“What was Wilson thinking, sending us out here tonight?” Jarkowski complained. Why couldn’t Ol’ ‘Bertha’ wait until morning?” the well-lubricated corporal asked, waiting for an answer from his younger but more senior ranking friend. Not getting one he pressed on, “What do ya figure, must be -40, at least? Let’s just go back and tell Wilson that we couldn’t get her going. What do ya say? Come on, this is crazy,” he slurred, making it even more difficult to understand his unusual western drawl.
Corporal Damon Jarkowski had been born the third son of Polish immigrants that moved to Wyoming when he was only two. His father worked in the printing business while his mother endeavored to raise him and his brothers. The boys were a handful with too much time on their hands. At 18, Damon was looking at six years for grand larceny, which the judge was more than happy to swap for a three-year tour of duty in the U.S. Army. Leaving his family behind, he sailed with an assault force to serve his time, but with no sense of duty or desire to be a hero.
“Have we ever not been able to get that hunk of metal going?” Farrell replied, polishing off the last ounce from the bottom of the bottle, while trying to follow the narrow ruts that led to the tank’s location. ”I’m sure he’s afraid the Koreans will try to strip her before morning, so here we are.”
The headlights were little help as 70% of each lamp had been taped off to conceal the light and protect the soldiers from detection. The Wiley’s Jeep, World War II vintage, was the most reliable vehicle the two had to choose from when given the assignment to return to the morning’s battlefield and rescue the downed M1 Abrams. The unit had been fully functional during the skirmish but had died on the way back to base. Farrell always drew these assignments; the commander knew his men and what he could extract from each of them. He’d hoped some sense of duty might rub off on Jarkowski if the two young men were paired together more often.
The small jeep maneuvered the challenging terrain, littered with abandoned military hardware from both sides, and the occasional corpse welded to the earth’s surface with frozen blood. Undeterred, the Pole continued his verbal onslaught, “Aren’t we getting awfully far from base? We should have found her by now. Maybe the little slant-eyed Norks got it going and it’s gone.”
Suddenly, the young Sergeant brought the Wiley’s to an abrupt halt, the dim lights illuminating a tan, hulking death-machine, blocking their way.
“Told you we’d find it,” Farrell said, flashing his perfect smile, a cloud of white frozen air passing between the men.
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Jarkowski muttered, his dreams of a quick trip back to their base shattered.
Farrell angled the jeep, lighting up the rear of the tank. He left the motor running and climbed out, reaching for his tool belt in the process. He wore thick gloves that were doing little to prevent the cold from numbing his digits; a stocking cap his sister, Lula, had knitted for him, was pulled tightly down over his ears. Standing at the side of the jeep he looked bigger than life, six foot two with broad shoulders and a thick chest, but even so, there was something odd about his appearance.
“Man, I must be drunk, why you lookin’ so frickin’ huge?” the perplexed corporal asked, watching the steam roll off his tongue.
Farrell laughed, a deep chuckle that shook his chest and warmed him slightly. ”I came prepared, you stupid Pollock, I’ve got on more layers than an onion.” He paused briefly, looking down at himself, then continued, “This is what I’m gonna look like when I’m 50. You just going to sit there and watch me work?”
“You got that right. Call me if you need any help, I’ll be here keeping this seat warm.”
“The hell you say! Get outta that jeep and up on that .50 caliber! I don’t want any surprises while I’ve got my head in that engine block.”
The older man didn’t budge from the jeep but sat defiantly, his gloved hands tucked under his armpits, a boyish, pouty sulk on his face.
“Jarkowski,” Farrell thundered, “you will get out of that jeep right now or only one of us will be returning to base!” Sergeant Farrell Jenson emphasized his point by placing his hand on the pistol that hung at his side. Friend or not, duty came first, and he would not allow the weak will of another to prevent him from accomplishing his task. That, and the longer he had to dick around with Jarkowski, the longer it would be before they could return to a relatively warm bed and another bottle of ‘elixir’.
