TDROMC The Dirt Roads of Madison County:

By Jack Henderson

When Sgt. Justin(Brow)Tyme discovers irrefutable evidence, far behind enemy lines, that his partner and comrade in arms was not killed in action, but murdered, the complexion of the Vietnam War, for him, changes drastically.

"Brow" cannot leave his partner's death unavenged. There are those who must pay, those who must talk..... but all must die! The burden of justice rests upon his shoulders.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Henderson
• Release date: Oct 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452410494

Jack Henderson

About the AuthorAs an aspiring author (for the last six years) I am set apart from other authors in that I have served more than twenty years in the CorrectionalSystem from the Atlantic to the Pacific Coasts. I tell you this, not as a matter of pride, but necessity. As a sucessful, published author(when that transpires) my past will be a thing that couldn't possibly stay hidden nor would I attempt to do so as it is actually the core from where my writing ability springs.The subject matter of my writing is different in the way I present my stories (or Novels) to my faithful reading audience. I do my best to "involve" the reader to the point that it becomes easy for them to identify with my protagonists, indeed, to run the necessary gauntlets with them.I have lived or experienced much of what I write about in one way ar another which extends to me the familiarity with the subject and the ability to relate the story realistically. I find no harm in inventing stories and plots within my stories to make them more interesting and peaking my readers interest to a page turning fury.At the risk of "tooting my own horn" I will say I feel that I have a very powerful writing voice, unique in the presentation of the dispensation of my characters. My characters are very real and life like which makes them readily acceptable and liked or even loved which in turn places my readers into a very personal and powerful relatioinship, not only with my protagonists, but with the Novel or story in general.Always, I make the effort to let you, my reading audience, "feel" the story rather than telling you about something that has happened to someone else. I have no desire to tell the whole story because with what I give you, you have the intelligence to figure out the rest for yourselves. This is not something I grant you by writing the book, but something you bring with you when you crack the cover on something I have written. In turn, this makes it possible for you to entertain yourself with the written word for hours on end.Were it not for a certain English teacher (Ms. Carol Conrad, by name) on the teaching staff at Madison County High School during the troublesome 1960's, certainly I would not be approaching you with this or any other novel. English was my very worst subject, but Ms.Conrad, in her wisdom, assigned me books to read from which she extracted in depth reports so I could earn extra points on my final average. This spurred me on to an "A" average in English, but more than that, it instilled in me a love for the written word that has haunted me my entire life. Now, I am dying to share that love with you. I would be thrilled to think that my writing brings you as much pleasure in the reading as it brought me in the process of making it worthy of your attention.Over a lifetime I have spent hundreds of thousands of hours reading thousands of books and short stories by an army of authors. Many of the authors of those books taught me in one way or another. Some taught me the way that I would like for my own work to read, many more the very opposite.In the early seventies, I edited, printed and published the prison newspaper for the infamous institution, "Tobacco Road" in Augusta, Georgiain Richmond County. Quite a bit of work, that. Unfortunately, decades passed before I ever took myself seriously as an author.Sincerely, I hope that "The Dirt Roads of Madison County", "Road of Confusion" will be one of the books that you will be glad you took time to read in your lifetime. From me to you, "Thanks for taking the time to peruse this first novel of my career. Keep an eye out for Volume #2 "The Dirt Roads of Madison County", "Road of Destruction".Jack L. Henderson

Book preview

Chapter 1

Brow Activates

The ground where he lay was wet. The scent rising from it foretold of eons of things dead long, long ago. This was only one of the many times he had breathed this scent. It was almost like an old friend. He welcomed the smell.

He had been working himself, for more than twenty four hours, towards his objective, unable to advance more than a thousand yards.He lay still, unmoving, breathing so shallow were anyone to see him they would question whether this body retained any life. Indeed, would have had to place their fingers on his neck to know but, then know they would, his heart hammered so violently in his chest. He was concerned that someone might possibly hear it and give testimony to his position.The V.C., many times, since his insertion had stumbled within inches of stepping on him but he had remained undetected.

Fear, no, sheer terror has a way of speeding the heartbeat not solely limited to animals. The darkness covered him well.

