by W. R. Benton
“Copy, Cowboy.” the Lieutenant said, and the jets were screaming for the trees. They suddenly pulled up and the canisters were seen being thrown forward by the momentum of the aircraft. As the two fighter jets pulled up and twisted as they climbed for altitude, the napalm containers struck the ground. Still moving from the forward impulse of the jets, the flaming gel was like a huge wave as it went up and over all the trees before it fell. Screams were heard as men and women burned to death.
“Panther 6, we are coming back around and will use our Gatling guns, which are 40 mm cannons.”
“Copy Cowboy, and good luck.”
As the aircraft flew over the woods, the cannon being fired sounded like two huge zippers being unzipped quickly. A missile was seen to fly up from the trees and strike the wing man hard. The burning and smoking aircraft moved toward the Russian roadblock. Once overhead the pilot ejected from the aircraft, and within seconds his parachute was open and he would come down just a hundred yards from the tank. The Lieutenant sent a squad of men to recover the downed pilot.
“Your man is safely on the ground, Cowboy.”
“Panther 6, I am bingo on fuel and have to return to base. I have two choppers on the way here to pick up my wing man and any of your dead or wounded, over. If the choppers are not back at the base soon after I rearm and refuel, I will return to assist here, over and out.”
“Copy, cowboy. Panther 6 out.”
The pilot of the downed aircraft kept looking at the fireball about a mile away that used to be his fighter jet. He just shook his head and kept walking toward the tank. Most of the Lieutenant's men and women were rescuing the canisters of hot chow and preparing to eat supper. They all suspected in the morning they'd be in the woods counting dead partisans, and counting burn victims meant they'd have no appetite at all tomorrow.
All was quiet as the troops ate the hot chow, and the pilot, a Junior Lieutenant waited for his ride home. Timya skipped the food and sipped on hot tea as she played sniper and continued killing partisans at a distance of over a mile. Soon the sound of helicopters were heard and the troops began to prepare for visitors. The machine-gun crews went to their weapons and the others found suitable cover and settled in to see what the resistance would do this time. One aircraft was a medical evacuation helicopter and the other was a Black Shark attack helicopter. The medical helicopter sat down and the pilot, along with a couple of slightly wounded from the shooting in the trees, climbed aboard.
Then an RPG was fired from the trees but it was way off target, and some small arms fire began to hit the aircraft.
“Sand Shark One, I am taking light ground fire from the unburned area of the trees.” the Senior Sergeant heard the pilot say, and the calmness that most pilots spoke with in emergencies fascinated him. They could be about to explode and falling from the sky and all they'd say is, “Mayday, going down.” He knew he didn't have that quality in him, not that he lost control, but he knew his voice went up a few octaves when calling for air support.
“Roger, as you pull up, I will deliver some rockets and cannon shells into the trees.”
“I understand and I am coming up now.” He said as the helicopter began to rise, the nose lowered and up he went. The partisans had a perfect side shot that no one took, because they were all too busy hunkering down in their holes.
Ten minutes later, it was quiet. So, the troops put a pan of water on to make some instant tea and coffee. They'd smoke and drink now, knowing the partisans weren't after them but wanted bigger targets, only they didn't know the tank was a target the resistance had plans to take out later. But, first the Russians had to settle in for the night.
Senior Sergeant Slavavich relaxed with a coffee spiked with a double shot of vodka. It'd been a long day and he was tired. Keeping a group of twenty young troopers alive was hard work, but he had some experienced Corporals and Junior Sergeants that helped him a great deal.
Soon the tankers crawled inside their iron beast and went to sleep, and then the rest of the troops circled the big tank and wrapped up in their sleeping bags. The earlier rain had stopped and the temperature would go down now for sure. The only people still awake an hour later were the machine-gun crews and a lone guard that paced around the area. Of the three men on a machine gun crew, they'd take turns staying awake overnight.
It was near 0300 hundred hours when the partisans neared the tank and troops. They'd intentionally taken their time to slowly crawl through the grasses toward the big iron weapon. They had orders to take every one of the big tanks out when they could. This one could be destroyed easily if things went well, but no matter what, they'd try to at least damage it.
Men moved forward to look the camp over and when they returned, one man whispered, “The men manning the machine guns are both asleep and the moving guard can be taken out quietly with a knife.”
“Take him out and then drop two grenades down the open hatches on the tanks.” a young Captain said. “I wonder why the hatches are open?”
“The men stink, poor hygiene in the field, not to mention gas most of them have from eating the types of foods they're given to eat by headquarters. I'd imagine the insides smell pretty rough at about this hour, sir. I'll move to the guard now.” the man said, and then disappeared in the darkness.
The lone man moved in behind the guard, walking upright, and pretending to be a Russian soldier. His uniform was close enough that in the darkness the differences could not be seen. He then quickly moved in behind the guard, placed a hand over his mouth and slit his throat. He held the man still as he attempted to scream and stop his bleeding. With each beat of his heart blood would spurt from his fatal wound. Two minutes later, he was dead. His body was slowly lowered to the ground.
