Their Bit
by
Corbert Windage
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 © Corbert Windage
cover photo © Geraktv | Dreamstime.com
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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***
Their Bit
by
Corbert Windage
"Mates, a special treat before you reach your staging areas none other than the Showster with the Moster; Mister Benny LaBean has flown in to see you off."
A splattering of applause greeted the colonel's announcement. The troops, mainly Australians and New Zealanders with a company of British regulars thrown in for good measure, had expected Vera Lynn. Something nice and feminine to look at before descending into the green hell that was Burma.
Fighting the Japs was bad enough; but in the jungle, enemies that at first appeared innocuous enough soon declared war on friend and foe alike. Branches and leaves and razor-sharp kunai grasses acting as artillery, began the assault. Nicks and scrapes that on a western battlefield could normally be ignored here opened the way for all sorts of nasty infections. These openings acted as a dinner bell for the ever-present insect air force of flies, gnats and chiggers. Mosquitoes of course, needed no such breach in human flesh to begin their mission, just shade. Shade and night were their operating parameters. The latter, depending of course on the time of year, was furnished them up to fifteen hours a day, with a four-fifths jungle canopy providing the former. The diseases waited patiently. Malaria, dengue fever, dysentery, just to name a few, were the by-products of Nature's assault, particularly during Monsoon season. Vipers, crocs, as well as the occasional tiger, were the troops main concern, but veterans considered these one-shot terror weapons at best. Like the Japanese, who certainly weren't immune to the same ravages, this enviroment seemed to know instinctively that killing one intruder quickly was far less efficient than debilitating the whole.
"Bleeding Benny LaBean!" one soldier exclaimed, "My grandmother had her knickers in a twist over that old fossil, and she's been dead well-nigh fifteen years."
The colonel heard that and several similar comments from the assembled battalion. He too was a Vera Lynn fan; and she was scheduled. Unfortunately for these lads, her arrival was delayed in the morass created by a late monsoon. Ten miles back might as well be Trafalgar Square for this lot. H-hour, the time they were to push off, was in less than ninety minutes.
"Pity - for them," he thought, "less competition for me."
He had known of Miss Lynn's visit for better than a month. That knowledge caused him considerable discomfort as he was reduced to rationing his hard to come by mustache wax. Now, his facial adornment stood gloriously statue stiff, curling at the ends. Dashing, if he did say so himself. But these celebrities were a fickle type, tending way toward, in the colonel's opinion, an overt fixation of fraternization with the common soldier while ignoring the superior breeding and culture of the officer corps. Most of these, like Benny LaBean, could be dismissed as like gravitating to like. Miss Lynn's origins were no less humble. However, her singing fame, combined with her stunning good looks, was certainly worthy of the attention of her social betters. Besides, winning the heart of Miss. Lynn, her incumbent popularity with him on her arm was certain to draw notice on the societal pages. That, in and of itself, could secure several different types of advancement, to brigadier for example.
"Now, now, lads." the colonel spoke quickly, "none of that. Mister LaBean just got here ahead of the weather. Regrettable Miss Lynn did not. Due to his – age he's not going to perform."
This was greeted with a mixed chorus with "Thank God" being clearly in the majority.
"Instead," he waited till the murmuring died down. "Instead, he's waiting at a tent about a half a mile up the trail, waiting to give you a send off with a hearty wave and the occasional handshake. Be good lads now, and remember your manners. And let's knock the Nips for six. Goodbye and God bless. General Mortenson."
Turning the stage over to the senior operations commander, the colonel hurried back to his jeep. There his driver waited, crouched in the back seat next to the radio, a headphone pressed to one ear.
"Bloody bastard better be following his orders," the colonel thought. "Nothing like a little threat of front-line duty to keep an orderly on his toes."
"Well Cogswell, report!"
Corporal Cogswell started. He tried to jump out of the jeep and stand to attention. Instead, his foot caught on the passenger seat sending him sprawling. Embarrassed, he scrambled to his feet, bringing his right arm up in an openhanded salute. "Idiot," the colonel thought.
"Beg to report sir," the corporal said, staring straight ahead.
"Get on with it corporal. Oh bloody hell." The colonel raised his swagger stick in a quick motion, like he was swatting a fly. This idiot would stand there saluting until the second coming unless the colonel returned the courtesy. Visibly relieved Cogswell dropped his hand.
"Sir, the –er- package left operations 'eadquarters approximately thirty minutes ago. But, - er – her – that is the package's transport is mired down and not expected to arrive for another 'our or so sir."
"Another hour," the colonel thought. "And how old is this intelligence, corporal?"
"About twenty minutes or so, sir."
"Forty minutes," the colonel calculated to himself. Then aloud, "Okay corporal, let's get a move on then. It's impolite to keep a lady waiting, you know."
"Right you are sir."
"Troops will be here any moment now Mr. LaBean," the young lieutenant said. "You sure you won't have a sit down sir? There'll be more than 2,000 all told coming past."
"Thank you lieutenant, but I've been sitting quite long enough."
Benjamin Mortimer LaBean stood stock- still. Head turned left, his eyes strained to focus on the small hillock where the troops' campaign hats came bobbing into view. "Stout lads," he thought. "The best the empire had to offer. No! Not the best. Those were fighting in Europe." Or so the papers would lead one to believe. For the life of him he couldn't, wouldn't believe that. As the first troops topped the rise, they seemed as fine a specimen of manhood as any he had seen. Considering whom they were going to fight and where that fighting was to take place these men, at least those who survived, could look back with pride. They may be second, or even third stringers when it came to being adequately supplied, or raved about in the papers; but now as the first men drew close, the raw determination in their eyes was second to none.
