Called to Arms Again: A Tribute to the Greatest Generation

by J. L. Salter

  ****

  Trooper Means sat again at the card table outside in the shade. As he sipped more of Irene’s iced tea, he wrote notes on the bottom of a confusing form.

  Walking over slowly, Chet shifted the tobacco in his cheek and then spit some of the juice. “Been wanting ta ask ya, Fred Lee. With all that drill business going on, most of us figured the police wouldn’t never get out here.” He didn’t need to finish the question.

  “I’ve had my scanner on all day, even though I wasn’t directly involved in the drill. Since I’m attached to UNITE, I kind of fall through the cracks on some things like this, even though a good number of troopers from Post 11 were helping out.” Means slid the form to one side. “So I’d hear this and hear that. When something sounded legitimate and I didn’t think it was likely to have been planted by the drill folks, I’d do a little sniffing around.”

  Chet still awaited the answer.

  “So anyhow, I heard the dispatcher got a call from the Association Office in this nursing home complex.” Means pointed up the hill. “Dispatcher assumed it was part of the drill.”

  “Somebody’s phone finally started working?”

  “Not sure about that. Is there trouble with phones out here?” Means hadn’t heard that detail, though he knew the 9-1-1 dispatcher had, as one parameter of the exercise, been instructed to ignore any calls from different area codes. “Well, our Post dispatcher also gets an odd text message relayed by a headquarters captain in Frankfort. Something about an alleged attack on Placid Lane in Somerset. It’s signed by Henley. Well, I don’t figure Henley for a prank and there was that other call from that complex, so I decide I’ll just mosey out here and take a look.” Means realized his answer had become too detailed, so he hurried through the finish. “Well, I’m down in Burnside at the time, so I cross the bridge, turn off 27 and come up Whiskey Road. When I reach Winston Court I find three old guys in a vehicle yelling at a little toy radio thing. They look at me and say, ‘It’s about time you got here’. And I’m thinking, this sure isn’t part of the drill. So I drive on ‘til I reach that jack-knifed eighteen-wheeler. No sign of a driver. Then I call for a wrecker and hustle the rest of the way on foot.” He pointed to his boots. “My dogs are still hurting. On the way, I hear several pistol shots real fast and some kind of siren. I radio my Post, tell them it’s not part of the drill, and they scramble the city police. I guess that covers it.” He took a deep breath. “Why?”

  Chet cleared his throat loudly. “What took ya so long?”

  Had anybody else made that remark, Means might have taken offense. But since the corners of Chet’s mouth showed the tiniest curl of a grin, Means just let it pass. He rose from the card table to stretch his long legs and pointed toward the barricade line. There had not been enough progress clearing out the defenders’ redoubt. “Look, Pop, we need to get this street clear.” He motioned his head toward Chet’s rusty truck.

  Chet nodded and then trudged in that direction.

  Means remembered something and got back on the radio with the KSP dispatcher for Post 11. “Hazel, is there already an APB on a pickup truck with two accomplices of a gang robbing retirement condos in southwest Somerset?”

  She checked. “Nothing even close. What you got?”

  “Well, it’s the Community condos, and those perps most likely headed north on Highway 27. Don’t know which way they turned but it would make most sense if they went west toward Bowling Green. One of the witnesses saw them drive away.” Means checked his notes. “Two males, probably around twenty years. One Asian and one Latino. Wearing black tee shirts… couldn’t see anything lower. Subjects driving a fleet-side pickup, possibly mid 1980s. Color described as ‘dog mess brown’. Need anything else for that APB?”

  “No. But tell me again what you’re doing on this call, Fred Lee.”

  “I know, I’m not here official. Just checking on some friends, that’s all. But while I’m here, I can help out a little. Right?”

  “Just don’t step on any toenails. Out.”

  As Means signed off, Roger exited the Henleys’ condo and passed by the KSP cruiser.

  “I was asking Irene which part of that nursing home complex my Aunt Lucille had likely gone to. Don’t guess you know.”

  “Sorry, no idea.”

  Roger started to leave, but stopped. “You still attached to Operation UNITE?” Roger pointed in the approximate direction of their local headquarters. UNITE: Unlawful Narcotics: Investigations, Treatment and Education.

