By the middle of the afternoon, the town had been cleared and the Rebels were bivouacked about two miles from the town, on the road to Argentan. Ben had offered no objections to Kathy staying with the team, and she was sitting in the front room of an old home, listening to him talk to his batt coms by radio. She looked up just as one of the most physically powerful and strikingly handsome young men she had ever seen walked in.
“The boss’s son,” Beth said. “Buddy Raines. He’s commander of 8 Batt. The special ops group. The boss’s daughter, Tina, is commander of 9 Batt.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Ben asked his son.
“Bringing you news that will surely lift your spirits,” Buddy said, pouring a cup of coffee and sitting down.
“That means it’s sure to depress me,” Ben said. “So what’s up?”
Buddy smiled. “Emil Hite is on the way.”
Ben sat down and stared at his son. “You have got to be kidding!”
“Nope. He and most of his . . . ah, flock, slipped aboard a freighter and should be landing in France in a few days. Thermopolis reported them missing and discovered several trucks gone from his motor pool. He traced their movement to South Carolina and the rest is, as they say, history.”
“Who is Emil Hite?” Kathy questioned.
“There is no way to describe Emil Hite,” Ben said. “He’s like the candy bar—indescribable.”
Jersey, Cooper, Beth, Buddy, and Corrie all exchanged puzzled glances. Only Kathy was old enough to know what Ben was talking about. She smiled. “I haven’t seen one of those in years, Ben.”
“Neither have I. But I sure would like one.”
“What are you two talking about?” Buddy asked.
“A candy bar, son. Indescribably delicious.” He and Kathy started laughing at the expressions on the younger Rebels’ faces.
“There is one more bit of news, father,” Buddy said when the laughter had faded. “A message from Julie Petti.”
Ben didn’t even have to ask what it was. Julie had been avoiding him for days. Word had gotten back to him that she had been appalled at the Rebels’ treatment of creepies and punks. He nodded his head. “She wants a transfer out of this front and feels that we should not see each other again because we are too far apart in our treatment of human beings.”
“That’s . . . uncannily close, father,” Buddy said. “You never cease to amaze me with your ability to read peoples’ minds.”
“I can’t read minds, boy. But I can read sign. And I’ve been reading her sign for the past week. This comes as no surprise. Tell her to stay in the rear if she doesn’t like our methods.” Then, under his breath, he muttered, “I ought to assign Emil Hite to be her guide.”
When Emil Hite got off the ship in England, he knelt down and kissed the ground . . . or the dock, as it were. It had been a rough crossing, and Emil had been sick the entire time. Emil had come a long way from the days when he wore flowing robes, sandals, flowers in his hair, and scooted about preaching pearls of wisdom from the great god Blomm. A long way, but not that far.
When Emil felt the earth—or the dock—remain firm and unmoving beneath his feet, he rose wobbly to his full height—which wasn’t all that much—and looked around him. “France,” he whispered. “The cradle of liberty.” He smiled. “And broads.” He looked back at the faithful who had accompanied him; about thirty men and women who knew exactly what Emil was all about but liked him anyway.
Emil marched up to an official-looking person who was carrying a clipboard and said, “I am Colonel (he wasn’t) Emil Hite, commander of the Blomm Brigade (no such outfit) of Raines’s Rebels. I must get to France. General Raines needs me.” (About like a head cold.)
The elderly Englishman gave Emil a thorough going-over, from boots to beret, taking in all the medals and ribbons Emil had pinned on his uniform, which ranged from the Burma Campaign of World War Two to Vietnam, and covered every inch of fabric from waist to neck and both sides of the jacket.
“My word!” the dock-master said. He pointed with his walking stick to a ship down the way. “She’ll be sailing with the tide. You can board anytime.”
Emil turned to his group. “Come, warriors. Forward into the fray. I can assure you all that General Raines will be so overcome with emotion when he sees us, he will be rendered incapable of speech.”
More than a modicum of truth in that statement.