His sixth sense had alerted him of the approach of an enemy. Though he had not seen anything nor heard any falling of a footstep, the muffled snap of a limb, or even so much as the vines or underbrush whispering lightly over silk. He had learned the hard way not to ignore this ixth sense as he had come to call it. .He escaped with his life once before, the error of not adhering to his ixth, proving non-fatal, but only by the barest of margins.

Once had been enough for Brow, (so called because his eyebrows on anything other than a face could easily have been mistaken for a pair of caterpillars in the act of copulation.), were there any such thing, a quirk, strange enough.

If any word were used to describe Brow, control would be it. Once a grenade had been lobbed only a few feet from where he lay giving fire support against an enemy force. Several of the ARVNs(Army Regular Vietnamese Nationals) jumped to run from the grenade and were cut down by enemy fire. More died from the grenade blast trying to gain enough ground in less than three seconds to escape the lethal schrapnel. Brow knew that to be an exercise not only in futility but in death. He made three quick rolls away from the grenade, clamping his hands tightly over his ears and after the blast, resumed his cover fire.

The NVA (North Vietnamese Army) were routed and forced to fall back into the clutches of a deadly backup unit.

That was the type soldier Brow had become. Though he had suffered a gruesome pain between the ears, he could complain of nothing more once the defensive had come to an end.

At long last he saw into the complete encompassing darkness, with his nose, that which his eyes could not detect...the scent of nom choc, a fermented fish sauce favored by the Vietnamese.

By far and large this sauce was disdained by the average American because of the smell alone. However Brow found the sauce quite to his liking. He would never eat the nom choc before he went into the bush for the same reason the V.C. nearby shouldn't have.

Ever so slightly and slowly Brow breathed deeply through that eye in the middle of his face and determined there were at least two enemy soldiers very close, maybe more that hadn't eaten the sauce. These particular enemies were not his objective, not his target or reason for being there. Nor would they become such unless, by chance, they stumbled onto him, but the jungle is big place. That would be very unlikely in the dark without some movement by Brow to disturb the brush. He lay more still, if that were possible and reverted to his very shallow breathing.

Even though the darkness was complete, he closed his eyes, his hand resting on the twenty two caliber silenced target pistol, a High Standard---just in case. The twenty twos were rare, but were available for issue to the Sneaky Petes.(Green Berets)As he lay there he thought.3/7/8

Chapter 2

Coweta County Georgia

The sun is bright on a summer June day. The wind soft and sweet as it blows gently across the county in this, the year of our Lord, 1954.

Justin plays out in the front yard, fascinated with new life, at four years old. He lives in the house behind him with the main highway in front of him. His grandfather's store is just down the hill to Justin's left and his house is directly across the thorough-fare.

There are few paved roads in Coweta County, but this is one of them because it leads into the county seat. As in most or all small Georgia towns, that happen to be the county seat, the Courthouse sits in the middle of the highway. It divides to surround it making the Courthouse appear somewhat like an island amid the tar and gravel.

Justin does all those things that little boys do. Chases slow butterflies, plays around an open well he knows he's not supposed to be close to, throws rocks and kicks cans.

But thrill of all thrills, Robert, his grandfather, has just pulled into the store yard next door and waves at Justin, motioning him to come. Justin runs full tilt to Robert as he steps from a nineteen forty six Studebaker truck. While not a brand new truck, it is certainly servicable and new to Robert. He turns just in time to catch his grandson as the little boy leaps from the small retaining wall that separates the two yards.

Hi, Justin, his grandfather says as he hugs his grandson close and catches just the faintest scent of his daughter on Justin's clothes. I have something to show you, Robert said, as he walked to the passenger's side of the truck, still holding Justin and opens the door.

At first Justin doesn't see anything and then a mottled brown and white lump of fur sticks its head from under the seat looking frightened and unsure. Justin's face turns into a sunbeam, his little sky blues riding above his dimples, in extreme delight. Papa, is he mine? Is he mine? Justin repeats himself as he struggles in his grandfather's arms to get to the pup on the floorboard of the Studebaker.

Your mama won't let you have a dog yet 'cause you ain't big enough to take care of it and she won't want to have to do it, Robert answered.

Yes I am big enough! I can do it! Please, papa!, Justin begged.

Make a deal with you. Since you're getting to be such a big boy, it will be your dog and my dog together, okay? Just you help me to take care of him, alright? Then, someday he will be all yours, Robert replied.

