Freedom's Call to Glory

By Barbara Butterfield

A company of Marines struggle with living in a war-torn land where danger, injury and death lurk in every shadow. While coping with the emotional loss of friends and family, its a place where loneliness and homesickness are the mens constant companions. Amidst the strife of war, this small company of able-bodied Marines unwittingly becomes entangled in a subversive enemy plot. All the while their lives slowly descend into a maelstrom of intrigue and its a race against time to save the day. The question iswill they be in time, and will they live long enough for justice to prevail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499013870

Barbara Butterfield

Ms. Butterfield is California born and raised, and currently resides in a suburb of Phoenix, Arizona…where she lives with her favorite feline friend: Baybee. Integrity, suspense, camaraderie, romance, and personal growth are all values that play a vital role in her novels. More importantly, the gospel and spiritual growth are also an aspect of life into which she delves. Ms. Butterfield has written for many years; her first novel having been penned at the age of fourteen. She also studied writing and journalism, becoming the Editor-In-Chief of the school’s newspaper. She is currently working on her 60th novel.

Book preview

Prologue

He had ruled the small Middle European country of Indra for the last thirty-five of his forty-five year life. The land of his ancestors was centrally located and completely self-sufficient . . . he made sure of that. It was also the only country ruled entirely by a clan. A patriarchal dictatorship, Zaan Aaron Aamir was a peculiar by-product of a racially-mixed, and hastily-procured marriage. His name reflected his rather confusing ancestry in that it gave lie to his predecessors who were Dutch, Hebrew and Arabic.

Known as the Dragon Potentate of the Eighth Ring, he not only ruled the small country, but was the ultimate keeper of a staff of henchmen known as Servitors. These men were specially chosen and kept close to him, serving as advisors, guards and those who were rewarded by being given special assignments, as the need arose.

Zaan was a man born to privilege, wealth and power. Having everything . . . he cared for nothing. Save his own comfort. Those who ably assisted in providing for his wants were spared his wrath. Those that rebelled, even on the simplest level, were punished. It was not uncommon for various individuals, who unwisely chose to engage in independent thought, to go missing under the cover of darkness.

For as the sun set, fear rose.

Only on moonless nights, and should the order be given, men . . . young and old alike, were taken by black-clad Guards. Against their will, they were forced from their homes, never to be seen or heard from again.

The Guards were a regimented group of men that exacted the punishment of Enforcement and Control. They were so highly-trained, so thoroughly brainwashed, and so completely ruthless in their dealings that no one dared stand up to them, or even protest their malevolent presence.

Whole families, striped of all but their most meager possessions were forced to labor in the mines and fields, as well as the palaces. Male and female . . . old and young a like, toiled without ceasing not necessarily for the good of Indra, but definitely for the continuing opulent existence of its ruler, Zaan.

Fathers . . . and their sons worked in the mines or fields and were kept under unceasing control by Guards wielding whips and chains. Men, even down to the youngest boy, often felt the lash keenly upon their bodies on an almost daily basis.

Attractive wives were abducted and forced to breed with the cream of the crop of Zaan’s Guards. Young girls tended to the housekeeping chores of the many palaces, and performed childcare. A chosen girl amounted to nothing more than breeding stock, and those not selected were doomed to a life of servitude within palace walls. The offspring between a Guard and a comely young miss was a possession in which Zaan took great interest. Male children earned special education, while females were trained as Servitors to the Guards, and even as potential mates for the ruler himself.

Due primarily to his own ruling, Zaan had eight wives. He always had eight wives. If one . . . through any circumstance died . . . or simply turned up missing, he immediately found a replacement. As the exalted leader of The Eighth Ring . . . it was of supreme importance that he have . . . at all times, eight wives.

Zaan did what he wanted, when he wanted. Who his actions may have hurt was unimportant to him. He was calculating, cold, ruthless, mercurial and cruel, and he held absolute reign over the entire country and a few misguided allies as well.