The stubborn corporal reluctantly lifted his legs from the jeep, stepped to the frost-covered ground and grumbled all the way to the top of the tank, where a large .50 caliber machine gun was mounted. Their friendship aside, he knew Farrell was not a man to be messed with. Too many broken noses and split lips had been the result of others second-guessing the young leader and Jarkowski had no doubts that Farrell would use his weapon as a motivator, if necessary.
With the machine gun now manned, the mechanic began the laborious task of sorting out what was wrong with the engine. Above him, he could still hear ‘Jarhead’, as most of the men in the unit called him, talking to himself and berating the officers that put him in this spot.
“No good, lousy non-comms. Why aren’t they here freezing right along with us? I’ll tell you why, cause they got dumb buggers like Jenson and me to do . . . ”
“Jarkowski, you’d complain if you were hung with a new rope. Shut up a minute and listen.”
The two stood motionless for a time, the breath from their nostrils drifting skyward as they focused on the stillness around them.
“Okay, must have been my imagination, but keep your eyes peeled and mouth shut.” Farrell returned to the engine, the ice-cold metal almost unbearable to work with and impossible to touch with bare skin. The tools passed back and forth between the belt and his hands, working as quickly as he could to bring the Abrams to life. He returned to the jeep only once, retrieving a bottle of gas-line solvent, which he injected into the rubber hosing leading from the gas tank to the carburetor.
“Jarhead, I’m ready to try this thing. You stay put. If I get it going it’ll need to run for a few minutes before we start back but the noise might draw some attention. Stay sharp!”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya. Just get it started. I can’t even feel my toes anymore and I’m pretty sure my balls just dropped into my boots.”
Farrell climbed past his partner and into the belly of the M1 tank, settling into the driver’s seat and taking the controls in his hands. He closed his eyes and whispered under his breath, “Come on, baby,” before cranking the engine. Nothing! No spark or combustion, nothing but the growl of a beast that was slumbering, not wanting to wake up.
“What did I miss?” he questioned, before climbing up and out, returning to the rear of the tank.
He checked the lines and the work that he’d done, coming up with the conclusion that there was only one thing left to try. Hanging from his belt was his favorite and most used tool: a handheld sledge hammer, no more than five pounds, with a worn wooden handle turned black from the oil of his hands and time. He withdrew the heavy-ended sledge, gauged where he needed to strike and slapped down three solid taps on the carburetor and manifold. Satisfied that he’d done all he could do, he returned to the driver’s seat and cranked the engine again. This time, with a bit of coaxing, throttling the choke and gas pedal in just the right combination, he was able to get the lumbering beast started. A jubilant cheer was shouted above him, as Jarkowski heard and felt the engine come to life.
“Let’s get out of here, Jenson.”
“Give it a minute or we’ll be right back where we started. Just keep your eyes on the horizon, that noise was surely heard on the other side.”
Farrell left the interior of the tank to do a quick walk around, making sure the tracks were operational and all else in order before heading back. Under the left front track, an enemy soldier’s frame extended as a grotesque, frozen statue. A death mask suspended in time, his shoulders and head were all that were recognizable as once human. The young Sergeant knel
t, taking in the sight more closely. He estimated the dead man to be his own age and just hours ago, full of life and battling for the same thing that Farrell was: friends, family and survival. The idea of fighting for some higher purpose was now a thing of the past. Looking beneath the contoured underside of the tank, Farrell could see something metallic partially covered by frost and brush. He crawled the few meters to extract the item from its frozen resting place, delighted to see a new, lightly greased and fully automatic Chinese assault rifle. A collectors item and highly sought after by the allied troops.
“Hey Jarhead, you ain’t gonna believe what I just found,” he said, shimmying out from underneath Bertha.
The man, shivering at the top of the tank, looked down to see his friend holding the distinctive machine gun with the round drum fed magazine. ”Do you think it works? I gotta get me one of those, they are sooooo sweet.”