The captain of the ship, a sturdy Scotsman and a veteran of dozens of trans-Atlantic crossings, and a survivor, stood on the bridge and watched the strange collection of men and women march up the gangway and board his ship. He had never seen anything quite like them. He turned to his first mate.
“They must be some sort of secret weapon General Raines plans to use. Although I can’t possibly imagine how.”
The trip from Southhampton to Le Havre was uneventful, except for the captain having to retreat to his quarters with a splitting headache after listening to Emil talk for fifteen minutes.
“God is on our side,” Emil said to the first mate.
“I certainly hope so,” the first mate replied, then hid in a lifeboat for the remainder of the crossing.
On shore Emil commandeered several trucks, and after getting lost fifteen times, managed to reach Ben’s CP about an hour before dark. The Rebels in the area saw him coming, and most managed to make themselves scarce. But they forgot to warn Ben, who was busy going over maps in the house.
A Rebel on the porch saw Emil coming and dropped a sandwich on the floor in his haste to get away. Emil leaped up onto the porch and stepped right into the peanut butter and jelly. He went slipping and sliding and flailing his arms through the open front door and into the main room, his antics resembling a cross between the frug and country line dancing. Jersey had gotten up to see what the commotion was all about, and Emil ran into her and knocked her flat on the floor.
“Goddamnit!” Jersey hollered.
Kathy Bonham, not knowing what this human Tasmanian devil was, just barely managed to get out of Emil’s way.
Emil unintentionally bugalooed across the room and landed on top of Ben’s desk, sending maps, notes, a mug of coffee, and Ben’s fresh-baked piece of apple pie to the floor.
“Lafayette!” Emil cried, nose to nose with Ben. “I am here!”
“France might never recover from this,” Ben said. He cut his eyes to Cooper, who was trying to keep Jersey from shooting Emil.
Ben had no choice but to assign Emil and his group to his own 1 Batt. That was the only way he knew to keep Emil out of trouble. There was another reason for that decision: Emil was scared to death of Jersey. The little bodyguard had threatened to shoot him more than once. As long as Jersey was around—and she was always around Ben—Emil was on his best behavior, which wasn’t anything to write home about, but it was better than the norm.
“What will you do with him?” Kathy asked, the morning after Emil’s arrival.
“Believe it or not, Emil and his bunch have turned into tough little fighters,” Ben said with a smile. “Not that it was that way at the beginning.” He laughed at some old prank of Emil’s. “Once you learn to accept his rather unorthodox ways, he’s really quite likeable.”
“He’s a prick,” Jersey said, from across the room. “Why don’t you send him back to Thermopolis?”
Ben thought about that for a moment. “I have a better idea. Why don’t we bring Thermopolis over here?”
FIFTEEN
Thermopolis jumped at the chance. He and his crew had, at first, thought they would like to stay home and run listening posts. But Ben had guessed the other way. Combat is infectious. For many it produces a high unlike anything else. Besides, Thermopolis liked Emil and could control him.
“And bring Smoot with you,” Ben concluded the broadcast.
Thermopolis and his crew would fly down to Ben’s home, get Ben’s husky, Smoot, and then fly out of the East Coast on a transport.
“You’re full of surprises, Ben,” Ka
thy said. “I didn’t know you liked dogs.”
“I don’t particularly care for people who don’t like dogs,” Ben replied. “And I have been known to shoot people who abuse any type of animal.”
She fixed serious eyes on him. “You are kidding. Aren’t you?”
“Nope. People who abuse animals are sorry excuses for human beings. I don’t want them around me, and I won’t tolerate them around me.”
“You are a complex person, Ben Raines.”
“A lot of people think that’s so. But it isn’t really true. Animals can’t help being what they are. Humans can. It’s just that simple.”
“You really haven’t killed a person for abusing an animal, have you, Ben?”
He didn’t have to vocalize a reply. The bleak look in his eyes spoke volumes.
Ben let the punks and the creeps and self-styled warlords stew for a time while he waited for Thermopolis and his bunch to arrive and take over keeping track of supplies and routes and battalion positions and all the other tedious things that Ben hated and Therm was so good at—actually it was his wife, Rosebud, but she gave her husband the credit.