Chapter 1

Josh, you are such a freakin’ idiot, Corporal Chavez muttered to himself as he walked across the stretch of desert back to where the transport helicopter had gone down.

"Volunteer. Crap, you eagerly… volunteered . . . to go inspect the damage," the young Marine openly berated himself while keeping his head down. Josh made a point of keeping his eyes focused on the ground in front of each step he took, trained as he was to be on the lookout for IED’s, or Improvised Explosive Devices. Basically, IED’s were home-made bombs shallowly planted in the sandy soil. They functioned very similarly to old-fashioned landmines and the consequences of coming into unexpected contact with one held much the same, unfortunate outcome. But not only was he keeping a weather-eye out for manmade devices, Josh was also looking out for natures denizens of which the untamed desert had many.

The damn things still on fire, Chavez continued to talk to himself as he made his way around yet another sand berm, gingerly side-stepping numerous kinds of scrub brush, and rocks. Glancing momentarily upward, Josh mentally measured how far he had yet to trek. But he also watched as dark gray smoke roiled high overhead, a by-product of the burning hulk of the CH-46 helicopter he and his crew members had crashed in earlier that day.

Why did anyone have to go ‘check it out’? He asked rhetorically as he stumbled over a loose rock, tweaking his ankle ever so slightly. Someone had to go see if anything was salvageable, so who holds his hand up? Chavez does! Dumb, stupid, brain-dead Corporal Chavez! Listen up corporal… you keep on volunteering for gigs like this and you’ll never make sergeant! Or… hell! Screw a promotion, I may not see tomorrow! With that Josh figured he’d given himself enough of a reaming, and so the heated conversation with himself ceased. It was just as well too, since he was now only about twenty-feet from the burning chopper.

How am I supposed to search that thing… it’s still on fire! He asked himself, flapping a hand in the direction of the downed chopper as he consciously noted that the remaining flames all seemed to now be erupting from the tail section only.

I could get into the cockpit, I guess, Josh surmised, and shrugging his shoulders with an air of finality he mentally decided to take a more positive approach, no matter how temporary it may turn out to be.

What if it explodes? He questioned thoughtfully, asking no one but… himself. If that was going to happen, it probably would’ve blown by now, he rationalized. With that he stealthily approached the battered fuselage of the helicopter.

The cargo door was slid wide open, a result of when the surviving Marines had all jumped clear of the downed craft. Keeping a wary eye on the small, yet leaping flames, Josh hoisted himself through the door. Getting to his feet, he took a quick look around. This part of the chopper had not burned, but was thick with the acrid smell of burning electronic componentry nonetheless.

All too soon, his eyes started to burn. The tears that formed ran down his cheeks, and he sniffled from the runny nose that ensued as he stalwartly picked his way through the damaged chopper and scattered equipment. Using the sleeve of his camouflage BDU’s for an impromptu tissue, he swiped his arm across his nose and cheeks, trying to rid himself of the annoying moisture. Blinking his eyes hard, he hoped to be able to see better and unfortunately it worked, for when he tossed aside a couple of seat cushions he uncovered a… body.

Blood seemed to be everywhere as he knelt beside the fallen Marine. So much blood had been spilled from the deep laceration to the man’s head that it had dried to the floor. It was only when Josh shoved at the torso to turn the dead man over that he heard the sickening sound of the man’s flesh tearing loose from the sticky bond of dried blood. Josh’s stomach took a sudden lurch, but his breakfast stayed where it was supposed to be, and for that the corporal was grateful.

Quickly, he checked the Marine’s pockets for a wallet, and was surprised to discover that the man wasn’t carrying one. He then tore open the man’s shirt seeking to recover his dogtags for identification. At least it was something that he could see was returned to the Marine’s family. Grabbing at the chain, Josh tore it loose, pocketing it and the tags for safekeeping. In the rush to complete his mission, he didn’t notice that there was no engraving on the dogtags, nor was there a name tape sewn to the front of the man’s uniform.