“Looks brand new, the chamber still has grease in it from the factory,” Farrell said, pressing the release on the clip and examining the ammunition it contained. ”Looks like a full drum as well. This makes the trip out here worthwhile and you losing your nuts less of a concern.”
“Very funny. Now that you’ve got a new toy can we go home?”
A ping, similar to the sound of the sledge against the manifold, brought the two soldiers immediately to attention, followed by the report of a rifle some distance away.
“Holy hell! Where did that come from?” Jarkowski yelled at Farrell.
“I was afraid of that. The diesel will just have to give us what she’s got. I’m leaving the jeep. Keep that .50 pointed down the road and open it up on anything that moves, there aren’t any friendlies out here.” Farrell laid the Chinese weapon on Bertha’s deck as he climbed onboard. Suddenly a staccato of pings and zings could be heard all around them, lead bounced and was deflected away, the cold night air alive with the attacking clatter.
“Get that thing rockin’ before they’re on top of us,” he yelled at the gunner, as he brought his newly found prize to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. The distinctive sound of the assault rifle was dwarfed by the chugging loudness of the bigger .50 caliber weapon, sending fire, death and destruction into the night. The muzzle flashes illuminated their images, providing an easier target for the enemy, but they had no choice. For a moment they held their fire instead of shooting blindly and wasting precious ammo. The shower of lead hail they’d sent from their position had, at least for a second or two, silenced the Koreans.
“What do you think? Just a probe?” Jarhead asked, suddenly much warmer and more alert.
“I don’t know. Just listen.”
The two stood at the ready, gun barrels hot and smoking.
“Oh . . . Oh . . . We’re dead men!” Jarkowski screamed from his vantage point, seeing a torrent of charging enemy soldiers headed toward them, their battle cry piercing the night.
“What are you . . . ” Jenson needed to say no more as the huge slugs from the mounted machine gun began ripping into the North Koreans. The frozen ground was quickly infused with warm blood and littered with body parts. Around them, they could hear and see the flashes of ricochets off Bertha’s heavily plated armor. Farrell tried desperately to sight the weapon in his hands, but they were advancing so rapidly that he settled on just swinging the barrel left and right into their ranks, soldier after soldier dropping to the ground, dead and dying. The drum empty, he dropped the rifle into the opening at the top of the tank and drew his sidearm, firing at the advancing horde as he climbed into the mouth of the Abrams.
“Almost out of ammo here, Farrell. Get us out of here!”
The Sergeant slammed the transmission into gear and started at a slow roll to bring them to safety. He slipped gears and the tracks picked up pace.
“I’m out and they’re still coming! We gotta go, move it! Move it! Move this hunk of junk!” There was a pause as the machine gun was silenced, then a bawling howl for help. “Argh, I’m hit! Farrell, help! The Norks got me. I’m coming down.”
As the words from Jarhead registered with him, he heard the sound of metal against metal clanging from the top of the Abrams to the bottom, coming to a quiet stop at his feet. The young tank mechanic looked down to see a grenade cradled between the clutch and gas pedal.
Fear gripped his heart as he presumed death had taken him, until a faint light flickered against his lids and he awoke, kicking at the once real, but now imaginary, communist-made grenade that again occupied his dreams. Sweat rolled from his tanned forehead, beads coalescing into small rivulets that pooled at the hollow of his neck. He reached for the green t-shirt that he’d worn the day before, now crumpled at the side of his bed, and wiped the perspiration away from his face and throat. He swung his still trembling legs over the side of the mattress and once firmly on the floor, placed his head in his hands, seeking to slow his racing heart and panicked breathing. Reliving that near death moment again was almost more than he could bear: the terror, the last thought that literally passed through his mind, the instant regrets, knowing that he was about to die. Yet, he had not. He knew not why or by what power or purpose he was spared, but he was. He’d always suspected it had something to do with his mother’s prayers but since that day he had devoted himself to saving others from the same awful fate, rescuing the good from a world full of hate and filth.