The partisan climbed on the tank, pulled the pin from one grenade, watched the spoon fly into the air and then let it drop inside. He quickly repeated the act and both grenades made loud clunks when they struck the metal flooring.
There came a loud scream in Russian a second later, but by then the American was running for the safety of the long grasses. Two explosions were heard and the camp came alive as troops began shooting at shadows and stumps. By now the attacker was well hidden in the grasses, so he just waited for the tank to blow.
A few short minutes after the grenades blew, the fuel cooked off and it blew the turret a good one hundred feet into the air. The driver was half way out of his hatch when the tank blew, and it sent the top half of his body out and away from the blast, while his bottom half went up with the flames. He was dead instantly. The other two crewmembers never had a chance, and both died trying to reach their open hatches in time. They died in a solid wall of flames.
The partisans, proud of their work, never engaged the Russians in further combat and just retreated quietly. They had cost the Russians a chopper, jet fighter, and tank; not bad for a full days work.
The next morning it was a terrified Lieutenant that contacted Headquarters to report the tank a total loss. The radio operator at headquarters said, “Wait one, sir. Base Actual wants to speak with you.”
A minute later the Colonel's voice asked, “How in the hell did you lose a megaton tank to a bunch of farmers and hicks, Lieutenant?”
Deciding to be blunt because his anger was growing, Lieutenant Demian said, “Sir, with all due respect, I am an airborne infantry man, and know nothing of tanks, or how they must be secured at night. As it is, we lost two men who were too close to the tank and burned to death, and the three man crew. But, we also saved a valuable fighter pilot and two members of the helicopter crew. I think for infantrymen we did very well, sir.”
“That is a matter of opinion. I suspect the tank crew knew better, because they had orders to sleep with the hatches closed. Today, I want you to continue your mission.”
“Sir, today I was going to count partisan bodies in the woods west of us. They were hammered pretty good yesterday and I know there are some dead in the burnt trees.”
“Oh, yes, you do that,
Lieutenant, and send me the final count.”
“Yes, sir. I hope I can have it to you by noon, sir, but I have no idea.”
“Get on the job now, Lieutenant. Base Actual, out.”
Cursing to himself the Lieutenant handed the handset to his radioman.
Chapter 8
It was a terrified young Private Wilson that stood at a table in a courtroom and said, “I plead, uh, I plead, uh, not guilty, y . . . your honor.”
“Enter the defendant's plea of not guilty. Please, be seated.” the firm old Colonel said as he shuffled a stack of papers in front of him. He didn't like being a judge, but he had the most legal experience of anyone in the state serving with the partisans. The flag of the disbanded United States was behind him along with the Texas state flag.
Judge W.D. Robbins looked some papers over and said, “This is case number 399240, Partisans of America versus Private Thomas Woodrow Wilson. The Private is charged with premeditated attempted murder, conduct unbecoming a member of the partisans, and spying for the Russians.”
Both Private Wilson and his court appointed attorney sat at a small table where the defendant was staring straight ahead with no emotion showing, but he was terrified on the inside.
Finally the prosecutor said, “Sir, may both of us approach the bench? I think we can end this mess in a couple of minutes, instead of weeks.”
“Approach the bench, and this had better be good.”
With the defense attorney standing beside him the prosecutor said, “Sir, we have witnesses that saw the accused try to kill Colonel John Williamson by shooting him in the back. And, the Colonel is now shy a left ear lobe. I also have two witnesses that will swear when Wilson was arrested he claimed he did it for the two million dollar reward the Russian's have posted for the Colonel, dead or alive.”
“So, what are you offering me, Sam?” the defense attorney asked.
“Give the kid twenty years to life and we can move on to more serious business.”
“Twenty years is life to a kid that's just sixteen, so I have to say no.”
“If we take this further, I'll seek the death penalty for attempted murder and I'll get a conviction too.”
“He claims he's innocent. He claims he was firing at Russians when the Colonel moved in front of his fighting position. No deals.”
“Good, so his death will not be on my conscience.”
“Frank,” the Judge asked, “are you sure you don't want to take the twenty years? He'll be out in ten years or maybe sooner for good behavior. A death sentence is final and during times of war, carried out within twenty-four hours.” the judge asked.
“He refuses it, and I've discussed it with him.”
The judge frowned and said, “Get back to your tables and let's get this over with. Personally, counselor, I think your client is a damned fool.”
“I am to support him with his plea, whatever it is. I advised him to take what was offered and he said no. But, thanks, both of you.”
Five minutes later, Judge W.D. Robbins said, “Would the defense please call your first witness.”
“Yes, sir. I'd like to call Sergeant Franklin D. Sutherland to the stand.” Frank said, and the interviewing of witnesses started.
As person after person testified, the defendant's attorney became more and more concerned with the life of his client. It was becoming obvious to everyone that Wilson had tried to kill the Colonel and if pressed to continue, the judge would find the young man guilty.
Since they had no long term sentencing due to few jails or prisons, a person found guilty of a very serious crime, usually murder or attempted murder, was customarily sentenced to death. If he took a plea bargain and was sentenced to ten years, he'd be free, normally, in three to five years. He'd be locked up each evening, work during the day, and at the end of time served, he'd be a free man. But, he'd be kept far behind the lines and in a fairly remote camp. They only had a few prison camps.