High command in Australia had repeatedly turned down his request to entertain the troops at the front. "Benny you're just too old," one general had told him. His persistence finally resulted in the concession to entertain the men at the embarkation points. Placed in with the more contemporary acts the results had been mixed. If he started the show the troops soon grew restless. They wanted to see the girls, or at least a fanciful facsimile of what they were leaving behind. An old man and a ukulele might as well been an organ grinder with a trained monkey. His songs simply weren't their songs. By the time of the third troop movement he was the closing act; and no matter how hard he tried, more and more their eyes glanced toward the transport ships that they would within minutes board. Their non-commissioned officers already began to stir and hover about them, impatiently waiting for Benny to finish so they could begin bawling orders, begin rounding up their charges.
Benny cut his performances short, sparing a few minutes to talk to the lads about the nation's gratitude. Then all the acts joined him on stage for a final salute, and it was over.
Surprisingly, he did start to receive a somewhat regular flow of fan mail again. Troops who were homesick, some who were impressed by his parting sentiments, would write asking for an autograph picture. Some actually wanted some of his songs that had made it to vinyl; and, after awhile, his old recording studio agreed to re-release some of this music gratis, their bit for the war effort. This Benny sent along with a cheery note of thanks and always, God's blessing.
Some kept up a regular correspondence. A part of Benny liked to think that the military censors stayed their dreaded black pens in deference to his celebrity. But all too soon he realized that where these young men were simply lacked any strategic geographic locations such as towns or cities to talk about.
The newspapers told much of the story anyway. And more.
Sometimes the letters abruptly ceased. Benny began scanning newspaper casualty lists. More times than not, there was the answer. Cold, impersonal, the print stated the facts of war, name, service number, KIA: Killed in action. Some, the lucky ones Benny thought, were wounded. Initially, he made an effort to visit when the hospital ships brought them home. Seeing the horrors that war could inflict for the first time left him horrified and heartbroken. He stopped visiting.
He also stopped reading the papers.
"Blimey," Corporal Cogswell thought, "does this pitiful excuse for a man, much less an officer, really think he has a chance with the likes of Vera bleeding Lynn?"
"Mind the shoulder, corporal," the colonel said.
"Traction's a little tricky, sir." Try nonexistent, you old walrus, he thought. Although the jeep's nose was pointing straight down the road, the corporal had to struggle to keep the wheels alternately caromed at a forty-five degree angle left and right to maintain some semblance of normalcy; doing this while constantly shifting in order to maintain speed would have been tricky for someone blessed with four hands. Cogswell had to contend with the standard two, and was gradually losing the fight. Waves of mud rose, constantly threatening to swamp the jeep's occupants.
"There, there, just topping Winfield Ridge. There she comes," the colonel almost shouted.
"Thank God," the corporal thought. "Just a few more yards and we'll begin climbing ol' Winnie. Road should smooth –
After a while, Benny shamed himself for a coward. Oh he still kept up his correspondence; and when a soldier returned home and dropped by his modest cottage, he was always gracious and set out tea and biscuits. Sometimes the soldiers chatted about Benny and his career, such as it was. Rarely did they steer the conversation to the war. When they did, he listened intently. Sometimes during these narrations, when some particular horror became too much, they broke down. Benny was quick with a grandfatherly pat, assuring the soldier that he was home now, and there was no need to continue.
1944 rolled in, and the war rolled on. While it was clear that the Japanese were on the run it was equally obvious that tough fighting lay ahead. In Burma, Japanese hopes were still buoyed by the possibility that an offensive toward India could result in the Indians overthrowing their British colonial masters. To this end, the Japanese set their sights on an attack toward the border towns of Imphal and Kohima. The fighting had been straightforward and bloody. Now the Allies prepared to counterattack and push the Japanese back through Burma.
This "forgotten army" contained many of the same soldiers, now veterans that Benny had seen off two years earlier.
Benny, now eighty, pulled every string, called in every last favor, to be there to see the lads off. Not at some debarkation port, but there, at the front. At first, just as two years prior, he was told that it was out of the question. Benny made the argument that he fully understood the risks involved, and who else in the entertainment industry, he asked, even wanted to go? He cornered every member of the Australian parliament he could find to make his case. He showed them the stacks of correspondence from the past two years along with press clippings from his hospital visits. One member of the parliament, who had been a lifelong fan, finally ascertained to his satisfaction that Benny was of sound mind, his request genuine. He gave the go-ahead and made the arrangements.
On a cargo plane loaded with canned fruits and vegetables, Benny LaBean flew the circuitous route to northern India.
An angel's hand stroked his face and sang. He couldn't see her, but she sang quite beautifully. Corporal Cogswell felt his body dip and rise. "Odd," he muttered. "What was that soldier? What – oh for heaven's sake what is his name?" "Cogswell ma'am. Corporal Cogswell," said a disembodied distinctly British voice. Oh well, so much for heaven.
Cogswell opened his eyes. Vera Lynn might not truly be an angel, but she was the closest he'd seen in a long time. Seeing him awake, she smiled and leaned over him. He could smell the fragrance of jasmine in her hair. "Corporal Cogswell, can you hear me Corporal?" He struggled to say something, but his tongue felt unnatural, swollen. Miss Lynn's first aid training came to the fore. The water from the canteen was tepid, but to Cogswell it tasted colder than any pint he had ever quaffed. God! She is beautiful. Little wonder the colonel-The colonel!
"The colonel?" he asked, surprised how strong his voice was. He turned his head quickly realizing he was on a stretcher on the back of a jeep.
"Shhh, quiet now corporal. You've been wounded in an explosion. Apparently some Japanese infiltrators mined the road. You're safe now," Miss Lynn said.
Cogswell closed his eyes beginning an inventory of limbs. Vera Lynn had seen this reaction before. "You're all there Corporal. Trust me. Just a mild concussion along with nicks and scrapes." She spoke so sincerely he did believe her. Nevertheless, he continued satisfying himself, sending and receiving acknowledgements from toes to fingers. Again he opened his eyes, his question lingering.
