“Try calling me another man’s wife.”
She noticed his tongue stud, then felt her own, freshly pierced. A faintly lingering taste of blood reminded her: so many questions! All delayed by the oompah music Tom hated. The more you drank, the better it sounded, but Tom never gave it a chance. At least he’d given her a chance, unlike everyone else.
The traveler claimed Sally for the first dance, and could he dance! So light on his feet! The hopping sidesteps, to the left, to the right, followed by a hop-turn.
When a simple waltz started, Kenny took her in his arms. He was much too tall for her, too full of compliments for her, and sad observations about Connie. Way back when, Sally had been invisible to guys like Kenny, which made his animal magnetism easy to ignore. Now he was aware of her. Much too aware. Her own husband didn’t gaze into her eyes with that kind of smile, nor engage her in conversations like this.
“My mother was right about you, Sally. If I had it all to do over again--”
“Well, you don’t.” She wrenched herself away from him.
Kenny followed her to a table and straddled a seat, facing her. “Everyone in this room will be starting over. We’re gonna build a whole new world.”
More meetings, more people lay ahead, but not enough time to win over everyone Sally would save. What if Tom wouldn’t listen?
“You married a good man.” Kenny sounded like a mind reader. “But not the right man for you. I see how your heart longs for something more. You keep yourself too busy to think about it, but--”
“Fuck you, Kenny.”
He grinned. “Ooh, I love it when you talk dirty. Come on, Sally. Admit it. You feel the spark between us.”
She sighed. “Kenny, don’t get me wrong. You’re hot, but hot-headed as well. You made a lot of bad choices. Bad Boys appeal to women because we’re hard-wired to reform them, but I deliberately chose a good man. No regrets.”
“Where is this good man? Working, after all you’ve been through? Come away with me, Sally. There’s nothing left for us in this town.”
He almost had her at Come away with me.
“I’m also a mother, Kenny.” She waved a hand. “Look around. A room full of Fräuleins! It isn’t too late for you to make a contribution to the gene pool. For Fraus like me, the clock has run out.” For Connie, too, but any thought of Kenny returning her sister’s heart was now history.
A count of eins, zwei, drei launched another “Ein Prosit!” Sally loved the German accents, so unlike the guttural cliches perpetuated by TV shows.
“To the One Percent!” the woman in Lady Hosen proposed.
Sally gasped, hand over her heart.
Tom.
Her husband had never looked better in his snug-fit Levis and, at last, the blue-and-white diamond suspenders she’d given him years ago. Slim and fit, the strong, silent type, the stoic and predictable man she’d--
Tongue stud.
Not so predictable after all. Credo Man had been busy.
Tom raised a stein. “To the end of the fiscal year!”
Sally rushed to his side, and Credo Man addressed his assembly.
“I can’t save everyone,” he said, “but I’ve hand-picked thousands who were casualties of war and injustice, wherever the bodies were unaccounted for. That is one tricky equation, let me tell you. We don’t dare mess with history, but the future has not yet been written.”
Another day, he’d explain the science, the kind Tom would understand, while Sally had aced biology but failed physics.
“Other Place,” said the mysterious German, “is what O.P. stands for. Not One Percent, the country’s top entrepreneurs. It’s your inventiveness, not your financial worth, that puts you on my list. We need pioneers.”
Sally smiled at Tom and squeezed his hand.
“I come to make the world a better place. In the future there are many places. I go to prepare one for you. Together, we’ll start over again in another time and place: the new New World.”
“Your fight is my fight.” Sally raised her stein. “Your credo is mine.”
“To the future!” Verna shouted. She glanced around as if looking for someone. Sally followed her gaze to Kenny, his arms locked in a toast with a tall, buxom blonde. Ah, Kenny!
“To life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” Kenny proposed.
“Now and ever after, no matter where or when we all end up,” Sally said.
She locked arms with her husband, completing this Brüderschaft with a lingering kiss on the lips.
