relief shows up. Let’s go!” Little just stared at Joe, not saying a word as they turned, and he led them back down the trail, then around the slope of the hill to the wall.
Kincaid said, “I have to report back to the captain. Little, get Curry cleaned up. The rest of you get back to your squads, and get ready to move out. Don’t say a word about this!”
Two days later, another four miles up the road, Corporal Little retrieved Joe just before chow. “Sergeant wants you.”
Joe finished reassembling his M-1 and asked, “Where is he?”
Lewis dropped into Cherokee, “Over by the mess tent. Joe, he’s got the First Sergeant with him!”
“The First Sergeant?”
“From battalion. John Bearpaw. He’s a Kiowa and a medicine man. Leave your stuff with me, I’ll watch it.”
“Thanks, Little.” With some trepidation, Joe walked toward the mess tent and saw Kincaid standing with a squat, flat-faced older sergeant with coal-black hair and piercing eyes. “You wanted to see me, Sergeant Kincaid?”
“First Sergeant Bearpaw wanted to meet you, unofficially, Private.”
Bearpaw inclined his head, almost a bow, and stuck out a hand. “So, you’re the one! John Bearpaw.”
Joe shook his hand. “First Sergeant.” Not knowing what else to do, Joe just stood there at attention.
Bearpaw shook his head and smiled. “You are a wolf warrior and blooded, aren’t you?”
Knowing this was not the time to hide anything, Joe said, “Yes, sir. I’m … my totem is the wolf.” He felt the totem take over momentarily and a rumbling growl start as he half bowed to Bearpaw. Kincaid involuntarily took a step back as he saw the full import of the wolf masque surrounding Curry.
“Don’t ‘sir’ me. You know how to spirit walk in the real world, don’t you?” Stunned, Joe just looked at him. “You don’t look Cherokee, so I’m guessing your mother is Cherokee and your daddy is not an Indian, right? That’s why you live in Lawton, not down with the tribe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And somebody taught you how to spirit walk, didn’t they?”
“My grandpa, White Feather, is a Paint. He’s a Cherokee medicine man down in Tahlequah, Oklahoma. I … spent the summers with him the last three years while Mother and Dad were running a ranch in Montana.”
Bearpaw cocked his head. “White Feather?”
Joe’s mouth dropped open. “Yes, sir. He’s my grandpa.”
“I know him well; I am descended from Red Otter. We correspond on a regular basis.” He turned to Kincaid. “Royce, I’m almost ashamed of you. It’s plain as hell that Curry here is a true warrior. If an old fart like me from a different damn tribe can see the wolf masque, why can’t y’all?”
Shaken, Kincaid replied, “That … explains the wolf prints on … the trail. And maybe the Nunnehi.”
“Ah, the travelers. We too have our wolf stories, but none like the immortal travelers.” He turned to Joe. “Has White Feather told you of the legends?”
“Yes, sir. He has been instructing me for years. My daddy has no problem with it, saying it’s better for me to know my heritage than not. We moved to Lawton because my father did not want to cause problems in Tahlequah after marrying my mother.”
Bearpaw looked intently at him. “Do you believe they were the Nunnehi?”
Joe thought for a few seconds. “Yes, sir, I do now. They must have been the Nunnehi because we only spoke Cherokee and they told me to take my true form. None of the others.” He glanced at Kincaid. “Know … knew about me. I never told anybody.”
Bearpaw asked bitterly, “Because of being a half-breed, right?”
Joe hung his head. “Yes, sir. I had problems in school because of that. My one friend was a full-blood Kiowa, and he got in almost as many fights as I did.”
Bearpaw pulled out his medicine bag and opened it, taking an object out. Joe looked at him in wonder. “What are you doing, sir?”
Nodding, Bearpaw merely smiled. “There is no such thing as blood brothers. By this exchange, I am adopting you into our tribe, since we don’t have time for a formal ceremony. I would ask for a small item from your medicine bag around your neck.” Joe pulled his out from under his shirt and blindly reached in. As he pulled out what he realized was his gold nugget, Kincaid asked tentatively, “May I?” Bearpaw only looked at Joe, leaving the decision to him. Joe turned to him and nodded. Kincaid pulled his medicine bag out, as Joe dipped back into his again.