Okay! Okay! Okay! Can I pet him, Papa?, Justin asked.

Of course you can, Robert said as he set Justin into the truck to coax the bit of fluff

from underneath the seat, glad in his heart he had deterred the wrath of his daughter.

It was another mouth to feed, but it was a little male and he would fare well with the table scraps and bones from two families. Besides he had known how much Justin had his mind set on a pup for a friend and a pal.

Neighbors were far apart and all the closer ones that had children were all too old for Justin or they were girls. He didn't want Justin to be under the sole influence of little girls so he felt he had to help his grandson out that much, at least.

Justin's nanny had eight children, all boys but one and a pair of twins about Justin's age who lived just over the road a couple of miles, but the problem with that--- they were black.

This was an era during which blacks were not allowed to eat in white restaurants. They had to pick up and pay for their food at the back door and take it with them. So Robert, nor his daughter, would allow Justin to visit his nanny’s home.

From time to time the twins did come and play with Justin because there was no one to watch them as their mama was performing service as a nanny for Justin and Jeanette, his sister. Justin didn't understand and he liked the adventures he had with the twins. They always had a good time. He was too young to grasp the meaning of hate, prejudice or discrimination.

His little buddies were helping their daddy, (to hear them tell it), build a barn.

Justin so wanted to be able to build a barn also.Just how many chances in a lifetime does a three-four year old get to build a barn? Justin didn't think it was many. Surely his mama could understand this. The old barn had been struck by lightning or a nightrider's torch. No one was sure which and it had burned to the ground with both cows inside it.

The need for milk for this family was paramount. They had finagled another milk cow but they had to have a barn in order to maintain it.

Justin had his own ideas about fire and he knew the situation had been pitiful because he had heard Charles, his daddy, say something about the cows lowing as they burned in the barn.

No matter how Justin prevailed upon his mother, she would not submit to let him go help with the new barn. Even after his nanny left that day, he persisted to the point that Kathryn, his mama, told him, Son, you can't go over to their house. Those are little colored children. Beyond that day, Justin never saw his little buddies or his nanny again

The little pup wouldn't come out from under the seat, but he did lick Justin's fingers as he lay across the seat and reached to pet him. Robert kept urging Justin to be gentle because the pup was a baby also, away from its mama, probably hungry and---

All that changed dramatically when the pup scooted from beneath the seat and squatted to pee in the floorboard of the Studebaker. Robert grabbed them both quickly and placed them on the ground, keeping Justin away from the pup until he had finished his business---all of his business.

Robert gave Justin an old 'kerchief and showed him how to tease the pup with it to make him play. Justin was delighted that the pup would play, pull at the hanky and chase him so long as he kept the hanky away from him.

Papa, what is his name? Justin asked.

Well, he didn't come with a name. What do you think we should call him? Robert answered with a question.

Justin looked at his Papa and shrugged his slender shoulders in an, I don't know gesture.

I don't know either, boy. He seems like a pretty good sport so why don't we just call him Sport," Robert prodded Justin.

Yeah! Sport is a good name, Papa. We'll call him Sport! Come here, Sport! Here, Sport! Here, Sport! Come on, Sport! You can't get this Sport! Justin sang as he once more teased the pup with the handkerchief and danced a little jig all about him.

The yipping and the sound of the child's laughter brought much happiness to the heart of the old man and a smile that crinkled his face all the way to his eyes even the one false porcelain eye on his left side.

Robert was a carpenter by trade. Having been born in the nineteenth century, sometime around 1894, he was now sixty years old. The homes he built in his earlier years(for he refused to build a house) were built with much dexterity and each board was cut by hand and nailed into place, sometimes with wooden pegs and sometimes with the metal nails, but never with anything less than the very best of craftsmanship.

Further along Robert did build some houses, after the development and exploitation of the power saw run by electricity. Unfortunately, the power saw in that day and time came without a lot of emphasis on safety, few safety features, and only brief instructions on how to or how not to operate the saw.

Though power saws had been around for a while, there were none he felt justified the price one had to pay so the young/old man made do for a time.