Chapter 3
Sergeant Farrell Jenson, now 23 but aged beyond his years, looked to the corner of the vice-principal’s office to see his prized Chinese assault rifle right where he had left it. A full drum of ammo locked in place, ready for any and all surprises that he’d almost grown to expect. He went to the desk that occupied a prominent place in the once busy high school administrator’s office. A metal mixing bowl sat atop the walnut fixture, a flask of fresh water rested motionless nearby. The liquid, a precious commodity, had only days before been drawn from the ‘Well of Life’. Splashing water on his face, after pouring a small portion into the bowl, he took a mouthful of the clear liquid, swished it around, and then spat it back into the metal container. Content that this would be his bath for the day, he stretched a clean, army-green shirt over his head and pulled his standard-issue khakis up and around his waist before putting on his steel toed boots.
A somewhat shaken Farrell exited the large structure to stand on the front steps, giving him a view of the makeshift compound, the barricaded perimeter and the land beyond. A bronzed statue of a black bear dominated the cement walkway, just below the steps, from where he surveyed the collection of farmers and civilians who had left their land, homes and businesses; banding together in the name of survival. Little did any of these local people know that they would one day return to the same hallways they’d once occupied as laughing teenagers, discovering themselves and planning out their lives. The Sergeant was one of these returning alumni, now living in and protecting their old alma mater, Bear River High School. No one could really remember the last time a real, flesh and blood bear had been seen, if ever, roaming the rolling hills that made up the landscape, but the river that meandered back and forth throughout the county was called the Little Bear River and thus the school was crowned.
Farrell, with the assault rifle in one hand, the stock resting against his hip, and a quickly rolled cigarette in the other, shook his head in wonderment. How had so few survived? Where were his remaining family members and what had happened to his home? He’d only visited it once, finding the barn still standing but little else intact. The small farmhouse in which he’d grown up had been completely destroyed, with only the foundation left. He took a long drag from the cigarette; a habit picked up while serving in Korea, noting that his hand was shaking slightly. He thought of a reunion with his mother and the scolding he would get, seeing him with a smoke between his fingers. Promises made before leaving for the front were easily broken but not forgotten. There was no doubt that he had returned a different man. He had left an idealist, fighting to save the world from tyranny
and returned a realist, with only one goal: survive, at all costs. Survive!
As a young man, Farrell, was one of those students that everyone wanted for a friend. His handsome features and dazzling smile were legendary among the female contingent of the student body. This was not lost on the young man, who at 17 stood six foot two with wavy black locks. The teenager combed his hair straight back, creating five distinctive, ocean-like waves, uniformly spaced from front to back that could not have been more perfect if they had been formed from plastic and glued to his scalp. His hair was certainly a bonus for the attractive boy but his smile put his persona over the top. Distinctively straight, Hollywood-white teeth capped a smile that, when displayed, could elicit just the right mix of emotion and enchantment. Below his picture-perfect smile, a strong, well-defined cleft chin set him apart as one with a perceived strength of character that drew people to him. A natural born leader; always wanting to be the one calling the shots, whether at home among his siblings, at school with his friends or at work under the chassis of any car. What he lacked in ‘book-skills’ he made up for tenfold in mechanical and people skills. He could take apart, sort out and repair anything that had an engine or working parts.
His father, a man almost half his size, recognized the skills of his second youngest son early on and had him shoeing horses by the time he was eight and welding the farm equipment by ten. The family album featured numerous pictures of the lad, barely big enough to hold the reins of a large plow horse, directing the animal up and down the rows, preparing and grooming the ground for planting. Farrell was certainly no stranger to hard work but loved to play as well. He would often brag of the day that he and his classmates lured the shop teacher into a caged, supply storage unit, welded him in and spent the day drinking beer in the parking lot. The clowns had ultimately paid a price but the story was well worth the days in detention.
The Living Hunger Page 2