She matched his stare. "I'm sorry Corporal. The explosion was on his side. It threw you out, but he – he didn't make it." She let this sink in before going on. His wallet was destroyed in the blast. The only thing we could salvage was this." She laid a circular tin on his chest. "We're heading back to the rear until the road is swept. A few days comfortable bed rest and you'll be good as new. I'll come around to see you, if you don't mind?"
He was smiling, had been since she mentioned the part concerning the colonel. "Mind," he said absently. "No, I don't mind at all. Here Miss Lynn," he said returning the tin of moustache wax. "Here, I know he would've wanted you to have this."
On down the trail they came. Some passed him by with barely a notice. Some offered a smile and a brief hello. More than a few lingered. Among them many pen-pal veterans, and among these small handfuls, men that he had either seen in hospital recovered and back once again as front-line soldiers and two that had taken tea at his home.
"We've form a kind of club among ourselves," a gaped-tooth soldier informed him. "We call ourselves LaBean's Boys. Even had us some membership cards made up, last time we got down to Calcutta. There's about fifty or so members in good standing, meaning they're still standing, if you know what I mean," he said with a wink. "So we're what you'd call an exclusive club. Not even the hoity-toity who ran the show before the war, and'll probably end up running things when it's all over can get in. Less of course, they been through the fires, met you, either by letter or in person. Those that's had that honor are gold club members." He fished his card out of his wallet, and held it up for Benny's inspection. "We appreciate all you've done to keep our spirits up old boy."
The lieutenant at Benny's side motioned with a slight nod for the soldier to move on. "Not until the Showster with the Moster gives us one of his funny ditties. Come on Benny. I see you've brought your uke. Give your boys a tune to send us off."
Benny smiled, trying to contain the tears that threatened to spill over. "Sure boys," he managed to say, "I brought Maureen just in case. I'm sure she still has a song or two in her. We'll be proud to play for you."
Benny LaBean played. The soldiers trooped by. Some held out membership cards nodding with pride that they were LaBean Boys. Benny played and sang, one song, then another and another, until the last soldier disappeared from view.
Copyright 2011 © Corbert Windage
Now, enjoy a sample of Harold Fleenor's new novel from Accio Books
"The Valor Road"
The Valor Road
by
Harold Fleenor
Copyright 2011 © Harold Fleenor
The Harrison Traditional School no longer exists.
The building is still there; but its original purpose – to educate, like the innocence of its former students – is gone forever. In its place stands a testament, not just of brick and mortar, but also of beliefs, both forming a crucible that withstood a tempest of fire and blood. Perhaps it is because of that knowledge, a certain dignity emanates from those scarred gray stones that scores the subconscious.
The nearest town –Schonefield, lies barely five miles below the Canadian border. The town still retains the flavor of its original founders, which some current residents privately refer to as "survivor modest." Humbled by the surrounding majesty of God's handiwork, no building in downtown proper stands taller than two stories. Each one reflects the utilitarian nature of its builders. Squared with modest facings, some whitewashed; proprietary shingles embedded deep in the masonry, a necessary concession to the occasional gusts that blow in from the Rockies like a punishing wraith. Main Street, actually dual one-way streets separated by a wide city park medium, allows both residence and tourist an opportunity to retain the expansive atmosphere while still permitting local business a clear shot to catch the eye, and hopefully the dollars, of the temporary visitor. The park, though aesthetically pleasing, nevertheless gives the first time visitor a strange sense of spatial dislocation. It's as though the sure encompassing vastness of the state was, by design, scaled to the miniature of an Edenesque creation. The town overall appears almost as a bad afterthought, weak and scattered, an abandoned Babel. The penalty assessed for such folly, as if divined by heavenly fiat, that what was once small and compact, now stand condemned, not only to separation, but also to suffer an eternity of illusionary drifting apart. Even the addition of what the locals refer to as 'the burbs' appear no more substantial than planets orbiting a dead star.
Geography has been kind to the area. Both the eastern Ksawra Mountains and the Canadian Rockies drain their potentially devastating winter melt into two rivers. The Tabak River, which flows through Schonefield, and the mighty Koocanusa River, which drains the Rockies contribution down its length. These rivers permit Schonefield's bowl shaped depression to remain relatively dry, allowing time and nature to meander along.
South of the town begins the climb out of the valley via the high hills of the Betten range. The West Road undulates and doglegs through scenic landscapes of until finally reaching Prairie Point a few miles west of Highway 93. Here the junction with Highway 27, which begins snaking back down to the south, presents a breathing panorama. On the way, Highway Ten, a branch off 27, leads into the heart of the Betten hills. Several miles of conifers, oaks and maples, suddenly give way on the southeast side, to a horseshoe shaped twenty acre clearing where sitting back off the road stands what once was the Harrison Traditional School.
The school, named for President William Henry Harrison, began, as most private schools, as a dream of its founder, George Morgan. Barely a dozen senior classes would pass through before it would graduate from private school to a pantheon for all Americans. Today, the Federal Government is anxious to obtain the land; "to preserve and present it in the proper light" is the term most used. Those who own the property have so far successfully declined the government's offer. "Time and changing administrations," claimed one of the investors "has a tendency to place filters over the proper light, and end up placing fast-food restaurants next to icons. That, God willing, will never happen here."
Turning in one drives slowly, almost reverently, to the parking lot nearly an eighth of a mile away. Passing by the eighteen willow trees, standing nine to a side like an honor guard, most succumb to the temptation to read in hushed voices the bronze plaques embedded atop three-foot concrete pedestals commemorating those who fell defending the building - eleven teachers, three administrative and three food services staff, and Schonefield P.D. Patrolman Lawrence T. Harper.
