by T W Powell
A singular event in early 2026 in Beth and Tasha’s very own south end Beechmont neighborhood was the tipping point for them. A Black, retired Louisville fireman, with numerous commendations, was killed by a chunk of brick thrown by a mob as he attempted to rescue a White family from their burning home. The home had been set on fire by that very same mob.
Beth and Tasha reasoned together, “If a Black, retired fireman with numerous commendations isn’t safe from this mob, who is?”
As the Revolution took hold, the girls carefully crafted their Revolutionary personas. They immediately transferred from their Catholic girl’s high school to the local public high school. The transfer idea was sold to their parents based on family economics. The public school was free, saving the family the tuition cost of parochial school.
Once enrolled in the public school, they made it clear to all that they were “a pair.” This juicy tidbit spread through the teenage gossip mill like wildfire.
During their Senior year, the newly formed Collective began requiring all Seniors to fill out a Social Data Sheet. Both Beth and Tasha indicated on their Data Sheets that they were lesbians and atheists. This information immediately raised the two White girls’ Social Quotients.
But the biggest coup of their Senior year was the denunciation of a recently deceased local Jewish jeweler as a rapist. The jeweler was a pillar of the community. He contributed to many local charities. His business ethics were beyond reproach. He was very demonstrative, frequently hugging many of his long-time customers and, upon occasion, giving a little old lady a peck on the cheek.
The criminal complaint alleged that, during their Junior year, Natasha and Beth were shopping at the jewelry store and were sexually assaulted by the owner. Beth was uncomfortable with this lie, but Tasha convinced her that it was a victimless crime, not considering the pain and disgrace inflicted upon the jeweler’s family. This denouncement raised both girl’s Social Quotients considerably. Their accusations were never seriously questioned, as survivors must be believed. Their accusations touched off a media circus as the story fit The Collective’s antisemitic media narrative.
By graduation day, the pair had increased their Social Quotients enough to gain admittance to the local community college. Not quite University, but pretty good for two White girls.
Yasmin Pham was just 9 years old. The cute little great granddaughter of South Vietnamese refugees already had her very own secret, one that she had in common with Beth. Every night Yasmin prayed that someday she could tell her secret to the world and it would not cost the lives of her family.
Junior was one of the few people in the Peoples’ United States with no secrets. After the Okinawa Campaign, Junior had openly shared his beliefs with the Media, beliefs that he held in common with both Yasmin and Beth. That’s when the Media turned on him. He did not fit their narrative. Now, he was Peoples’ Enemy #1 and he didn’t give a shit.
Reveille
Wake up call for the 3rd Kentucky was 5 a.m. Junior was wide awake at 4:30. He was taking a few days off to visit what remained of his family and drop in on Pop-Pop and Pops. Junior’s commander tried to dissuade him from making the risky Louisville trip, but he went home every Spring, knowing well that informants were continuously watching his family and waiting for him to visit Pops and Pop-Pop.
Colonel Darnell had good reason for opposing Darius’ road trip. Johnson’s picture was plastered all over most buildings and the few billboards that were still standing between Winchester and Louisville. In the PUS, Johnson’s build and demeanor stuck out like a sore thumb, but that scar on his right cheek was a dead giveaway. Besides being Darnell’s second in command and a damn good soldier, Johnson had become the living symbol of a free America. What the media had started as a half joke, half racial slur had gradually morphed into a rallying cry. America could ill afford to lose RAMBRO.
Junior was ready to roll at 5:30 a.m. He stretched and yawned as he strolled out into the cold morning darkness toward the makeshift mess hall to grab a hot, filling, Kentucky breakfast.
Consumption of meat was discouraged by The Collective and very little meat was available to the populace. Meat was still produced in the Peoples’ United States, mostly on large collective farms, but that meat was exported to the Peoples’ preferred trading partner, the People’s Republic of China.
Possession and consumption of pork was strictly verboten in the PUS as it would offend the Muslim Members of the Collective. This went over like a lead balloon in Kentucky. Country ham, hickory cured bacon, and country sausage were cornerstones of Bluegrass cuisine. The further one traveled from Kentucky’s major population centers, the more likely it was that a hog farm’s distinctive odor would assault the nostrils.