  “Yeah. I like doing anything possible to clean up the drug problems. We’ve had thousands of convictions and plenty of training, but there’s still lots of abuse.”

  “Well, you’re gonna love this. When I poked my head in that middle truck, I saw a whole leaf bag full of pharmaceuticals.”

  The trooper’s eyes lit up. “What kind? Illegal?”

  “Looks like a big stash they probably stole. Must be something illegal in there.”

  “If they stole it, it’s all illegal.” Means shifted his heavy equipment belt. “Thanks for the tip.”

  ****

  Pete was dead-on-his-feet exhausted as he eyed his favorite armchair and was finally about to sit. But Ashley hurried into the room and hugged him urgently.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  Ashley’s soft voice sounded much younger than nearly eighteen years. “Grandpa, is that what the war was like?”

  Henley thought a moment. “Parts of it… yeah. I guess that gives you a little taste, small parts of it.” He remembered being surrounded during the Battle of the Bulge: utter exhaustion, bitter cold, frost-bitten feet, near-starving conditions, rampant illnesses and almost no medicine, his unit practically out of ammo, and the Germans shelling them at-will. He shuddered. “Why’d you ask?”

  She shook her head slowly against his chest as she hugged him again. “I just wanted to thank you, Grandpa.”

  “For what, honey?”

  Ashley searched for the words. “For going to war, Grandpa. Fighting for all of us. Fighting for me, even though you didn’t like… know me yet.”

  This was what Pete had waited over six decades to hear, though he’d never realized he was waiting on it. The “grateful nation” letters were important in one sense, but this was his youngest granddaughter expressing her simple, heartfelt thanks. She obviously meant it and Pete knew Ashley finally did understand at least a tiny fraction of what he’d endured and sacrificed during World War II.

  The ceremony awarding his Silver Star — fifty-five years belatedly — had choked him up, but this was the first time anybody besides Irene had ever seen tears in the eyes of a grownup Peter Henley.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Wednesday at 3:15 p.m.

  Wade’s Warriors and Mitch’s Marauders had been dispatched by about 1:20. Henley fired his warning shots around 1:30, when the gangsters first spotted the barricade. The first actual shooting began around 2:15 when Earl sprayed Chico with urine. Though it had seemed like hours, aspects of the main battle itself really occupied only about thirty-five minutes before the perpetrators had been neutralized and the situation was stabilized. Hostilities ended about 2:50 p.m.

  Though still waiting for Mitch, Kelly only bumped into Wade again. “You seen Mitch anywhere?”

  “He’s was in that bunch got talked to, separate. Wonder why they done that? Anyhow, when the cops left, Mitch got stuck in Fred Lee’s line waiting fer guns.”

  “So, his .38 is more important than me?”

  “You ain’t jealous, are you?”

  Kelly rolled her eyes.

  “Kel, a man can wait a few minutes to get him a good hug, but he don’t want to lose his gun because he went looking fer his girl.” Wade screwed up his face as though assessing whether his comment made any sense. “Understand?”

  “Yeah, I get it,” she grumbled. “His revolver might get away, but I’m supposed to just hang around.”

  Wade put a meaty paw on her un-wounded shoulder and looked int
o her eyes. “Go easy on old Mitch. He’s kind of been like a deer running in a wolf pack. And Henley put the deer in charge.”

  “What on earth are you saying, Wade?”

  “Aw, you’ll understand once he explains everything.”

  “Well, he’ll have to speak a lot plainer than that.” Kelly sighed. “Okay, I’ll give him a pass, provided he hurries up.”

  When Wade shrugged and stuck his hand in a pocket, he pricked a finger on the dozens of ten penny nails he’d been carrying. You carry loose nails in your pocket, you’re gonna get nicked.

  Kelly arched her eyebrows as Wade licked blood from his fingertip.

  “I got another experimental project — about to start the testing stage.” Wade smiled largely and then spotted someone in the distance. “Okay, there’s your Mitch just now coming up the hill.”

  She turned. Mitch did have the look of a buck in headlights, but it would be a while before Kelly understood the rest of Wade’s analogy.

  Mitch was limping.

  Kelly hurried toward him and they hugged for a long time. She pushed back from their embrace with her fingers touching his upper arms. “You okay?”