About Carol Kean
Carol Kean grew up on an Iowa farm and became a world traveler without ever leaving the house, thanks to library books. She earned a degree in English and worked as a tech writer for a bomb factory, then for Collins Radio when GPS was in its infancy. She married an electrical engineer, raised three kids, read more books, and wrote a novel. Then the internet happened. Now she greets people from all over the globe every day via Twitter without ever leaving the house.
@tea_in_carolina
Carol.Kean
carolkean.wordpress.com
The Fighting Beagles and the Attack at Dawn
Nick Cole
“Ears,” murmured Sergeant Major Pepper, which was how the Sergeant Major pronounced “yes” in the Queen’s proper English when acknowledging Private Potts’ question on whether the Sergeant Major had fought at Schweinhaven. As in: “Ears, I was there.”
Amid the broken brick of what had once been picturesque Wienerfurt Marketplatz, a pyramid of melons remained the only display that had survived the market’s complete destruction. They could still be purchased three for a Casper, the basic unit of Nationalist funny money.
Sergeant Major Pepper stabbed at the topmost melon with his bayonet and removed it neatly from the stack before continuing on with his story of the attack on Schweinhaven by The Fighting Beagles, an elite commando unit the Sergeant Major had once been attached to for a brief period.
“We formed up near the river which ran south of the village,” began Sergeant Major Pepper as he recalled the battle for Schweinhaven. “We were acting in support of a “command-o” team called The Fighting Beagles.” Sergeant Major Pepper liked to denote Commando teams by accentuating the “o” as he felt it paid verbal homage to the snap and crispness those commando teams carried in their swagger.
“Swagger” was something Sergeant Major Pepper felt every soldier should have. And that there were indeed levels of such. At times, as though he were in the midst of a weekend foxhunt instead of a brutal firefight with the Nationalists, he would remind us, “We may be beaten lads, but we don’t have to look as though we are actually being beaten, do we boys... you there, crawl a bit more proudly.” I must admit I found it quite heartening, as it did wonders for one’s morale in the thick of overwhelming enemy machinegun fire to hear these constant reminders on conduct and bearing the Sergeant Major could be heard proclaiming over the din and chaos of battle.
“The command-o-s were designated as The Fighting Beagles,” continued the Sergeant Major as he sectioned the skewered melon neatly. Not a drop touched his freshly pressed trousers or his ever starched khaki hunting jacket.
“Clerical had stuck the name to them like marmalade on the Queen’s morning scone. Their leader, Major Duke Hazard, a fighting man if there ever was one, confided to me that he’d intended to call the unit the “Fighting Eagles” rather than “Fighting Beagles.” But typos and a certain PFC Wintergreen had conspired against him. Still, he assured me “Beagles” perhaps as much as “Eagles” were also to be greatly feared. If not altogether feared, at least one should be severely cautious of the feral beasts. Beagles can be quite vicious you know.
“Major Hazard had shown up to the battle rather late in a spitting, blast-marked tank that did little to inspire confidence to the lads as it rumbled and smoked tremulously in the field near the river. Thus, we were forced to start the attack well past dawn.
He accounted for his lateness by claiming to have been pur
suing a target of opportunity, code-named “Delilah” in a nearby village. Obviously my security clearance did not grant me access to any information regarding Nationalist operatives known as ‘Delilah’, but from the smirk on Major Hazard’s face, I could see the intel had been worth the chase. When I asked him this, specifically, he answered, “She... er, I mean, it was,” and then muttered something about the attack, and about needing to obtain “that hat.”
“I assured him my lads were ready for the scrap and scrum and so we commenced the belated attack on the village of Schweinhaven.” Sergeant Major Pepper paused to chew the melon lustily, making slurping noises as juice ran into his horseshoe mustache. He smiled briefly and carried on.
“Major Hazard assured me that the other two members of his elite team - a gunner named Corporal Eggers and a Sniper by the name of Private McZap, Irish I believe - were already in play. His plan was to attack with all haste so that we might “Get that Hat” as he kept calling our objective. Although I noticed he wore no hat, I assumed this was some sort of jocularity in reference to our attempting to wrest control of the Radar Base from the Nationalists, and had no idea that he literally meant to obtain haberdashery.