Bearpaw said, “Hold out your hand. Do not open your eyes until you have closed your hand over my gift. Then hand me your gift the same way.” Joe nodded, held out his left hand and felt something drop into it. He closed his hand around it and felt a tingle of magic even as he opened his eyes. He saw Bearpaw’s hand out and eyes closed, so he dropped the small nugget into his palm and watched the hand close. Bearpaw then looked at him, closed his eyes, and bowed his head. Joe did the same, and Bearpaw said words in Kiowa that seemed to echo with power within Joe’s mind.
He was startled when Bearpaw said, “You are now my son. Welcome to the Kiowa tribe. I will give you an appropriate name in time.”
Joe looked at what he held in his hand and was startled to see a fossilized tooth with a bail on it for a necklace. Looking up in amazement, he saw Bearpaw smiling. “Yes, it is a wolf’s tooth. It has been in my family for many years.”
Kincaid said in Cherokee, “I’m sorry for what we’ve done to you. I would like to … formally adopt you as a full-blood Cherokee. As an elder of the tribe, I believe this is within my rights, considering what I have witnessed.” He turned to Bearpaw. “Would you bless us?”
Bearpaw laughed. “You going to trust a Kiowa? Are you sure you’re not sick, Royce?”
Kincaid chuckled ruefully. “Well, since Curry’s grandpa isn’t here, you’ll just have to stand in for him. I’m assuming you’ll contact him and rub his nose in it.”
Bearpaw doubled over laughing, then finally stood back up, wiping tears from his eyes. “Oh, I shall. I shall!” He reached out and put a hand on each of their shoulders and said another echoing prayer in Kiowa.
He had just finished when a runner came up and said, “First Sergeant, the colonel needs to see you.”
Bearpaw nodded. “I will be there momentarily.” He came to attention and said, “Wolf Warrior, use your capabilities to keep our soldiers alive.” He bowed slightly from the waist as Joe came to attention.
Joe looked him in the eye and replied. “I will, my Father. I will.” His masque slipped into place without warning, brightening the darkness enough to see a tear rolling down the first sergeant’s cheek.
JL Curtis was born in Louisiana in 1951 and was raised in the Ark-La-Tex area. He is a retired Naval Flight Officer, retired engineer in the defense industry, an NRA instructor, and now lives in north Texas writing full time. He began his education with guns at age eight with a SAA and a Grandfather that had carried one for “work.” He began competitive shooting in the 1970s, an interest he still pursues time permitting. He has two series currently out, The Grey Man, a current fiction series and Rimworld, a military science fiction series. He has also published a number of short stories and novellas all of which are available on Amazon.
I Have No Name
Andi Christopher
I have no name. I never have.
If I ever did, I don’t remember. All I know is that I woke up one day, alone and cold, with nothing more than a torn piece of paper in my hand. In the years since, the temptation to give a name to myself has been palpable, but I can’t find anything that feels right. So, instead, I give myself a million names dependent on my whims.
“And you are?”
The man peered at me, the flesh of his red face oozing into his eyes and forcing him to squint.
“Sir,” the boy to my right coughed uncomfortably, “this is her.”
The puffy-eyed man harrumphed. “Yes, yes. But what do I call you?”
My young contact opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. “You’ll call me nothing,” I declared. “I’ll finish the job and you’ll never call on me again.”
The porter leaned back, his eyes attempting to widen in disdain. Meanwhile, my own tracked the swinging of the clock’s pendulum on the opposite wall. My window of opportunity was about to open.
“Sir,” my contact attempted to whisper, “my lady here is a master illusionist. She has never failed a job.”
The porter’s caterpillar eyebrows lowered toward his eyes as he frowned. I wasn’t a mind reader—I detested the very practice—but I didn’t need magic to know his thoughts. He was weighing risk and reward. Was I worth my price? If I failed, could I be linked back to him? If I succeeded, how could he avoid paying me?
The answer? He couldn’t. I took my payment in advance. And I could tell he was reluctant to give it.
“Well,” the porter finally seemed to realize that the risk of me turning him in should I be offended—something I wouldn’t do, but he didn’t need to know that—was far worse than the risk of my failing a job and him losing the money. Pulling a pouch from his cloak, he held it out. “I expect this to yield results.”
I gestured to my contact. If the porter bothered to pay attention, he’d notice the lines of hunger in the boy’s face, or the way his eyes clung to the silk fabric of the pouch. “He’ll take care of it.”
With another distasteful scoff, the porter handed my contact the money. The young boy’s hands shook at its weight, and I fought back a look of sympathy.
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