When more and more people invested in the tool producing industry, the prices dropped sharply. So, over the years, in addition to losing his left eye to a burr on a cotton stalk that had passed under the mule and the plow he was using, he also lost parts of three fingers and half a thumb to the power saw, which with some aplomb, made him reconsider his career choices. He decided to quit the carpentry business for a time while he still had enough fingers left to count out change. And also enough money to make the down payment on the store and stock it with the dry goods people most generally needed so they didn't have to drive all the way into Sharpsburg, the nearest thing to a town, some eighteen miles away.

The old man kept the rest of his fingers, for a while anyway, and made money enough to live with his investment, not to mention a lot of quality time with his grandson since Justin and Jeanette no longer had a nanny.

Kathryn had tried a series of nannies. All white. No more black nannies for Justin, but none had worked out. It took too much money to hire a white nanny.

So Robert and Big Mama, for a time, found themselves straddled with all this quality time. It wasn't so difficult, but Justin was a busy, busy little boy. His inquisitiveness was never quenched nor was the questions or whys. At least he was past the terrible twos but only just barely and sometimes he relapsed.

However, Robert continued to endeavor to persevere.

The store, the boy and Justin's Big Mama (Robert's wife) kept the old man preoccupied and very busy.

Jeanette figured into this equation but she had started school which occupied most of her day until Kathryn was home from work.

In front of the small store, where many years later pumps for gasoline would stand with their long, slender, small, black arms and their fingers stuck in their ears, sat a half dozen old wood frame chairs with the white oak seats that Robert had woven himself. These were for those who visited the store with no purchase in mind or those who wanted to chew the fat a little while before leaving for home. The chairs were full much of the time and any extra seats needed were supplied by turning one of the empty Coca Cola crates (that held twenty four bottles each) on its end and wah! lah!, your handy dandy, carry about, easily storable, temporary seat! In the late evenings there would be many of these crates in use. Justin loved, utterly adored, those times of day.

But just now he had Sport, so very contented with a new pup; his first one and Robert had conveyed the idea of Justin being a big boy, now able to accept responsibility for helping him take care of Sport. After all, had not his Papa asked him to help care for Sport?

He lay down on the damp ground in the warm soft wind of that bright, June, summer day gently petting his pup, head on his outstretched arm, face in the grass, welcoming the scent. As he lay there, he thought.3/7/8

Chapter 3

A night so dark

Perhaps he had never experienced a night so long with such darkness so heavy it lent credence to the sense of feel, unless it was the darkness that had engulfed and terrified him in a pasture, alone as a child, long ago.

A great deal of time had passed and he was fairly certain the small patrol had moved on. However, he was not willing to bet his life on that so he laid still on the wet floor of the triple canopy jungle many klics (kilometers) over into Eastern Cambodia.

It was his job to penetrate into enemy territory, which he did very well, directed to whatever coordinates with reconnaissance his primary, but not limited objective.

Of course there could not be any American troops into other unoccupied countries such as Laos. Cambodia or Thailand even though the Ho Chi Minh Trail(a freeway of dirt for moving arms, munitions, personnel and supplies for the NVA and the Cong)ran through Cambodia and neighboring countries.

Thus the reason for the letters, written in advance, to one’s family about places, events, the people and country side of Germany. There were even pictures with German settings no where near German soil. These letters and photos were mailed, periodically, to the families of these special soldiers to present a type of normalcy, by the direction of the CIA.

All sneaky Petes(Green Berets) were classified as advisors, not there to kill anyone, only to instruct the South Vietnamese in the best way to achieve their goals, in essence, a pacifist warrior, another of those great military oxymorons.

Brow, armed with the necessities that go along with every recon mission plus a few things of his own choosing, like LRRPs(Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol Rations, dehydrated meals), a .22 caliber High Standard target pistol, with silencer, three garrotes, three M-29 fragmentation grenades, a really strong desire to be the best at what he was doing, six black capsules with RJS stamped on the side and one hell of a lot of patience, watched as he felt the darkness go from black to a pulpy gray.

He was exhausted, yet let his patience remain in control until he could see fifteen feet which was maximum distance because of the steaming fog and underbrush.As he waited, he fingered the small water proof vial with the RJS inside.He was unsure about the pills. He had used some before, but never before he joined the military and never before Vietnam. The military not only provided the Dexedrine capsules, but encouraged their use, if in no other way, by making them readily available.

From previous experience he knew that one side effect was paranoia and too large a dosage would produce hallucinations in his hearing as well as in his vision.