Despite Louisville being one of the birthplaces of the Revolution, rural Kentucky was a real problem for The Collective. In fact, rural America was, for the most part, unplugged from The Collective. But now was not the time for political thought as Junior was ready to chow down on some delicious biscuits and sausage gravy.
As Colonel Darnell entered the mess hall, the entire 3rd Kentucky snapped to attention. The colors were carefully unfurled, then every Volunteer placed his, or her, hand over their heart and, in unison, recited the real Pledge, not to be confused with the plagiarism of The Collective. Next, a CD of the Star-Spangled Banner was played, and Old Glory received a smart salute from the 3rd Kentucky.
After the Anthem, Darius sat down, bowed his head, said grace, and began to savor his breakfast. As he helped himself to another golden-brown biscuit, Darius mused to himself, “This would be perfect if it were only summertime and we had some fresh sliced tomatoes…”
Beth and Tasha were both awake at 6. Breakfast was simple, coffee, oatmeal, and a couple of small apples that had to be eaten today, before they rotted.
Beth sat down and bowed her head, which drew a sharp response from Tasha, “Beth, I thought we had an understanding. This is exactly what I was talking about last night. It’s the little things that get noticed, then reported, then documented. Someday, you’ll do some of that religious crap at the wrong time, in front of the wrong person. Then you’ll have reason to pray. All that God and Jesus shit is just as crazy as the manure The Collective shovels out every day.”
They finished breakfast without further conversation. By 7:30 a.m. both were cycling their way to work. While pedaling, Tasha pondered that day’s strategy for self-advancement while Beth wondered how long she could continue to live this lie.
While the Pledge was being recited in Member Natasha’s class, it was getting first light in the Big Smoky Valley of central Nevada. Rancher Thomas Jackson and his two sons, Tommy and Adam, were saddled up and ready to ride north toward Austin, Nevada to tend to a corral, windmill, and stock tank located on the northwest edge of the Jackson’s 600-acre Stonewall Ranch.
When you mention Nevada, most people immediately think of Las Vegas, or maybe Reno. Sun, heat, and desert immediately come to mind. In reality, Nevada is a huge state dominated by basin and range topography with rugged mountain ranges running roughly north- south and basins (valleys) between the mountain ranges.
Nevada’s Big Smoky Valley ran for about 100 miles in a north-south direction tucked between the Toiyabe Range to the west and the Toquima Range to the east and it could be very cold country. Pardon the pun, but this wasn’t the Jackson’s first rodeo.
The Jackson family had ranched in the Big Smoky Valley for several generations and the Jackson boys could take care of themselves. Tommy and Adam had oiled their boots and canvass dusters the night before. They packed a couple of days food and anything else they might need for a short stay at the small dugout camp up north. Once in the dugout with a fire blazing, they would be warm even if the outside temperature dipped well below freezing. Father and sons each packed Glock 19 9mm handguns and several 15 round magazines, no six shooters for these cowboys. Tom Sr. carried a rifle, a Colt AR-15 with several 30 round banana clips.
There were some elk
and mule deer up in the high country and pronghorn antelope roamed the valley floor. The AR-15 was a decent hunting rifle also great for varmints, both the two and four legged varieties. Most of The Collective had never touched a gun and the mere sight of a firearm was traumatic. In the PUS, possession of firearms was a capital offense. There was no Second Amendment and there was no Bill of Rights. Rights were endowed by God, who did not exist in The Collective’s worldview. In the 15 years since the Revolution, no Member had ever shown up at Stonewall Ranch, but when and if they ever did, a warm reception awaited them.
Fort Leonard Wood
Isaiah Johnson was known to everyone in the neighborhood as Ike. Ike was just turning 16 when the Japanese surrendered in September 1945. Jubilation swept America as servicemen and servicewomen returned home to their families and jobs. The outlook for Ike was not so good. He was a 16-year-old Black high school dropout who didn’t know his ass from a hot rock and was stuck in the mostly White South End of Louisville.