Entertainment systems off, voices muted; children are admonished to be both quiet and on their best behavior. For most, this is an unnecessary warning. They, like the adults, are familiar with what happened here. The story of Harrison is only three years old. Its scab of inoculation only now has begun to fall away revealing an indelible psychic scar. Those old enough to remember the horror of 911 receive an unwanted booster.
Adults bring different agendas. Most want affirmation, to see where their own values were made manifest. They bring their children for that same purpose. With others, the tragic consequences of those same values reinvigorate the desire for social change; envisioning the day when the twain sins of patriotism and firearms will separate not only never again to meet, but hopefully be destroyed, each in its turn.
With the young, as it usually is, things are much simpler. They stare with awe usually reserved for an anticipatory visit to the amusement park or, for the older teens, seeing their favorite rock star. The battered building, reconstructed with its six bastions, seems to speak to everyone equally. Nearly all visitors, young and old, male and female, ask themselves the same questions:
What would I have done? That they ask in their heads.
Could I have done what they did?
That question they ask with their hearts.
History records what has come to be known as 'The Schonefield Incident' as lasting from 4:49 am on Monday, 9 May 2022, and lasting until the last pocket of organized enemy resistance succumbed at 5:05 am Wednesday, 12 May 2022. The attack, all 48 hours 16 minutes of it, marked 207 years since the last foreign invader left American soil. At that time the entities of Schonefield and the state of Montana lay decades in the future.
Her nametag says Lauren Hartman-Ortiz, but the ID is really unnecessary. Her face, framed by auburn hair, should have, segued her from pretty teenager to beautiful woman. But there is a hard edge to her features, particularly around her eyes, that at first glance compels some to stare to the point of rudeness. Last year, a writer from her college newspaper after interviewing her noted that:
"Her eyes convey a depth one would expect of someone much older, much wiser. At mention of the Schonefield Incident… their expression - a combination of what war veterans who have seen continuous combat call the "thousand yard stare", that and immense sadness. Placed on such otherwise youthful features they both draw in, while warning their subject. With no intended insult to an outstanding lady of grace and politeness, her eyes truly personify the dichotomous relationship of attraction/repulsion that writers of vampire fiction have long sought to clarify."
In the future, once time and oxidants exercise their inevitable sway, Lauren will be able to once again walk in relative obscurity, a mild curiosity to some, but still a living legend to others whose interest in history is more than just passing. For now, she takes little pride in the recognition by these visitors to her former alma mater. She knows some, especially teens and young adults, considered her some kind of hero. This thought alone invokes a shudder of dread. She patiently explains that the survivors are just that, nothing more, nothing less. Her reply will never vary for the 82 years she lives. Once again something veterans recognize at once: "The heroes are those that died so the rest of us might live." Never a prideful person, her religious upbringing and her parent's values stick fast with her. But she is not what one would call a fanatic in anything; she simply is the archetype girl next door.
Since May 9th 2022 only two things about her unsought celebrity disturb Lauren: One is the look, and it was almost always from women, particularly older women, who seek her out. Mainly they grip her hand or arm like she was a holy relic imbued with healing power. Sometimes they claimed that God has a word for her. These received Lauren's patent smile and thanks once the message is delivered. Others, especially those with tears streaming, embrace her and in a chocked voice say, "Bless you." Lauren expected this from the parents of the children she had helped shepherded to safety. But such raw emotion from total strangers moves even her strong personality.
The second, and indeed the most visceral reaction, occurs when someone tries to use her High School nickname. She uses her disarming smile and patience to remind them that her name is Lauren. Usually she never has to say anything else. There were so very few things from that year that belonged to her. This went even deeper.
This was something, one of the few things of Braden that was left her.
Her nickname was given, and like most things received during High School, as a bit of a joke tinged with love and truth. The love came from fellow senior Braden O'Day. The truth? Well the truth came from her younger brother Sheldon. (God had she actually called him a brat? Yes, no denying that, but he was a brat at times. But there was also no denying how many times over the past three years she had forced herself to remember, despite the painful tears, those virtuous qualities beginning to manifest in him that she was certain would define him in manhood. Manhood he never, in chronological terms, came closer to than being a high school freshman. Manhood he would attain, like few others who lived far longer, on a wooded hillock during a fading spring afternoon in May.)
Braden liked her, and truth be told (always), she liked him. Braden and Sheldon got along despite the age difference. Finally, Braden decided that if he was ever going to break the ice he'd better try and find out some of Lauren's favorite things.
"Candy," was Sheldon's immediate answer to Braden's questions. "You want to get on Lauren's great side then the key is chocolate. Tons and tons of the coco beans, my friend. The greatest export from Switzerland since the watch. And not the cheap stuff that inhabits the shelves of your run-of-the-mill checkout line, no-sir-ree-bob-a-dee-bob. My sister has what is known as an acquired taste. You know what I mean? You do? Good! Now don't be discouraged; all is not lost, my friend. I happened to have overheard her talking to one of her girlfriends – not snooping mind you – but well, you know she leaves her door open and I came moseying by just as she was saying how much she loved, loved is the very word she used, Lady Godley's creamy caramels. Yeah I know twenty nine fifty for a box of fifteen. Sure, it's highway robbery, but what can you say?"
Later Lauren and Braden would find time to laugh till the tears flowed. But that first date was a disaster. Although he had access to his not-to-inconsiderable trust fund Braden wanted to earn the money himself and to that end had worked every odd job he could find. This resulted in him being worn to a frazzle by the night of the date. He could barely stay awake through dinner even though Lauren looked dazzling. She could tell that he was tired because his eyes were constantly glazing over and refocusing. He finally admitted, rather sheepishly, just how tired he was as well as the reason for it. But he assured Lauren that with a couple cups of coffee he would once again be back in the proverbial pink. The coffee helped, he later told her, but he did regret no longer seeing two Laurens in front of him.