“In retrospect, it was rather sporting of us to allow our enemy a chance to get up on his feet. Those bloody Nationalists love to sing first thing in the morning. Wind up the old phonograph and make with Otto Von Matic’s wretched ‘Nationalist Uber Alles’ anthem, and then they’re spoiling for a fight.”
Now the Sergeant Major, finished with the melon and turned his attention to his pipe. He was quiet for some minutes as he worked, huffing, to get it lit in the cool morning air. The smoke competed with our discharged gunpowder and the burning timber of the recently liberated village of Wienerfurt.
“And a fight is what Duke Hazard and his team of undisciplined commandos gave them,” he suddenly continued. “As I was saying, we were going up against the Eins Unter Kugel, a crack team of elite nationalists led by Colonel Von Killington, a one-eyed cigar-smoking nationalist party member with a penchant for heavy machine guns and pirate hats.
“Well, the first few minutes were rough going; the lads and I got pinned down behind a haystack. A sniper, handy with a scope, had done the trick and managed to shoot one of my best lads, Corporal Willoughby, right between the eyes. Duke was supposed to lead us into the village proper, but he soon tore off in another direction across the southern fields, away from the axis of our advance, again screaming something about “getting that hat.” Another Delilah I suspected, no doubt, or at least so I thought at the time.
“I must confess this had me suspicious of our allies’ mustard from the start. But the lads and I were tasked with clearing the village, and so we sallied forth, our upper lips if not stiff, then mostly rigid.
Duke’s gunner, Private Eggers, or, the “Ham and Egger” as he preferred, arrived in due time to support our advance. Now there was a lion tamer of a man. Literally. He wore a red ringmaster’s jacket and a top hat; quite dashing, though wholly unacceptable for the battlefield. He asked after Duke, and then started off into the village alone, seemingly undaunted by the nationalist snipers. And his splendid shooting.
“The lads and I picked up our rifles and moved from cover to cover, dodging the sniper’s bullets. I kept calling out to the Ham and Egger to get down or seek cover, but he ignored me. Secretly I admired his gait and bearing as he strode into the village lanes, bravely shooting down the nationalists as they came at him in wave after wave.”
“In a small country lane near the outskirts of the village, the lads and I, backs against the wall of a farmhouse, watched the Ham and Egger as he took out a squad of Nationalist infantry whose armored field wagon car burst into flames under the glare of the Ham and Egger’s rattling automatic weapon. It careened off into a chicken coop and exploded amongst an especially surly lot of already rueful chickens.
“The Nationalists ran, both screaming and alight, from the wreckage. It wasn’t anything a bit of rolling around in the dirt wouldn’t solve, but still the message had been sent.
“Now The Nationalists would concentrate their roving forces in an attempt to stop our assault on the Radar Base. The Ham and Egger turned his attention to a recently arrived enemy tank lugging itself up the lane, one of the first to arrive in support. Behind it, Nationalist infantry clustered, crouching in groups, seeking to get a shot off with little exposure to their cowardly persons.
“Not even the Ham and Egger could stand up to such a rude beast as a tank alone. So, I ordered the lads to form up the Field Manual’s Queen’s Rifles defensive position around Major Hazard’s heroic gunner, as the Nationalists tried for match and game.” For a long moment, Sergeant Major Pepper seemed to consider the memory, unsure if it had happened to him, or to someone in a movie he’d once seen.
“And it worked, I tell you!” he said with a burst of enthusiasm. “By the Duke of Notwitty’s blushing chambermaid Helene, we pushed them back. It was as if the bravery of the Ham and Egger deflected the enemy’s attacks on our person and soon the square was ours as the Nationalist tank exploded like a Saint Tubbin’s Day firecracker.
“But where was Duke and his belching tank? If we were ever going to capture the Nationalist Radar Base at the edge of town and put paid to Colonel Von Killington, we’d need that smoking brute to support our assault on a fixed position.
“The Nationalists seemed to have scented a good fight and were throwing everything they had at the lads. There wasn’t one of those boys, if they were alive today mind you, who wouldn’t be grateful for the Ham and Egger and his actions that day as we closed the noose on Colonel Von Killington’s Eins Unter Kugel.