He had, with Scafford, experimented with China White, heroin. A match head was almost too much, a match head and a half was instant death.After completing a mission and coming in wired and unable to sleep from the speed, adrenaline and the ghosts that followed them, there was nothing that could compare to a good shot of heroin to dissolve all those things into nothingness. It made the faces of the women dissolve, the screams of the children, as the automatic rifle fire tore their small bodies to pieces, become muffled. It layered the conscience in a fat that prohibited communication with the soul. No wonder that the narcotic had originally been named Hero.

The Dexedrine worked because it gave the illusion of invincibility, the ability to leap jungles in a single bound, powerful, omnipotent. Brow loved that part. He loved to hunt Charlie(Viet Cong) down and exact his price.

He knew from hearing some of the spooks (CIA agents) talk that the military was dispensing experimental drugs to American soldiers. Not just Dexedrine and not advising them that they were a part of an experiment. He wondered if maybe they had slipped a little something extra in the pills he carried. He knew this was not beyond the realm of possibility, even probability.

No matter. Whatever he knew he could never divulge (because of his security clearance) without risking a charge of treason. Each and every briefing before a mission and every debriefing after a mission, with the Spooks, required at least a secret clearance.

He slipped the vial back into place. Not now, maybe later, if he really had to use them. It was a flimsy excuse to trick himself. He knew he would take them.

He made another detailed search with his eyes before he started to move. He was hungry, tired and stiff, not to mention thirsty, dehydrated and filthy. He worried about his own body odor. He couldn’t use deodorant. The VC could sniff that out. Some of the Cong were so good they could smell the tobacco scent that remained on the breath long after the cigarette was gone. Those few were the most dangerous of the VC and remained the most elite and effective of the Cong forces. Those guys were deadly, the ones you never saw, only the melee afterward. They had been employing guerilla warfare for over two hundred years.

The remains of a dead animal or their dung would cover the most melodious of body odors, but care had to be taken not to over power one’s own sense of smell. Every advantage was needed in the bush. Failure to avail ones self of those, often left death the only option.

As he moved through the brush, he constantly changed his camouflage, a virtual chameleon, adapting to the vegetation, shadows and upon occasion, the dapples of sunlight that leaked into the dense jungle.

Brow came to an abrupt halt, raising his head and sniffing the air. Smoke and fish, probably fish heads and rice. He caught the unmistakable scent and knew his objective was nearby.

Peering through the jungle and brush, the fog having dissipated, he spotted a thatch of bamboo that stood out. It was slightly different. Slowly, moving closer, he discovered it to be a small section of one wall on a hooch (an edifice constructed of bamboo and woven grass) cleverly designed to match its surroundings.

Had he not known something was nearby and missed the scent of smoke and fish, he might well have fatally stumbled into the place.

‘Where the hell was my ixth?’ he thought.

Chapter 4

Ouch! Part 1

Robert would periodically forage through the woods carrying with him a sharp double bladed axe to cut small white oak trees. Not only to build the bottoms of his chairs, but also for the small, large and hand baskets he built. The vegetable baskets were woven from the white oak like the seats in the chairs.

In addition to those he also built fish baskets. With one of the fish baskets a fellow could pull out a nice mess of fish from a river or pond without having to do it one at a time.

Robert also made the blood meal with which to bait the baskets. This was made from blood, flour and cornmeal. He sold a great deal of this bait to those who had no desire to make their own or who lacked the ability to do so, at a nickel a pound.

It was a simple matter to set a basket out in a pond or river for one to three days baited with the blood meal. The basket had to be checked every day to pull out the fish and/or turtles. It was a very effective fish trap and these baskets sold for the whopping sum of two dollars and a half--- each!

The larger of the vegetable baskets used to store or hold vegetables to sell were sold for a dollar each and the smaller of the two baskets for fifty cents. The hand baskets were complete with the handle woven in to carry it and were instrumental in picking the produce from the garden. These hand made containers taken from the woods, if maintained, lasted for years and they sold for a quarter.

Robert worked on these projects directly behind the store. He could be found there most anytime if he wasn’t inside the store so long as it wasn’t in the heat of the day or he wasn’t off somewhere fishing. He kept all his tools and materials there to be out of the way of his customers.