To his credit, Ike was a good reader. In fact, Ike was a voracious reader and spent hours at the local library branch. Over the next 5 years, Ike picked up labor jobs here and there and earned a reputation as a good worker and quick study, but a good, steady job eluded him.
In 1948, President Truman issued an Executive Order that desegregated America’s Armed Forces, but the message was slow to register with the knuckleheads in the chain of command. Ike read about Truman’s order, weighed his opportunities at home, and wondered if he should enlist.
As happens in most of our lives, events made the decision for Isaiah. In 1950, North Korea invaded South Korea. The United Nations voted to intervene and stop the North Korean aggression, which meant that America would have to stop them. So, Ike enlisted in the Army. Given that Ike was a big man, well built, smart, and quite well read, you would expect that Ike could excel in any number of military career opportunities. The Army immediately recognized Ike as top-notch cook material. After all, Ike was Black.
It was an early morning wake-up for Ike and 38 other recruits. At 6 a.m. they boarded a “Silversides” Greyhound Coach behind the Federal Building at the corner of 7th & Broadway in downtown Louisville. The 10 Black recruits, including Ike, took seats in the back of the bus just out of habit. It was a long day’s trip to Fort Leonard Wood down in the Ozarks, about 150 miles southwest of St. Louis. Ike had never traveled more than 50 miles from home and the bus ride to Fort Leonard Wood was the start of the biggest adventure of his young life.
Fort Leonard Wood was smack dab in the middle of nowhere. The Ozarks were beautiful country, much like Eastern Kentucky, hills covered with thick hardwood forests crisscrossed by creeks and rivers. The base had been established during World War II as a center for Basic Training of new recruits and draftees. After the war, the base was mothballed, only to be reactivated when the Korean conflict erupted.
Even as a youngster, Ike could spin a good yarn and, despite any lingering racial prejudice, he became a training platoon favorite and leader of sorts. The Chain of Command at Fort Leonard Wood must have gotten Truman’s message as a dozen Black recruits were mixed with 38 white recruits in 2nd Training Platoon.
There wasn’t much to do at “Fort Lost in the Woods”, so there was plenty of time to shovel bullshit and play practical jokes. Like the time 2nd Platoon modified Ike’s helmet while he slept. It was the 6th week of Basic and a 12 mile “ruck march” was scheduled for the next day. After a light breakfast, Ike geared up with full pack and rifle, quickly slapped on his helmet, then fell into formation along with the other 49 “Dogfaces” of 2nd Training Platoon. Ike then stood at attention facing his Drill Instructor, Sergeant First Class Sonny Miller from Murfreesboro, Tennessee.
Sergeant Miller began to address 2nd Platoon, but when he caught sight of Ike, Sonny broke out into a loud belly laugh, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are indeed honored this lovely morning by the presence of a general officer.”
Sergeant Miller was looking straight into Ike’s eyes as he continued speaking and walking over to confront him face to face. After a few tense moments, Miller saluted Ike. Ike was dumbfounded, but slowly and unsurely returned the salute.
“General Eisenhower, Sir, welcome to Fort Leonard Wood.” Ike had no idea what Sergeant Miller was talking about and offered no reply.
“General, Sir, I am somewhat surprised. I was not aware of your Negro heritage.”
Miller paused; it was nearly impossible for him to keep a straight face.
“Ike is your nickname, is it not?”
“Yes, Sergeant Miller!” replied Johnson.
“I see you have 5 gold stars on your helmet, so you must be General Eisenhower. Eisenhower is the only 5-Star I know that goes by the nickname Ike.”
Ike immediately took off his helmet and saw 5 neatly and newly painted gold stars.
“Sergeant, I don’t know how this happened.”
Every man in 2nd Platoon was now rolling with laughter.
“I’m sure you don’t Johnson and I’m certain no one in 2nd Platoon has any idea how this happened, but I am certain that I can help you all remember. While you are marching an extra mile today you can ponder this great unsolved mystery.”