It was right before the movie that he sprung his surprise.
Lauren unwrapped the box of caramels and indeed, was surprised. Braden's infectious smile, along with the cost of the caramels and the effort she suspected he went through to make this night a special one, all that lead up to this one moment. Lauren smiled and ate one caramel and fussed over both how good it tasted and that Braden shouldn't have spent so much just on a box of candy. She tried to beg off eating a second but Braden insisted. As they walked into the movie theater she casually asked how he got the idea she liked caramels. "Your brother told me," Braden admitted. "He really cares about you, you know." "Yeah, I know," she smiled, and excused herself to the ladies room shortly after they took their seats. Entering a stall she called her brother's videophone. Sheldon answered with a cat that ate the canary grin. "When I get home I am going to kill you," was all she said in a deliberate, measured voice as she broke the connection.
The movie was a good one. Pity neither of them saw much of it.
Braden smiled at Lauren, slid his arm around her shoulder and settled in for what all their friends had told them was the movie of the year. Fifteen minutes later, during the first car chase, Braden's double vision was back. He blinked once and his vision returned to normal. He blinked again and promptly fell asleep.
Lauren's problem's started around the time of the second car chase.
She had had one prayer already answered. Braden had fallen asleep and under normal circumstances she would've gently woke him up. Now she hoped that the movie would go on forever. Or at least until the worst of the hives, which were already tearing, and would soon close her eyes abated. She quietly snuck a couple of tissues from her purse and these were soon reduced to sopping rags. By the end of the movie, and with the house lights coming up, Braden started and realized that he had slept through nearly the entire show. His arm was still around Lauren who was turned away from him and…Oh no she was crying. Assuming his falling asleep as being the cause for her distress, he started to profusely apologize. But Lauren just waved him off assuring him that it was she who was sorry. Lauren turned and Braden got a second shock. First he noticed her eyes were nearly swollen shut. The tears streaming down her face were new genuine tears of embarrassment. Angry red welts mottled her skin giving her the overall appearance of a having come out on the losing end of a fight with a colony of fire ants.
"I'm allergic to chocolate!" she blurted out.
"But your brother…"
"Is dead the moment I get home!" Lauren interrupted, burying her head on his shoulder.
Now Braden began with fresh apologies. Lauren shushed him and asked him to guide her out through the side exit. She kept her head buried on the side of his chest and felt his arm around her. Throughout all her misery somewhere in the back of her mind a little voice said that this wasn't bad.
Not bad at all.
Actually the fresh air combined with the nearly two lost movie hours helped put Lauren on the downside of her allergic reaction. By the time they got to Braden's car she could see fairly well. It was on their way home with the window down that she asked him to turn on the radio. Blaring through the speakers were the electronic riffs of The Cars and the words "Candy O." It was one of those little defining moments in ones life when the stars seem to line up just perfect. They immediately looked at each other and both burst out laughing. Candy Ortiz, Candy O. It was too perfect to shrug off as mere coincidence.
Eight months later, with word of the unusual circumstances of their date having made the rounds, capped off by the how she acquired her new pet name, Lauren was Candy O. She and Braden dated for the rest of the school year (for the rest of his life, Lauren had to constantly struggle not to remind herself) and were the unanimous choice for prom King and Queen.
Lauren did not kill her brother, but was contented to threaten him by alluding that she would allow Braden that pleasure. But the truth was she did love chocolate. It just didn't like her. Before that fateful day of 9 May Braden and Sheldon had made their peace and were once again fast friends. Sheldon, in a rare turn-around had even come to her room one afternoon and apologized. They actually talked for more than an hour. Talked! Not yelled, not talked at, but to each other. In the end, they both realized that their sibling war was over. What would have grown between brother and sister, as with what, if any future she and Braden might have had, Lauren would never know.
What she did know was that since May 9th she would never again allow anyone to call her Candy O.
The infiltration was accomplished in a matter of weeks. The open border between Canada and the U.S. made this procedure relativity simple. Years of cached arms are unearthed, oiled and made ready. Civilian clothes are exchanged for military fatigues, and weapons distributed. Curt orders issued as each man finds his unit. Speeches are unnecessary. Those took place up to two years earlier in the depths of the Motherland. Even the comradely renewal of friendships takes place with little more than a motion of acknowledgement. A nod, the silent handshake, a wink is all that most permit themselves. All seven thousand men realize that the borrowed time they have lived on since arriving in North America is running out. Their uniforms and weapons show clear relation to their country of origin.
None know, as they board the thirty-two trailers that will take them the twenty- eight miles to and across the border, that the promised massive nuclear attack by their Motherland will not be forth coming. There was never any serious intention to do so. Instead, they have been betrayed to the American military as renegades. To their masters they are. An uncontrollable right wing faction whose excessive patriotism could not be reconciled by either appeals to honor or direct orders. The old political order had done its job all too well. Inculcating young men and women with the righteousness of a bankrupt philosophy forced the newer, more enlightened order to walk a tight rope between the internal appeasement of a rabid nationalistic military, and the promised economic reforms demanded by the general population.
But the exact betrayal by their revered motherland only occurred within the past twenty minutes and the group's exact objective was not disclosed. Old feelings die-hard. Even the most liberal of the reformers still grew up under the old system. No matter how much the new order complies with the people's desire for a consumer economy, no matter how deep the secret greed of their imagined coffers they eagerly await to plumb, the new masters still realize that their revised international status places them firmly in the back seat of an economic transport driven by the United States. While the new order certainly wishes no direct confrontation with U.S. authorities, the now classified renegades are still 'their boys.' Warning the Americans leadership of the impeding attack was surely enough to avert most suspicion they might entertain. Feigning ignorance of its exact location would be the very least they could do for their brave men whose only crime of obstinacy to the new political reality would cost them their lives. Plus, let it serve as a warning to the 'winner' that their former foe still is worthy to sit at the international grown ups table, maybe not as equal as before, but still not to be ignored as a second rate trifle either.