  “Stepped in a pothole or something.” Mitch pointed. “Wrenched all the weight on my bad hip.”

  She looked him over without comment.

  Mitch pointed his revolver away, checked the cylinder, closed it with a soft click, and slipped it inside his waistband. All the ammo had been emptied when the firearms were first confiscated. “Since they kept three cartridges, I guess that means I only fired two shots. Don’t remember when. Funny, seemed like I was shooting the whole time.”

  They embraced once more. He smelled like cordite, plus adrenaline and a different — even more pungent — sweat. What did fear smell like? Probably like this. Didn’t seem like an optimal combination.

  Mitch’s left forearm had several red cuts, evenly spaced.

  “Wrestling a tiger, were you?” Kelly nodded toward his arm. Something about the offensive combination of sweat, adrenaline, cordite, and blood was also vaguely — and oddly — exciting.

  “Oh, briars. Ran into a thick patch of gnarly briars. Couldn’t get around them; had to crash right through. That Steve nearly got his neck ripped open, which made him madder than he already was. That’s when I had to, um, lead them out of the woods and along the creek bank.” Mitch crafted minor adjustments to the true sequence of events.

  Kelly looked at his face intently. “Later, I’ll want to hear what you and those four Marauders did. Wade mentioned something about Pete assigning a deer to lead some wolves.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind.” Kelly whapped her fingers against her slacks to remove dust and grit at the knees. “Hope these aren’t ruined. I’ll never find another pair that fits as good.”

  “Yeah, they’re certainly my favorites.”

  “With all that squatting and kneeling, I might have ripped out a seam.” She tried to look behind.

  Mitch felt along the curve of her buttocks. “No apparent rips, but I’ll give your seams a closer inspection later.”

  Kelly smiled. “If you insist.”

  Not far away, Pete came out to his garage to properly put away the garden tools so recently in unconventional use. Interrupting their sweaty embrace, he called Mitch over. Though reluctant to disengage from Kelly, Mitch sighed and met Pete about half way to the garage.

  “Norm told me your task force cleared the north woods about 2:12 p.m. Any problems?”

  The stressful, confusing, and sometimes terrifying events ran back through Mitch’s head: men arriving without any weapons, elderly brothers he couldn’t tell apart, two apparent killers he felt he had to restrain, plus his own uncertainties and insecurities. “Nothing worth mentioning.”

  Pete nodded. “Your team did real good today, Mitchell.”

  Mitch had to look away. Praise, no matter how restrained, often made him uncomfortable.

  Pete peered over Mitch’s shoulder at Kelly but addressed the leader of the north flanking team. “How do you feel, now, about why you quit R-O-T-C?”

  “Well, I don’t think Rot-Cee does much to prepare you for anything like this. So I assume it also falls short preparing you for war. This may be wrong, but I’ve concluded the difference, in combat, between a leader and a follower is not as much about training as it’s related to instinct and fortitude. So, no, I don’t regret quitting Rot-Cee.” Mitch paused. “But maybe you’re asking me something else — do I think I should or could lead men in battle? My answer’s the same: no.”

  Pete started to interrupt.

  “Let me finish. I still don’t want the responsibility of leading men in dangerous situations and I hope to God I never have to. But, Sergeant Henley, if I ever do have to fight, I want to be in your squad.”

  Henley let the leadership conversation rest where it lay.

  “Wade told Kelly that you threw a deer in with a wolf pack. Was that your intention? Or just an example of Wade’s vivid imagery?”

  Pete stroked his chin briefly. “Mitchell, I don’t know what the blazes Lawrence was talking about.”

  Mitch turned to leave.

  “But, I’ll say this, Mitchell. You got behind the enemy without being spotted. You got your best resources to the key targets and they took out a good handful of the opposing force. None of your squad got hurt. I couldn’t ask for anything better, no matter who was running that patrol.” Pete cleared his throat. “Does that answer your question?”

  “Close enough, Sarge.” Mitch reached out his hand. “Close enough.” He had a lump in his throat.

  Pete gripped his hand — briefly, but intensely — and then disappeared into the security of his garage.

  Inside the condo, Irene walked from her kitchen through the pantry and washing area, and stood on the threshold to Pete’s garage. Her exhausted husband approached that doorway without speaking.