Miller continued, “The General here will have the honor of leading the platoon today and calling the cadence.”
So it was that 2nd Platoon began their now 13-mile march with Ike calling the cadence,
“Two dimes and a nickel, that makes a quarter –
Got me a date with the First Sergeant’s daughter –
She ain’t so pretty and she ain’t so fine –
If I do her right those stripes are mine…”
This integration thing was new for Sergeant Miller. He didn’t know if these colored boys would fight, or not, but he did know that the life of each man in 2nd Platoon depended on their training and that was his responsibility. Sergeant Miller took his responsibility most seriously. He concentrated on hardening these men, both mentally and physically. He knew where these men were going and respected the enemy they would be facing.
Ike was one of Miller’s favorites, tough, smart, strong, and honest. Because of that, Miller was toughest on Johnson. Sonny wanted him to come back home alive.
At the end of 8 weeks of Basic, each man received his orders. By the strangest of coincidences, all 10 Black soldiers in 2nd Platoon would remain at Fort Leonard Wood for several weeks culinary training. They were going to be cooks. Most of the White members of 2nd Platoon were going to Fort Campbell, Kentucky for their “Second Eight”, 8 weeks of advanced infantry training.
Ike thought about his orders for a while, then approached Sergeant Miller on the subject, “Excuse me Sergeant Miller, I am confused…”
Miller responded, “And just what is the cause of your confusion Johnson?”
“Sergeant Miller, I have received orders for my Second Eight and I will be staying here for cook training.”
“What is the confusion Johnson, your orders seem clear to me?” replied Sergeant Miller.
“Sergeant Miller, during this first 8 weeks I think I have performed as well as any man in this platoon. Why am I not going to Ft. Campbell for AIT?” Unknowingly, Ike had just crossed the line.
“Johnson, first of all, the US Army does not care what you think. Secondly, the chain of command decides where you will be posted and what training you will receive. You will do your duty. If the Army says you will be a cook, then, by almighty God, you will be the best damned cook in this man’s Army. Are you still confused Johnson?”
“No Sergeant Miller, I understand completely.” With that, Ike snapped a salute which was returned by his Sergeant, then turned to walk away.
As he turned, Ike felt a hand on his shoulder, “Ike, please step into my office.”
Miller guided Ike into the empty shower room and began talking in a tone unfamiliar to the recruit, “Ike, you will probably wind up in Korea. I don’t know what you will be doing over there, but one thing is certain, you must rememb
er your training. North Korean bullets are not reserved for the infantry. Doesn’t matter if you drive a truck, peel taters, or dig latrines, a commie bullet can kill you just as dead. Do you understand?”
Ike replied, “Yes Sergeant Miller, I understand and will remember.”
“I believe you will, son. Now get your Black ass out of my office!”
Ike snapped another salute, turned, and left the Sergeants “office” wearing a grin and subtly shaking his head.
Chosin
After completing his Second Eight, Private Johnson boarded a train for San Francisco. After a few days in Frisco, he boarded a troop transport, USS General W.A. Mann, for the voyage to Okinawa. Okinawa was a major staging point for UN forces in Korea.
By this time, the UN forces had been nearly driven out of Korea by superior North Korean forces. A small perimeter was established around the southeastern Korean port city of Pusan, a last redoubt for the UN forces. By now, North Korean forces had captured 90% of the Korean Peninsula. Each day the UN forces held that perimeter, they grew stronger and more secure as men and materiel, mostly American, poured into Pusan. Each day the North Korean forces hurled themselves against that perimeter, they grew weaker, as they now were at the end of a long and tenuous line of supply.
General Douglas MacArthur was in command of Korean operations. MacArthur and President Truman did not exactly see eye to eye. MacArthur’s exit strategy was first to destroy the communist invaders, then liberate and unite the entire Korean Peninsula under a democratic government. Truman had no exit strategy; his goal was to stop the North Koreans from annexing the South, then re-establish the status quo. He did not want China to intervene and the Russians, North Korea’s sponsor, now had the A-bomb. Nuclear war with Russia must be avoided at all costs.