Also he had his sawhorses set up there to work upon. First he would cut to proper lengths the small trees he had harvested then strip the bark from them with a draw knife. With that same knife he would strip the tree into narrow, thin pieces consistently the same size and supple enough to be woven. There was a trick to this that most people didn’t know which probably accounted for why most people didn’t make their own baskets and fish traps. Robert, however, had no problem with this as he had worked wood in one way or another all his life.

On the side of the store underneath the eave he had built a large V d hog trough to catch and hold water. After the wood waterlogged the trough held water nicely in which he stored these wood strips to keep them pliable.

Occasionally someone would bring to the store an old rocker or chair they wanted repaired so he didn’t waste a lot of time on pretty days and fishing was not regarded as a waste of time.

He had a bell on the front door of the store to alert him when he had a customer. He would go in the back door, wander around behind the counter to his wooden cash drawer and wait for his customer to bring their item or items and set them on the counter top. Then selecting a paper bag large enough for the purchase, he’d drag the perpetual pencil from behind his ear and do his ciphering on the side of the bag before placing the items into it.

Robert was a great one for saving money no matter how miniscule. He didn’t believe in wasting anything and the small business never made enough money to make a real cash register a feasible investment. As the paper money accrued he would remove some of it, stashing it in the bib pocket of his overalls in a worn out old wallet. He always wrote down how much he had taken out because there were yet taxes to be deducted. One penny on each dollar he had made in profit. His side work was tax free and he reveled in that knowledge. He was sticking it to the feds!

A quarter bought a CocaCola (eight ounce) or a Pepsi (twelve ounce),a pack of cheese crackers (four to a pack stacked on top of each other), a pack of salted peanuts (Lance), a large Baby Ruth and a Moon Pie. So long as a purchase wasn’t more than ninety nine cents there was no tax.

Robert was starting a fish basket for Mr. Carter who lived almost within rock throwing distance of the small establishment. This was the father of Flopsy, Mopsy, and

Cottontail, three little girls who were great friends of Jeanette and Justin. Flopsy was Jeanette’s age, Mopsy a year younger and Cottontail was two years old.

As per usual, Justin was around back helping his Papa to build this fish basket.

Since his Mama wouldn’t let him build a barn, then he determined to build a really nice fish basket. He was sure he’d never again have the chance to build a barn so he applied himself to the task of helping Robert with the building of this magnificent thing called a fish basket. He was sure he could do it. After all he was the big guy taking care of Papa’s pup, down there at his feet right now.

Justin spent his time playing in the water trough, playing with Sport and picking up all the scraps (and sometimes some pieces that Robert had to retrieve) to make his own fish basket, but somehow or another it didn’t look like his Papa’s and he would start his project all over again.

After a time, bored with his fruitless efforts, he would question Robert about each piece that Robert added to his own basket and why.

Justin had seen the nails that Robert used and the hammer he used to drive them. Robert would hold the nail, hit it with the hammer and the piece he nailed would stay in place. Neat!

Papa, let me do it, Justin pleaded.

No, boy, you ain’t ready to do that yet, he said.

Yes I am Papa. I want to do it. I can do it. I know I can because I’ve been watching you. I can do it, Papa. I know I can. You said I was a big boy, Justin pleaded in earnest.

Boy, you’ll hurt yourself with that hammer and your Mama will be mad at me for letting you do it. No, you go on and play with Sport. Just look at him, he wants to play, Robert said.

Sport, for his part, was lying down underneath the sawhorses in the shade, asleep. It didn’t look to Justin like he wanted to play, though he knew he could get Sport to play, Sport always wanted to play, but that was not what Justin had his mind set on.

Robert had moved the basket to the ground and had gotten himself a chair to sit in while he worked on the fish basket so he didn’t have to stand all the time.

Mama wouldn’t let me build a barn and now you won’t let me build a fish basket with you, Justin pouted.

Boy! You better stop it! Now! I done told you! Robert said, with more ire in his voice than he liked to use with his grandson, but daggone it!, the boy had a way to grate on one’s last nerve. He wasn’t about to encourage the boy to hurt himself.

Papa, I can do it, he tried again, but Robert cut him off.

Boy! Daggone it! but the tinkling of the bell signaled the entrance of a customer into the store.