  She took another step, thereby entering a world she seldom visited: Pete’s refuge. She looked around briefly almost like she’d never seen it before, even though most of the items in that space were known to her, at least by sight if not by purpose.

  Pete extended his arms and leaned forward. She could no longer reach around her husband but still molded into him. “You were a big help out there today, my love. It brought back some memories.”

  Irene sniffled. “I’m not a soldier or a medic, or whatever else that Ellie Graye seemed to be, today. Your Gal Friday, your right hand.”

  He pulled away enough to look into her eyes. “Oh, Ellie’s all those things all right. But not for me, honey. For us, all of us. That’s what we needed.” He paused. “Yeah, maybe she was my right hand out there.” He hugged Irene again. “But you’re my wife, my woman. You’re…”

  “Don’t you dare say a word about me being a great-grandma.”

  “That wasn’t the word I was looking for.” He smiled. “I was thinking of a little bed we shared in that boarding house right before I went overseas. I was remembering that time we took a picnic basket in the woods by that special part of Fishing Creek, before there were hardly any other people around.”

  “And came out of those woods three hours later with leaves in my hair.” Irene smiled.

  “And dust on your behind, as I recall.” Pete patted her plump posterior.

  “Why, Peter Henley, I do believe gunpowder makes you randy.”

  “Irene, we chose each other all those years ago and I’d choose you again. I love you, honey.”

  “Oh, Pete, why do you always make me cry?”

  ****

  Kelly had been chatting again with Trooper Means.

  “After our big talk the other day, Kelly, I’m still kind of surprised to find you out here fighting for somebody else.”

  “If you’d known about it in time, I bet you’d have been right out there on the barricade with the rest of us.”

  “Maybe so, but not in my uniform or I’d lose my pension.” Fred Lee smiled and patted Kelly�
��s right shoulder. Then the big trooper moved away to tend other law enforcement business.

  Mitch approached and stared as Fred Lee departed.

  “What?” Kelly had noticed his glare.

  “Don’t appreciate him touching you.”

  “Mitch, don’t start.”

  “I mean, I like Fred Lee and he’s a great trooper, and he helped save our lives that once.” Mitch looked his direction again. “But I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

  “So how does Fred Lee look at me?”

  Mitch thought a second. “You know how you’ll order taco or enchilada combo but then a big, sizzling platter of fajitas passes by?”

  “Yeah, I always wish I’d ordered fajitas.”

  “Exactly. That’s how Fred Lee looks at you.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I guess what really bothers me even more, is — sometimes — I think maybe you look at him the same way.” Mitch studied her eyes. “Sometimes I feel like he’s Fred-Lee-the-Fajitas-Platter, all sizzling and steamy… and I’m just Mitch-the-Consolation-Combo.”

  Kelly started to joke about that comparison but then saw the pain in his eyes. “Mitch, my appetite is for you — whatever dish you imagine yourself. You’ve got plenty enough sizzle and steam with your combo to satisfy me.” She reached around his waist with her right arm. “So don’t worry anymore about looks you see, or looks you imagine.”

  Mitch just hugged her tightly.

  After a long and tender moment, Kelly remembered something. “Oh, I need to get home soon and see to the critters.” She didn’t move, however. Kelly was still thinking about the people and things she’d been involved with since before noon.

  Art planted a convincing bogus minefield and drove a dozer after six decades, but now he has to clean up the collapsed corner inside his garage before his wife returns. Norm, who never fired in combat, had to shoot a member of a thieving gang but took no pleasure in it. Irene shot Baldy with the paintball pistol and found it very satisfying, but she has three salads which nobody even touched. Isaiah, who didn’t want to attend and planned not to stay, returned to help despite the differences he perceived. Earl’s sedan is full of bullet holes and he finally discovered the true power of his diligently collected urine supply. Melvin, who’d devoted a lifetime to criticizing and provoking others, had — during this crisis — bloomed into an eager, helpful, cooperative contributor, and was the only defender seriously wounded. Ashley thought she was in for a boring afternoon but ended up with more excitement and fear than she’d like… find in a modern vampire novel. Leo the Liar has numerous new, exciting stories to tell but nobody who wasn’t here could possibly believe any of them.