Their own intelligence analysts had estimated (correctly) the time it would take and the locations the U.S. satellite intelligence assets would monitor for the incursion. Starting at both coasts would afford the "Group Ecuador," the time needed to cross the border at Montana and raise what hell they could before they were slaughtered. The prima facie embarrassment was, considering the degree of courting the West had lately invested in the Motherland, an acceptable trade off.
Lauren was already drawing the bulk of the crowd toward her electric motor tour bus. Lloyd Foster's bus, parked more toward the entrance now begun to attract the overflow. Lloyd's sturdy 6'2 frame is as much a beacon to the crowd as Lauren's comely smile. Friendly, there is nonetheless a distance about him that deflects many, especially young girls with flirting on their mind, like rank body odor. Lloyd's charges are therefore mostly male. Men and their sons who wish to see what they consider a real hero. Some are younger men who come to mentally compare their mettle to the man in front of them. These try jealously to divine what qualities make a hero and in some measure, inculcate their discoveries into their own make up. Most walk away disappointed.
Lloyd and Lauren represented two of the three surviving seniors from the HTS class of '22. The third, Rhoda Delcum, formerly a patient on the 5th floor of the Dorsey Health Center in Helena some 500 miles away, had died earlier that year. They had become engaged Christmas of '21, with Lloyd presenting her a half-karat solitaire. He argued with her parents, insisting Rhoda be allowed to keep it until Mr. Delcum took him aside. He explained to Lloyd that Rhoda's physician thought it best to return her jewelry until the crisis passed. Lloyd responded that she would think he'd abandon her. The argument was settled when her dad, voice breaking, said that he thought well of Lloyd and had looked forward to having him in the family. But as far as what Rhoda thought, "Look son, she loved you when she was with us, but now! Now it's doubtful whether Rhoda will ever be with us again."
There had been other visits to her parents. But it soon became apparent to Lloyd that with the Federal Government stepping in with the offer of supplying the best medical care possible as well as footing the bill, the Delcums wished to move quickly to the status of being the grieving parents of a martyred hero.
The attention, especially for Andrea Delcum now that acceptance was replacing shock, was alluring. She was quite aware that the local notice she received was tainted. Herbert Delcum's womanizing, already the stuff of legend, had guaranteed the local wags a comfortable supply of gossip from which they had fed on for years. The mixture of genuine sympathy for Rhoda with the pity cum laughter she imagined in their eyes equaled a potion that Andrea could not bear to drink. Even her own attempts at playing Herb's game were ham-handed failures, forcing her to conclude that she wasn't much of a flirt nor possessed (as Herb's dalliances constantly reminded her) much natural proclivity toward sex.
Her daughter at that time was, according to the doctors, gone probably never to return. Even now Andrea could not suppress that twinge of jealousy that had grown steadily since Rhoda's junior year. Even if local college were to be Rhoda's lot, she would at least be free. Young and free to explore and experience life just like Andrea had before she had made what was amounting to the greatest mistake of her life – meeting and marrying Herb. Even her engagement to that Foster boy evoked envy in her so great that at times it took all her strength not to scream.
In such a contaminated environment, what Andrea wanted most was revenge: a divorce that separated Herb from half of his worldly goods. Well, now that was quick and doable, as one of her erstwhile lovers, a divorce lawyer, had assured her. But for the locals she had to do something big. Something so large that, once she divested herself of Herb the Philander, she could show them her backside and they would know that it was meant for all of them, real personal like. What had happened at Schonefield and Rhoda's subsequent fate gave her a gift straight from a Greek tragedy - the national spotlight!
In Andrea Delcum's heart of hearts she wanted to care less what some hick from Podunk, Idaho watching the Morris Melton Show thought of her, good or bad. The fact was that Herb had absolutely refused to allow her to accept any of the repeated invitations to appear on the show. "My God Andrea, are you totally insane?" he had shouted after first making sure that they were out of earshot of their sympathetic neighbors. Sympathy, which, in Herb Delcum's mind, was becoming a real nuisance since it forced him to rapidly dismantle several regional affairs he had been enjoying for years. "You actually want to sit next to some woman claiming to be the illegitimate offspring of Ben Affleck, and who now is carrying his grandbaby fathered by Bigfoot?"
Her acquiescence was tempered with the secret knowledge that very soon, his input in her life would consist of one thing only: money. A call to the divorce lawyer, who she had first met some months before Schonefield would become a household name throughout the country, in an out of the way roadside bar some thirty miles away, was very friendly. Naturally, she knew his motivations had nothing to do with any displayed abilities on her part during their one and only tryst. The obligatory compliments done, he moved in for the kill. Once he was satisfied that smooth talking along the lines of 'I was just thinking about how great we were together' wasn't going to pan, he changed tack becoming the consummate professional. Was the grieving Mrs. Delcum still interested in becoming the former Mrs. Delcum? If she was, she only need give the word.
Without hesitation the word was given.
He went on to inform her that his myriad talents included entertainment law. If she were interested in representation in that arena he would be honored to advise her. And, oh! By the way, he was sorry to hear about her daughter's tragedy, and prayed every night for her speedy recovery, but back to this entertainment law business. If she was interested, all she had to do was once again give the word, and she would be well on her way to quite a tidy sum of cash. Give the word and while he was drawing up the divorce papers he could make a standard contract that she could peruse at her leisure. Andrea thought about what Herb had told her and although she knew that what he said make good sense, she couldn't stop from asking the lawyer if he could, as a show of his abilities and good faith, arrange for her to appear on the Morris Melton show? She knew that with the repeated attempts by Melton's staff this too was an easy accomplishment. But seeing a clearer future had made Andrea Delcum feel magnanimous. On his part, the divorce/entertainment lawyer was almost beside himself in assuring her that this was small potatoes compared to what he had in mind. But if that was where she wanted to start. Sure! Consider it done.