When the big transport landed, Smoot jumped off and didn’t even take time to pee before she leaped into Ben’s arms and both of them went rolling around on the tarmac. Smoot had grown into an eighty-five-pound husky. Thankfully, she was, like many of her breed, an easygoing, good natured dog. But Smoot had a very respectable set of teeth, and when angered, she could be quite formidable.
Kathy watched with amusement as Ben played with Smoot, the husky clearly the winner as she knocked Ben down several times roughhousing. Thermopolis finally broke it up, and he and Ben shook hands.
“Good to have you back, Therm.”
“Good to be back, Ben. When do we push off?”
“I figure it’ll take you seventy-two hours to get organized. In a few days.”
“Good enough. Let’s get to work.”
The Rebels were glad to see Therm and his bunch return to their ranks, for the hippies turned warriors were well liked. They preferred to handle the tedious jobs that most others detested, but could turn into vicious fighters when pressed into service.
Duffy Williams and his thousands of malcontents had waited behind their guns while the Rebels shifted around and made ready for an all-out attack . . . but they had not done so patiently. The waiting was getting to them. They were growing increasingly short-tempered and hard to handle as the weather began turning cooler and the nights were becoming downright cold.
Duffy was now beginning to fully grasp the enormity of keeping a large army in food and clothing, and morale up. He began traveling from sector to sector, talking with the leaders of the various groups, cajoling, sometimes threatening, and often making deals to keep them ready to fight.
Ben and his Rebels waited.
Kathy Bonham possessed every trait that made her a good reporter: She was highly intelligent, literate, and had the ability to see both sides of a story and report fairly . . . in that, she very nearly stood alone among her peers. As the days passed and she more closely watched Ben, she began to realize that she was observing a brilliant military tactician at work; also a very ruthless man when it came to seeing his own plans bear fruit. Ben was inordinately compassionate to the very young, the very old, and toward domesticated animals and wildlife. But he was totally without mercy toward his enemies. Ben did not believe that the Rebel way was necessarily the only way, just that it was the right way. Every Rebel she spoke with believed exactly the same. Which came as absolutely no surprise to her.
Kathy also began to realize, with some trepidation, that these men and women would never be defeated. As long as there was just one Rebel left alive, the fight would continue. The Rebel philosophy would never die.
Kathy felt eyes on her and turned. Ben was standing to one side, looking at her. Kathy was a tall woman, almost five feet, ten inches, and while her figure had matured, she could still cause men’s heads to turn. She stood for a moment, meeting Ben’s eyes.
“You ready to go to war?” Ben asked.
“Is anybody ever ready to go to war?”
“You have a lot to learn about Rebels, Kathy. The Rebels are always ready. It’s what we do best.”
“I see. Day after tomorrow is still firm?”
“Yes. We jump off at 0600.”
She turned to look outside. It was full dark. The evening meal had been served and the mess tents cleaned and made ready for an early breakfast. But there would be hot fresh coffee and sandwiches available at all times during the night for the guards coming on and going off shift. She had quickly learned that Ben insisted that the best of food be ready for his people, whenever possible. But prepackaged field rations were field rations, no matter what country packaged them—many times they still tasted like shit.
She turned to face Ben. “It’s late.”
“Not that late.”
They looked at one another for a moment. Kathy brushed back a stubborn lock of black hair . . . black hair now sprinkled with gray, which she made no effort to disguise. He dark blue eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief.
“You have something in mind, General Raines.”
A smile played at his lips, and his hawkish features softened. “I thought perhaps you might like to have a brandy with me. A local family gave me a very old bottle of brandy.”
“And after the brandy?”
He shrugged. “That’s not up to me, is it?”
She moved closer to him. “If your reputation is to be believed, you generally take what you want.”
He moved closer to her. “My reputation is grossly exaggerated. When the Rebel army was being formed, we had growing pains. Some, a very few of my men, in the early days, had their way forcibly with women. That stopped quite abruptly after two of them were tried and shot.”
