by W. R. Benton
He walked back to his room, found Cynthia asleep, so he covered her with a dark green wool Chinese Army blanket. He picked up his drink and took a sip. He found the rice whiskey to be nasty, but the Chinese gave him cases of the stuff. One of his men, James Sidwell made an excellent whiskey when he could get the corn, but lately he'd had no luck, so he'd been using potatoes, which produced a vodka like drink. It was strong, no matter what he used to make his drink. They had all learned to adjust to what they had, learned to make what they wanted, or did without. At times when they raided a Russian convoy they'd find American booze and when they did, John made sure it went to the hospital for the patients and he'd usually keep a bottle for himself. That was the only thing he allowed himself that was different from his troops. They all had the same tents, food, bathrooms, clothing, and the rest. He would have no comforts, except an occasional bottle of whiskey, that his troops didn't have.
Cynthia moaned in her sleep and he leaned forward and kissed her forehead. He loved her, and hoped she lived longer than his other loves. He actually hoped she survived the war, but that was almost too much to expect. Hundreds died each week, and on both sides. The war had been hard on his women, and when he first discovered he was attracted to her he was scared she'd be killed, but finally love won. He was, or so he'd discovered, a man who needed a woman in his life. So he allowed things to happen naturally, did no planning for the future, and was a very happy man now.
He stood, stretched and felt his spine pop as he moved. I'm getting too old to carry a sixty pound pack with a weapon in my hands, and grenades hanging from my harness, he thought. He yawned, laid down beside her and just before he fell asleep, he felt her snuggle up to him. He slipped into sleep with a smile of contentment on his face, as he cupped a breast.
Dolly, seeing the bed was full, curled up on the ground next to the bed and went to sleep.
The next noise he heard was, “You going to sleep the day away or what, sir?” Sergeant Andy asked from his side of the tent. “Hell, it's 0500 so I thought you'd be up by now.”
“I think I slept all night solid.” He glanced at Cynthia beside him and found her grinning.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked.
“You. I know you usually sleep until 0400, so you slept in this morning. That's good, and you need to do that more often. I suspect you were exhausted and needed the rest.”
“Colonel, you won't be happy with this, but the Russians raised your reward to two million dollars last week. I have a flyer in my office if you want to see it.” Andy said.
“Did you contact Base about it?”
“Yep, and they are considering reassigning you to another location. That was pretty much it, except for something classified in code about a target.”
“I must really have them worried. I think it's the Ace of Spades card that scares them, because the Aces killed a lot of Russians in Mississippi.”
“Ya ain't done too badly here, for no longer than you've been in command.”
“So, did Base give you any idea of what they will do with me, or did they say?”
“Nope, not to me, but I think they're waiting to talk to you about your choices.”
Grabbing his toothbrush and tube of Chinese toothpaste, he moved for the shower. The toothbrush was a cheap Chinese copy and the toothpaste was nasty stuff that tasted awful. Cynthia thought he looked like a sleepy little boy; his boots were not laced, his hair not been combed, and he was still dog tired.
When he returned, Cynthia smiled at him and asked, “What's on your agenda for the day?”
“Find out what that classified message said, and then a meeting with cell leaders to discuss new locations to meet if we have to form into cells to Escape and Evade (E & E) the enemy.”
Just as dawn was breaking, Andy yelled out, “We have a cell in combat with what is estimated to be two companies of Russians.”
“Aircraft involved?” John asked as he laced his boots.
“No, not yet. They got pinched between a group in front that they were following and a group that came up behind them. On the radio the battle sounded rough.”
“Who's the cell leader? And approximate distance from here?”
“Captain Simmons is the leader and she's about five miles north of us.”
“I want a company of partisans to rescue her cell, if they can. It's an excellent time to do some damage to the Russian Bear. Postpone my meeting with the cell leaders until tomorrow, same time.”
“You leading the rescue team?” Andy asked.
“Yep.” he said as he slipped his camouflage shirt on.
Cynthia said, “I thought you would.”
“And, I want us moving in less than ten minutes! Hurry, lives depend on us!” John shouted as he grabbed his cowboy hat. “Come on, Dolly, we have some Russians to visit.”
“What's the rush?” Colonel Hughes asked as he entered Andy's side of the tent.
“Rescuing a unit that bit off more than she can chew. I need you to stay here and run this place until I get back.”
“Sure, and good luck.”
Since it was early morning, there were a lot of yawns as they moved toward the ambush site with everything from a bicycle to a stolen deuce and a half. A half a mile from the battle they stopped the truck, unloaded men and supplies, and then some people remained behind to cover the vehicles with camouflage netting.
“Uh, Black Cat, this is Badger One, over.” John spoke into the handset as he walked.
“Go One, this is Black Cat, and what is your location?” Simmons voice was calm and in control, but John knew she was stressed. Her voice was a bit higher pitched than normal.
“I'm moving toward your position and I'm less than a half mile from you. Where is most of your pressure coming from?”
“Behind me on the trail.” He could hear the shots now, and on the radio they sounded even louder, which made communications rough.
“I'll hit that bunch first, the ones on your ass. Get your heads down, now.”