With that, once again the word was given.
It was during this heartfelt grieving period the Delcums informed Lloyd with the finesse of a ball peen hammer, that they simply wanted to move on. Their advice to him was to do the same. No doubt about it, in their mind, Elvis, along with their daughter, had definitely left the building.
Lloyd's reply was to forego all the full-ride scholarship offers from colleges across the country, move to Helena and seek to find some type of menial work to keep his body fed and sheltered. However, like Lauren, he failed at first to factor in his unwanted celebrity status. But Lloyd was a quick study. Keeping the local press at bay was as simple as appealing to the city's movers-and-shakers, all of who nearly fell over each other in expressing their desire to help. Lloyd's love for Rhoda had not blinded him to people's feelings. He thanked those average citizens who just wanted to express their appreciation, and turned his attention to those who could possibly help with his immediate problem of obtaining room and board.
Big Jim
James "Big Jim" Moss was a sunbird; part of that rare breed that actually came north for the winter. A rich Texas cattleman, Moss had quickly ingratiated himself with the powers that be in the area in and around the state capital. An astute gauge of character coupled with a well-honed business savvy, Big Jim knew how to read and please any audience. Toward that end, today he sported the obligatory accoutrements that screamed Texas, Stetson, string tie and boots.
When Lloyd agreed to attend a closed door meeting with the pillars of the community it was Big Jim Moss who, at the end of the congratulatory speeches, came forward and pulled the young man aside. A few discreet questions and Lloyd's immediate problems were gone. James Moss had a modest ranch home some twenty miles distant. Lloyd was offered room board and unlimited use of the three cars nestled in the garage. Big Jim guaranteed him privacy and, figuring him averse to anything that smacked of charity, his official title would be caretaker at a weekly salary of $500.
Lloyd was stunned. When the Texan stuck out his hand and asked "Well pard, we have a deal?" Lloyd could barely express his thanks. "Listen son, there is no true Texan alive, that wouldn't give his left hand so he could use the remaining one to shake the hand of a defender of the Alamo. Hell most wish they could have participated in the battle!" At this Jim laughed and went on before Lloyd could say a word "I get the best of both worlds, I get to keep my hand and shake yours. We all know why you're here, your girl and all. Damn fine thing you did back in Schonefield, and it's a damn fine thing you're doing now."
"Tha…Thank you sir." Lloyd managed to get out. Big Jim Moss's Alamo analogy wasn't the first time Lloyd had heard that comparison to what happened at HTS. It had unsettled him then and now, even at the risk of offending the goose that had just dumped golden manna into his lap, his heart disengaged from his common sense and said…
"Sir I ran. And those that didn't …died."
Lloyd's voice dropped with the last word. He hung his head shamefaced. There it was out in the open air, maybe not for all to hear but this richer-than-Croesus Texas cattleman, but Lloyd knew that to accept his offer with that weight on his soul would make him feel worse than dishonest. Dirty was the word that came to mind.
In that eternity Lloyd could sense the growing concern of the rest of Helena's finest waiting to move in and congratulate something that he wasn't. He felt obligated to show the world what a papier-mache hero looked like. If nothing else at least the incessant adulation would be directed to where he felt it properly belonged. Starting with a once beautiful, now emaciated, young woman lying in a coma not three miles distant.
As he turned to address the crowd he was suddenly seized in the iron grip of Big Jim Moss.
"Gentlemen, Mr. Foster and I have some small details of a business proposal to work out." A collective groan greeted this announcement, but the persuasive Texan was ready. "Now hold on and give us a few minutes in private if you would. Bartender!"
Lloyd felt Jim's grip relax as heads turned toward the small mobile bar bisecting the south and west walls. The bartender, an elderly man, wearing a white shirt and bow tie gave Big Jim his full attention.
"Bartender! Will you please see to it that these gentlemen receive the proper lubrication for the rest of the evening? And if anyone cracks open his wallet to do anything more than to stuff your tip jar, take down his name and let me know. This tab is on me."
As he expected, his announcement drew immediate cheers from most of the assembly and a respectful but steady movement toward the now beaming bartender.
Big Jim remained smiling a moment longer, and still looking at the crowd, said under his breath. "Life lesson son. Jus show thirsty cattle the way to water and you can move the most stubborn herd." Then releasing his arm and turning directly to Lloyd, "There's an office right this way Mr. Foster. If you would do me the honor of a few words in private."
Lloyd's head was still reeling. The last time he had felt anything as close to the brink he was pulled back from was the frantic day in May when he was sure everything was lost.
Jim Moss took the lead. Once closed the heavy oak door of the side office immediately smothered the general din of the assembly hall. The Texan motioned to a plush black leather chair on the right of what Lloyd took as the Mayor's, situated at the head of the table This Big Jim took for himself and came straight to the point before he had even sat down.
"Unless I miss my guess, you were about to do something very stupid out there and, in your mind call it noble," he started out without a hint of a question.
Lloyd had regained his composure. Meeting Big Jim eyes evenly he said.
"Sir, I was going to tell the truth."
"And what truth is that; if you don't mind me asking?"
"That I'm no damn hero! Those people look at me like they expect to see some kind of Audie Murphy, and Sergeant York all rolled into one, and that just not me! Like I told you I ran!"