That night in young Wilson's room, Frank said, “I will only say this one more time; take the ten years and walk out of here alive. That was their last offer and if you refuse it, then your death is on your hands, not mine. Keep fighting the conviction and you'll hang. It's not like you'll be in a cell for ten years, but only locked up at night. Keep clean and do as you're told and you'll be released in three to four years.”
“No, I want to fight this.”
“It's a fight we'll lose, but I'm tired of telling you this. I'll not bring it up again, but I'll not be at your hanging either. Son, this is no damned game we're playing here and when we lose, and we will lose, you'll die dead as hell.”
“Who cares about any of this except maybe you, because of the amount of work my not guilty plea is making you do? No one gives a shit if I die or not, because I'm a nobody. I tried to kill that sonofabitch and would again if given a chance and a gun. Two million dollars is a lot of money.”
Shaking his head, Frank poured another three fingers of rye whiskey into his water glass. He sat on a wooden straight backed chair, ran his hands through his hair and said, “Why do you have a death wish? Don't you see, even if you'd have killed the Colonel, the Russians would never pay a member of the resistance any reward. I don't think they have the intentions to pay anyone any amount.”
“Maybe, just maybe, I don't give a damn any longer about anything. Life is not worth living as it is now, not without the America I remember as a child. I'm tired of sleeping in mud, eating damned rations that are either older than me, or from some other country, and all I have to look forward to tomorrow is more of the same —killing Russians. The odds are, I'll not live to be twenty anyway, so let me die now.”
“If you take the jail sentence of ten years, you could stay out of combat and be safe until your whole sentence is served if you refuse parole.” Frank said, looking over the rim of his glass as he took another sip of the strong amber drink.
“You heard my feelings about the deal. Don't bring it up again.”
Standing and then throwing back the rest of his drink, Frank shook his head again, looked Wilson in the eyes and saw nothing in them, nothing at all. He placed his glass on the table, picked up the brown paper bag that held his quart of rye and moved to the door, where he knocked. The guard outside, a female security police sergeant, unlocked the door and opened it. Frank walked from the room totally confused by Wilson's thinking. As he left the building, he heard the Sergeant locking Wilson's door again.
The next day in court, Wilson suddenly stood after about five minutes, and raised his right hand. Judge W. D. Robbins, asked, “Do you wish to address the court, young man?”
“Uh, yeah I do, sir.”
“This is highly unusual, but I'll allow you to speak, so proceed.”
“I want to testify.”
“Have you spoken to your lawyer about this? You do understand you are not required to speak or testify in this court, right?”
“No, my lawyer was not aware I wanted to testify this morning. However, I also understand I don't need to speak during this trial, sir.”
Looking at Captain Frank Vest, Wilson's appointed attorney, the Judge asked, “Do you wish to allow this, counselor?”
“Sir, my suggestions and comments to the defendant seem to be unwanted by him, so I have no influence at all in defending him. Let him speak, if it pleases the defendant.”
“Private Wilson, please take the stand.” the Judge said.
In front of the witness box, a man produced a Bible and said, “Place your right hand on the Bible. Do you promise to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
The man then said, “Be seated.”
The Judge gave Wilson a stern look and said, “This is highly unusual, but speak what is on your mind, and start with why you suddenly want to speak. If you start rambling on and on, I'll remove you from the stand, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Proceed then.”
“I want to speak out
and maybe speed up my sentencing. I can do that and know no matter how long this trial takes, the outcome, my guilt, will be proven by witnesses and Colonel Williamson's injury and testimony. I have nothing personal against the Colonel and have found him a more than fair commander. So, my attempt on his life, while intentional, was never personal. I had personal reasons to kill him.”
The young Private cleared his throat, took a sip of water from the glass on a table beside his chair, and then continued, “Life in this country is no longer worth living, not as a member of any group in America today. It would take money, and lots of it, to give me a halfway decent life and killing the Colonel would have given me that money, or so I thought. When the Russians posted a two million dollar reward for his death, I met with one of their representatives.
Over the last year, to prove my faithfulness to the Russians, I have spied for them to gain and keep their trust. I gave them information on dates and times of partisan attacks and answered any questions I could. See, after killing the Colonel, the Russians were to release my family from captivity, and pay me two million dollars in gold, along with taking me and all the members of my family to any place in the world we wanted to live. I tried my damnedest to kill the man, but missed.”
Silence filled the room and Colonel Williamson shook his head at how gullible the young man had been, but many had spied for the Russians and for the same reason. Now the young man would be found guilty for sure, because of his admission of guilt.
“Is that all you wish to say?”
“No, sir. I discovered shortly after being arrested that my family has been dead for over a year and the Russians have no intentions of paying anyone for killing the Colonel. I see no reason to continue this trial when I now admit to attempted murder. I tried my best to kill the man and failed. I expect no mercy from this court, and I'm not asking for mercy either. That's all I have to say.”