John's group moved forward at a run now, men and women having dropped everything they didn't need to kill. They carried rifles, side arms, ammo, grenades, missile launchers, and other weapons.
The Russians didn't see them until they were almost blended into them. Rifles began to pop, pistols cracked and folks began to die. Screams were heard, along with yells of surprise and warning as much of the battle became hand-to-hand. Gun butts shattered skulls, pistol shots burned holes through men and women, as bayonets stabbed guts and bellies.
A big Russian Private with red hair ran toward John, the bayonet on his rifle flashing in the early morning sun. Raising his pistol, John shot the man once, then the cartridge jammed and he pulled his knife with a twelve inch blade. He cast the useless pistol at the Russian and then ran toward him. The Russian made an attempt to slash John with his bayonet, but missed. The American came up and, hitting the Russian's arm aside, stuck the long sharp blade deep in his belly.
As the young Russian screamed hideously, John jerked the blade from side to side and then kicked the man in the knee, knocking him to the ground. The dying soldier fell on his back and wondered why it was suddenly growing cold and dark. John ran to the next man.
An even younger soldier shot at the Colonel, missed, and before he could work the bolt action on his rifle, the American was on him. The blade slashed his throat wickedly and blood, crimson and bright, spurted high into the air. The young man screamed and then began to choke on his own blood. He was on his knees when a bullet took him in the chest, killing him instantly.
Minutes later, the battlefield grew quiet.
Moans and groans were heard, some crying, and one man praying. Closer to John, an American cursed his wound as he hobbled toward a medic, blood flowing down his left arm. The smell of cordite, blood, and human waste filled the air, and John knew the scents well.
“Badger One, this is Black Cat and thanks. The pressure from behind me is gone and I saw Russians running in all direc
tions.”
“Copy, Black Cat. Remain where you are and we'll join you.”
The rescue team moved toward them as John left a few men to count his dead and recover the wounded. The team members left were mostly wounded themselves, but with minor injuries. Less than 50 meters later he ran into the perimeter of Simmons' cell. They soon flowed into the area and his men began to return Russian ground fire. The Russians must have realized they'd arrived, because they began to pull out of the fight. As they moved, John had the flamethrower motivate and speed them up, as RPGs exploded around them.
Just when they thought they were safe, John's mortars opened up on them. He had them hound the Russians until they were out of range. They then moved forward as a group to check the downed Russians for supplies and gear, as well as to see about their wounded and dead.
“John, I don't know how much longer we could have lasted.” the Captain said, her fatigue heard in her tone.
“I'm surprised they didn't have air support too.” John said as he took all the carnage in from the battlefield. Blood made the grasses slippery in spots.
She laughed and then said, “Ralph, my sniper, killed the Russian radio with his first shot. Blew it off the radioman's back, from the way he described the shot, and then he put a hole in the man's head.”
“Good thing then. If they'd had air support a lot of us wouldn't be here right now.” John said and then yelled, “Sergeant Forbes, booby trap most of the dead. Collect all the gear and supplies, because we need to move, people!”
Two more prisoners would be added to partisan POW cages and Duke counted 23 dead Russians and they had four dead Americans, ten wounded, with one mortally injured. Others may have had minor wounds, but they could treat their own or wait until they returned. It usually didn't turn out like this. Within minutes the partisans began to blend into the woods and moved out, disappearing in different directions before they'd finally head home. Some would take short routes, while others took a long route, but all headed back to base.
The unit was returning by foot because the vehicles would carry their dead and wounded, and it was not often they could recover the bodies of their fallen. They took them mainly so the Russians didn't get a good body count and would have no idea how many were hurt or killed. John got wet eyed as he watched the dead loaded in the big truck. One day, he hoped to get his old America back and they'd have some sort of monument for all those who gave their lives in this conflict. Too many had died, and all were heroes to him.
Williamson walked near the front of the unit as Captain Simmons walked in the rear. They didn't want all their rank and experience too close together, where one grenade would kill them both. They were almost half way back when someone shouted, “Chopper!”
The aircraft seemed to just raise from the trees and the big Gatling gun in the nose began firing. Williamson watched helplessly as cannon shells walked down the trail, killing as they hit, while throwing clods of dirty six feet into the air. The trooper behind his point man was struck hard and he saw her head blown from her neck, sending bone, blood and gore in all directions. She collapsed but continued to dance on the dirt trail as more cannon shells struck her.
Of course they returned fire but if you want to feel like a damned fool, try firing small arms against a Gatling gun. His sniper, or he thought it was Duke, fired, and the co-pilot’s head dropped as the bullet passed through the wind shield and struck him in the middle of the face. His eyes were expressionless. Blood, brains, and pieces of bone were clearly seen on his blood splattered headrest as his head fell forward limp.
The cannon fired once more and this time Captain Simmons fell unnaturally as did two more of the small group. Then the aircraft turned sideways and the door gunners began their tat-tat-tat. While he disliked the machine guns, they were nothing compared to that big cannon in the nose.
Private Nance, the carrier of the flamethrower, raised to her knees and squeezed the trigger. Bright yellowish-red flames struck the side of the chopper, right below the dead co-pilot’s door window.