To Moss's left, a stand containing a tray on which sat a pitcher and several plastic glasses. Moss reached for the pitcher and pouring a glass of water offered it to Lloyd. He accepted it, nodded his thanks, and drank it down, just then realizing how thirsty he was. Jim refilled it and poured himself a drink. Looking for a place to sit his glass down Jim reached over and slid him a cardboard coaster.
"Mind if I ask a question Mr. Foster?"
"Go ahead, but it's Lloyd if you don't mind sir. Mr. Foster is my dad."
Jim smiled. This young man had all the markings that talents agents dreamed of. "Okay, Lloyd it is. Lloyd what exactly in your opinion is the definition of a hero?"
Lloyd thought for a moment. "Well like I said, Audie Murphy, Sergeant York; the passengers of Flight 94. Those type of guys." Then waving a hand at Jim. "The defenders of the Alamo," he concluded.
"Funny you should mention them," Jim said, taking a sip of water.
"Beg your pardon," said Lloyd, a bit puzzled.
"Nothing really. It's just, well, when one becomes even mildly successful in Texas, paying proper homage to the shrine of America's Thermopayle is done as a matter of course. Did you know that that is what most Texans are taught to consider the Alamo: America's Thermopayle?"
Lloyd shook his head.
"I'm not surprised," Jim went on. " I suppose every state contributes its share to the panoply that comprises the great American mythology. The Alamo just happens to be Texas's."
Lloyd thought for a moment. "I see your point. I guess The Little Big Horn would be Montana's."
"Exactly," Jim replied. "Custer and his brave men grimly, but with gritty determination, extracting a terrible toil before being destroyed by the heathen savage; all done in the vain attempt to bring to inevitable light of civilization to the untamed plains. Makes for quite a romantic story to what in reality was the final act of defiance by a brave people whose only crime for over 300 hundred years was simply being in the way."
Lloyd smiled at the thought of this and nodded.
"Lloyd my point is, it was the same at the Alamo. Like Custer, the Alamo defenders were like rats caught in a trap. The strategic value of their stand had gone the way of the dinosaur long before Santa Anna's assault carried the works. Their sand to continue the struggle pretty much dissolved once their defenses were breached and the Mexican troops were pouring inside. This is evidenced by the prisoners taken and subsequently killed, as well as the forty odd defenders who made a break for it by going over the wall when the outcome was apparent."
"I hadn't heard about anyone running away," Lloyd said in amazement.
"No surprise there," Jim chuckled. "Mexican sources, unlike Custer's Indians, kept diaries. For years, even to this very day, Texans who wish to keep the illusion of the grim defender keeping to his post and fighting to the end have questioned their validity."
"What happened to those forty? Some get away to live the rest of their lives in cowardly obscurity?" Lloyd asked.
And there it was at last. Goethe's kernel of the poodle. The guilt that laced through his voice with that last statement was what Big Jim Moss had been angling for. What Jim had initially been willing to accept as quiet humility, was actually an understandable case of survivor guilt. With the hell he had been through it was the most natural reaction in the world. Natural for anyone whose friends were slaughtered while charged with ensuring the survival of those that remained. Most men Big Jim Moss knew would have cracked like cheap leather before now and this kid, this man- child, had not only been keeping it together for nearly three years, he eschewed any limelight, wanting nothing more than to keep watch over his High School sweetheart.
In that instant Jim Moss, cattle baron from Texas, felt an inadequacy he'd never before known. At the same time he decided that come what may, Lloyd Foster was going to accept his help. It would be a delicate operation, but with years of business negotiations behind him, Jim Moss knew he was the surgeon for the task.
Reaching for the water pitcher once again Jim stated plainly, "No, Lloyd. You see Santa Anna was the self-styled 'Napoleon of the West;' and while that approbation worked with his troops, and certainly in Santa Anna's own mind, it failed miserably at San Jacinto, a few weeks later when Sam Houston's forces crushed him. But he was certainly a competent enough commander to plan for what some of the defenders would do once the mission walls were breached and his Mexicans began to pour in. To that end, he placed his mounted lancers, next to useless in the close quarter fighting inside the Alamo, but deadly in riding down and killing panicked men running for their lives on the open plain. They all were finished off before they got too far."
Jim Moss read what he had expected to see. Lloyd's face betraying a relief at hearing the fate of those who ran combined immediately with the self guilt he had lived with all this time. Now was the critical time of the surgery. One slip and Jim could lose him. Even worse Lloyd might lose himself. Destined to watch the love of his life die, (Some discreet inquiries by Jim had confirmed this eventually as very likely) Jim had a pretty good idea of Lloyd's life after that. Obscurity would take him out of the public eye and Lloyd would run to that.
But he would never run far enough to run from himself.
Drugs and alcohol would help, and by the time some anniversary or event that would remind people that it was high time to haul the HTS kids back into the glaring light of public attention, some enterprising reporter or corporate big wig (much like himself he thought acridly) would spend like a sailor, moving heaven and earth to find Lloyd Foster. If he were still alive, what they would probably find would make for a far more interesting story than any 'Schonefield Revisited' documentary could manage. There would be a tabloid feast with his demons as the main course. That done, the pitiable wrench that Lloyd Foster would have become would realize that the only true obscurity left to him was one last retreat, one last run, this time through the ultimate exit door. In Jim's mind, it made for one hell of a tragedy, one he was determined to prevent.
"Lloyd. How many children were rescued by the army?"
"Huh," Lloyd was still digesting the thought of long dead Texans succumbing to fear being pin-cushioned by Mexican cavalry. "Well sir," he began, but stopped when Big Jim waved him off.
"Appreciate your manners Lloyd. They're duly registered. But here we are talking man –to-man. You'd honor me by calling me Jim."
Lloyd smiled, "Jim," he said. Then remembering the question. "Ninety six. Ninety seven if you count me," his voice dropping again.
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