Don’t you mess with nothing, I’ll be right back, boy, Robert said as he walked in through the back door of the store. 3/7/8

Chapter 4

Ouch! Part 2

Justin knew that Robert would be right back. He wanted his Papa to be proud of him, and he knew just what to do so that his Papa would see he really was a big boy. He wouldn’t have a little baby taking care of Sport, now would he?

Robert had started a nail that was driven halfway, a small four penny nail to hold the narrow white oak strip to the framework.

Justin picked up the hammer and moved around to where Robert had been seated. The basket was chest high to Justin. He had no trouble in reaching the nail with the hammer but he was at an awkward angle. He drew the hammer back to slam the nail home like his Papa. ‘Boy, will Papa ever be proud of me,’ he thought.

Though he could reach the nail, because of his exceedingly short stature that put him at such an awkward angle when he struck with the hammer, the nail bent to the side a little bit. Holding the hammer tighter with both hands he struck again bending the nail over flat against the wood.

Horror filled his mind. His Papa be angry because he had ruined his fish basket" Seeing the nails on the ground near where Robert had been sitting, he picked one up and held it against the wood. But the hammer was too heavy to hold with one hand near the end of the handle. When he swung at the nail it jumped to one side and the hammer smashed his thumb, tearing off the nail.

The pain wasn’t immediate but the fear was instant and complete, the fear that his Papa was going to be mad because he had ruined his fish basket, also because, he had, once again, deliberately disobeyed him. There was no way he could repair the damage on either count. Papa was right, he admitted to himself and realized he had now consigned himself back to being a little baby again who was always messing up instead of being a big boy who could help his Papa.

The frustration, pain and embarrassment of not being capable of proving himself were more than he could take. As he saw his own blood flowing freely from his ruined thumb he screamed that scream that signifies a child has done more than skin his knee. He held his hand against himself.

He screamed because he was such a disappointment to his Papa. Now, he would never be a big boy and his Papa wouldn’t love him anymore. How could he when he always disobeyed him? But he hadn’t meant to, he really hadn’t and beyond all things on earth he never wanted to lose his grandfathers’ love.

Of course Justin knew nothing of the real love his papa had for him nor did he realize that the basket wasn’t really ruined, nothing more than straightening the nail and driving it home would correct the error and make the basket good as new. Justin’s heart felt as if it would surely break.

Sport ran ‘round and ‘round Justin’s feet, yipping, trying to get Justin to play. This was a fine game, but the kid had to stop the screaming.

Robert burst out the back door, the sunlight beating down on his mostly bald pate, ready to exterminate this vile demon that dared to touch his grandson, making him scream in any such fashion. He saw the demon in the boy’s right hand and the blood running onto his shirt from the left hand held tightly against him. Shock, fear and pain were etched in equal amounts across the child’s face and in his voice.

Daggone it, boy! Didn’t I tell you to leave that hammer alone? Didn’t I tell you not to mess with anything? Robert scolded. More concern in his voice than anger. Kathryn would have a hissy fit about this!

Justin, his eyes full of tears, his chin trembling with saliva dripping from it said, I-I-I-Im so-so-so-sorry, P-P-Papa."

His wonderful Papa scooped him from the ground holding him close to him, his strong arms protecting him from all evil. Robert paid no attention to the blood soaking into his overalls, patting Justin on the back and saying, It’s alright. It’s going to be okay. It’s alright.

Justin had stopped screaming when the old man had picked him up, but he was still snubbing when he told his Papa, I-I-I-didn’t m-mean to P-P-P-Papa. He didn’t mean he hadn’t meant to ruin the basket but that he hadn’t meant to disobey him.

Now that Justin was reassured that his Papa’s love was unconditional, all encompassing and never ending, his thumb was the least of his worries. He could deal with that. It would feel good when it stopped hurting.

Wonder of all wonders, his Papa still loved him. More than his pain, more than the shame of his disobedience,.his Papa still loved him. 3/7/8

Chapter 5

Too little, too much Part 1

The hooch was much larger than he had initially thought. He hadn’t been in the proper place to see well, but by changing his position he got the complete picture. The NVA were comfortably confident that this domicile would remain untouched by U.S. forces. They knew the U.S. soldiers were bound to the Geneva Convention Rules of Engagement which precluded warfare inside a country not officially declared at war with the United States. The V.C., were bound to nothing. They were as at ease shooting enemy soldiers