She then worked the fire along the sides of the aircraft toward the open door in the cargo compartment. John could see the door gunner gesturing and yelling into his microphone. Then the flames reached the door.
It was impossible to hear the gunner screams, but the wet and sticky flames struck him in the chest and then downward. He fell from the aircraft, his lower body in flames, as the fire burned at the nylon strap that held him in place. This strap connected to a harness he wore and was anchored to the floor of the helicopter. His body jerked and twisted about three feet below the aircraft, as the flames shot over him and struck most of the men in the cargo hold. The pilot began to lift the aircraft by increasing pitch and lowering the nose, but he was a few seconds too slow. By now the complete cargo area behind the pilots was a burning hell.
The fire must have melted through the nylon strap holding the gunner in the cargo area, because he screamed as he fell about 50 feet to the ground. Hideous screams were heard as the men in the cargo area burned to death.
The helicopter engine was smoking a great deal now and running rough. The cargo area was in complete flames, but the pilot was a brave man. Williamson watched the pilot try to gain altitude, but nothing helped. Something exploded in the cargo area, blasting flames and fire out both removed door openings, which he thought might have been from exploding compressed oxygen cylinders. Then, ammunition began to cook off and the noise was so loud it hurt John's ears.
Someone yelled, “Move now, he's going down!”
One of the main rotor blades struck a huge pine tree, sending fragments of metal flying in all directions. The chopper fought as hard as the pilot did to stay in the air, but it was not to be. With the main rotor blades damaged, the aircraft dropped to the ground hard.
Nance kept the flamethrower busy until the aircraft struck the ground and John yelled, “That's enough fire! Move, the fuel tanks will go up any second now!”
Just a few seconds later, the aircraft exploded, sending metal, parts of bodies, and flames in all directions.
John could see the pilot still alive inside the cockpit, now filled with flames, but there was nothing he could or would do for him; after all, he'd just killed some of his people with a cannon and machine gun fire. The pilot was jerking and moving, trying to escape the flames, but that was not to be either. Finally, the doomed man's head fell forward as his flesh began to melt.
They moved around the burning wreckage and continued their walk. They had just one injured from the chopper, but there were three dead, shot to rag-dolls. Simmons had her left arm missing, and a tourniquet was quickly placed on the injured arm. Most of the dead were missing limbs, big chunks of flesh were gone, and one woman was missing his head.
Williamson gave the Captain a shot of morphine, placed her on a stretcher, and had the medic insert an IV to give her blood. She was conscious, but the morphine soon put her to sleep. He quickly got the situation organized again and they began to move.
Blood quickly pooled in the stretchers used to carry the wounded and dead, so at times they'd tilt them to allow the crimson bodily fluid to fall to the dirt of the trail.
As they moved, John suddenly got a very nervous feeling, like someone was watching him or following him. They just stepped around a sharp bend in the trail when two command detonating mines exploded. John took a hit to his chest, left leg and scalp. He fell and realized they'd walked into the kill zone for a Russian version of a Claymore mine. He heard Simmons moaning and groaning, but hoped his point and drag men got away safely. His chest wound must have damaged a lung, because he was having trouble breathing and appeared to be in deep shock.
Maybe ten minutes after the explosion, he heard Russian troops moving around them. The Colonel kept his eyes closed and pretended he was dead. He heard a half dozen pistol shots, but none near Simmons or him. He prayed they'd leave and they could limp back to base, but that wouldn't happen.
A Russian kicked him hard in the
side and said in fair English, “Well, Colonel Williamson, I am surprised I bagged you and your cell leader with the same ambush. I am Lieutenant Kosvelrov of the Russian Army. No use to play dead, because you are off to a Russian POW compound, sir. Of course you will be interrogated first.” Then he quickly spat out some Russian and by his tone it was an order. Simmons and John were doctored up and he knew he was given morphine because he fell asleep.
Chapter 3
John awoke to hearing metal striking metal and low voices, so he tried to open his eyes. His body didn't want to obey the commands from his mind, so he drifted off to sleep again. The next time he opened his eyes, he found himself in a hospital bed with tubes running into his body, and was connected to all sorts of machines. Additionally, he was secured to the headboard of his bed by a pair of handcuffs, which he wore on his left wrist. He raised his head and looked around.
Captain Simmons was in a bed to his left and she was awake. When their eyes met, she gave him a wink to show she was okay. He glanced to his right and saw Major Yin Xue. He was all bandaged up and looked about like John, or so he imagined. They both had been hit hard. He didn't even remember seeing him in the battle. The small man gave a thumb up, signalling he was okay as well.
The workers in this hospital were all taller and lighter skinned than the Chinese, and Williamson heard Russian spoken. His biggest fear had come true, he was a POW. That was a fine mess, but it didn't mean he had to stay a POW, so he'd try his hardest to get away, or die trying. He tried to remember being captured, but couldn't.
An attractive nurse, in any country, walked to his bed, read his chart and then using the PICC valve on his IV tubing, gave him another shot. It must have been morphine, because it made him sleepy.