“Ah, the Ham and Egger, there’s a soldier for you lads. Not much for military discipline or tactics, he often opted to face the enemy in the open without the slightest concern for personal safety, as he chose not to duck or move in the slightest. Unless the enemy refused to properly present themselves for machine-gunning; in that case he would trudge forward, find their lair, and continue shooting them. The man was a walking fortress of endless artillery. To see him striding the lanes, mowing down the Nationalists like the weeds of Crumbworthy Gardens was an inspiring sight.
“The Nationalists fought like cornered tigers, trying to prevent us from taking the fight to the very barricades of the last redoubt: The Radar Base.
“Now came their air support. Wicked, gray, low-winged Nationalist fighters began to shoot up the last road leading to their gate. Danger was close, and there for a few moments, as we all sought cover amidst the sirens and bleating Nationalist call to arms, it seemed as though our advance had halted. Thankfully, the nationalist snipers had stopped shooting at us and I wondered about the unseen Private McZap and his efforts to date.
“On the water tower used by the Nationalists as an observation post within the Radar Base, I could see Colonel Von Killington directing the attack, his long black trenchcoat flapping in the wind. In my mind, amid the flying bullets and grit of exploding masonry, I fancied smelling his cigar which wisped gray in the clear air of the day. Even now I can tell it was an El Fumo Grande. Rather expensive indeed. Even then.
“For a moment the battle seemed to turn as two of our lads, flyboys, jumped The Nationalist Fighters from above. Even though our two pilots were outnumbered, they knew this was the big one, the one command had been pushing for: knocking out The Radar Base at Schweinhaven. We would fight them in the streets and in the air, and the time for every good man to defeat evil was now. But within moments the Nationalists had picked off the wingman and began concentrating their efforts on the lead pilot. It was three to one in the skies above us.
“At one point our boy had his plane right down the middle of Schweinhaven’s main street, a wingtip almost taking off Sergeant Bottleby’s helmet and head to boot. But sooner than later there were two Nationalist planes down and the remaining two pilots circled out across the fields, each seeking the advantage over the other.
“In the mea
ntime we recommenced the attack. With such swagger I tell you that you must simply have to been there and seen it to understand. But even the Ham and Egger couldn’t get through the gate. Colonel Von Killington’s machine gun and crack troops were too much for us to push through.
“The lads began to fall, and soon even the Ham and Egger was down. Where was Major Hazard, I wondered, as the sound of bullets whipping through the air was like the thousand penny whistles shrieking during the launch of the Queen Vicky. Ears, better times indeed.
“Now The Nationalists swarmed out of the Gate and what had once been an attack was certainly looking like a defeat, of this I was now certain. My rifle empty, I drew my sidearm and prepared to defend my wounded and dying lads, as the nationalists, who were not known for their polite post-battle tea service, advanced upon us with grim determination.
“Colonel Von Killington, whom I had only seen in intelligence photographs, led his personal guard, Die Spätzlehunden, out the main gate. But suddenly came the echo of two reports from a large caliber rifle, and both bodyguards were down in a trice.
I looked to my rear and there was the third member of Duke Hazard’s Fighting Beagles: Private McZap, the Irish sniper. As he raced forward reloading his immense sniper rifle, I thought it odd a sniper would choose to wear a green Homburg and bomber jacket, but with shooting like that I ceased objection. The two of us took opposite sides of a cart I had been using as a firing position and prepared to meet Colonel Von Killington with both lead and resolve.
“Von Killington’s machine gun opened up and reduced the cart and our hope of cover to splinters. We rolled to the right and dashed behind a creamery which also quickly began to disintegrate as wall plaster splintered and came to pieces at the invitation of Von Killington’s - and I use the term respectfully - weapon. While Von Killington reloaded, Private McZap tried for a hip shot. But as we all know, snipers trying for hip shots are like the Prince’s polo skills: valiant but ineffective for the most part.
Freedom's Light: Short Stories Page 20