“There were more than two?”
“Three. The third man was found not guilty. The woman confessed she promised him sex and then allowed him to become quite aroused before she stopped it cold. That’s bullshit, Kathy. Set the rules before, not during. If a man knows how far he is to be allowed to go, and then steps over that line, that’s rape. If a woman promises sex, gets a man all worked up, and then suddenly pushes him away and tells him to go sit in a corner and jack off, that might not set too well with some men.”
His language did not faze her. “Your views on that subject would not be popular with a great many women’s groups, Ben. Past and present.”
“I don’t care. I haven’t lost any sleep over it. There aren’t many Rebel women who disagree with that philosophy. But I’m not one of those men who would turn violent if rejected. However, I might cuss a lot.”
She stepped over to the desk and turned off the lantern. “Well, you won’t have to cuss me, Ben.”
Nine battalions of Rebels, with nine battalions coming right behind them, with full artillery and armor, MBTs spearheading, smashed through the line set up by Duffy Williams as if it were made of papier-mâché and put the untrained and undisciplined army of punks, thugs, and assorted human slime into a fullblown rout. Kathy, riding in an armored vehicle with Ben’s 1 Batt, later reported that Ben didn’t make any attempt to finesse this one; he just bulled through using brute force, smashing anybody who got in his way.
In a lightning-fast operation, faster than even most Rebels could recall, the battalions of World Stabilization Forces—their official United Nations designation—took everything from Quimper over to Orleans in a move that stunned even career military leaders around the world. Ben instructed those nine battalions coming up behind to take the lead and continue the pursuit of Duffy Williams and his joke of an army, with his own nine spearheading battalions to begin the circling of Paris.
But Ben knew that while Duffy’s army was, for the moment, a joke, it would not be that way for long. For those hundreds of men and women who stood and fought and fell back with Duffy were, even without their knowledge, rapidly being molded into an army
. And they would quickly turn into a formidable fighting force.
Many of the reporters and human rights people traveling behind the Rebels were appalled at the ruthless-ness of the advancing Rebels. The Rebel philosophy of warfare was simple: You get one chance to surrender. Only one. Fight us, and you die. Period.
“Look, you stupid son of a bitch,” Ben told one rather suddenly startled reporter who confronted Ben about his stabilization tactics. “We’re not here to play patty-cake with these crud. That entire punk army out there is not worth the loss of one Rebel soldier. You people can piss and moan and sob and stomp on your hankies all you want to, in print and broadcast. But you better stand far away from me when you do. And something else: The first time you try to interfere with the job we’ve been assigned, I’ll kill you. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Very.”
Ben and the Rebels had never been, by any stretch of the imagination, the darling of the press corps. Now it was almost as if the Rebels were the enemy instead of the roaming hordes of gangs. The press had never met anyone like Ben Raines. He refused to kowtow to them and actually had the nerve to threaten them. Up to now that had been unheard of. Didn’t this tin soldier know who they were?
Oh, yeah. He just didn’t give a damn.
Then, after the press launched several vicious attacks against the Rebels, accusing them of the most heinous of civil rights violations (against rapists, murderers, child molesters, and other assorted human vermin), Ben started kicking the press out of the country . . . sometimes quite physically.
“We would have won in Vietnam if the goddamn press had been kept out of the country,” Ben said to Kathy one evening.
“I am the press, Ben,” she reminded him.
“Yes, you are,” he conceded. “But a minority member. You and about a half dozen others over here report the truth . . . without adding your own slanted opinions. You and David and Paul and a very few other members of the press have your heads screwed on straight. You understand that sometimes things have to be measured in black and white for the good of the majority. You are fully cognizant of absolutes. You know that the lives of a thousand punks is not worth the life of one decent human being. That’s the difference, Kathy.” He smiled at her. “Your mother and father, Kathy, belonged to what political party, back when those things mattered?”
D-Day in the Ashes Page 12