Josh was about to push himself to his feet and continue searching the craft when he happened to notice the man’s hand. But more so… the ring that the Marine wore. It was similar in size, and with an ornate script that reminded him of a college… or service ring. But even more intriguing to him was the size of the stone and the gems that encircled it. Picking up the dead man’s hand, in order to get a closer look at the unusual jewelry, Josh took a moment to study the piece, but before he could get a really good look at it, his head jerked upright as the sound of automatic gunfire erupted from somewhere nearby.

Damn, Josh cursed as he turned around and quickly slid the cargo door shut, as a precaution. He didn’t know who was firing, why, or from where. But even though the rear of the helicopter was still ablaze, for what it was worth, it just seemed to make sense to close the door.

After first double-checking his M-4 carbine rifle, he swung it around to his back, the weapon kept snuggly at the ready by the web strap from which it hung suspended about his neck and shoulders.

Picking up the man’s hand again, Josh hurriedly grasped the ring, and pulled. He had to work at it, twisting the piece of jewelry first this way and then that to remove the tight-fitting ring, but he managed to accomplish the feat. After all, he didn’t necessarily have to be concerned about causing the wearer any discomfort. Securing the ring, he placed it… along with the man’s dogtags, in his pocket, then standing up he made his way forward to the cockpit.

It was blatantly obvious that the pilot and co-pilot were dead, but then they’d already known the status of the three men that they’d left behind before the group of survivors had egressed the burning craft. But now… it just seemed that there was a bit more time to check the casualties out, if only for confirmations sake. Unfortunately, there was no doubt about it, the men were dead. Fighting down the bile that rose in his throat, Josh took several hard swallows, and gritting his teeth, he checked the battered and bloodied men for wallets, dogtags and… wedding rings. Pulling the gold from the pilots hand, he fingered it gently in the dim lighting of the charred helicopter. Eyeing the gold band, he couldn’t help but think of the man’s wife that was at home… waiting, praying and hoping… and didn’t yet know that her husband had died in the line of duty. The heart-rending, though fleeting emotion, choked in the young corporals throat.

Josh wasn’t married, nor even close to being married at this point, but he recognized the value of vows spoken, and the integrity and love behind honoring those oaths. He had seen it in his own parents marriage, and he would see it in his own one day.

Finding all items of value, as well as anything else that might be important to the men’s relatives, he stowed them in his cargo pants pockets, making sure to refasten the flaps to ensure the safekeeping of the men’s valuables.

Don’t know what happened, sir’s, Chavez spoke to the officers that had valiantly fought to keep the helicopter, and the men inside her, safe, but most of us made it out okay. Thank you, he spoke somberly. Then, standing to attention, he saluted both men, in turn.

Just then, he heard a few more gunshots, and he quickly… and instinctively ducked down. Knowing he was running out of time, Josh reached forward, manipulating the buttons of the radio. Nothing. Not a flicker. It was dead too.

Maybe smoke signals will help, he solemnly… and sarcastically mused. Well, if that’s the case, this chopper should be communicating just fine, all by itself. But… came an additional thought, . . . to whom?

With that he happened to catch a quick glance out the starboard window to see several insurgents sneaking up on the craft.

Aw crap, Josh muttered under his breath, "why can’t you guys get a freakin’ hobby like everyone else? Oh… wait, killing innocents and blowing shit up is your hobby. You damn bastards," he softly cursed as he opened the port window as wide as it would go. Squirming, feet first through the narrow opening, and with his legs now dangling outside the window, Josh paused for a split second.

"Sirs, I have to leave now, but I promise you, we will be back to make sure you… all three of you, get home. Dead or alive, we won’t leave you behind. You will get home. You have my word on that," the corporal spoke with a curt nod of his head, and his mission here completed, he shoved himself out the window, allowing his weight to drop silently to the ground.

Taking a quick glance about the immediate area, Josh momentarily startled to note that there were three insurgents working at the latch of the cargo door on the opposite side of the chopper. Engrossed in gaining access to the burned-out hulk, they failed to notice the Marine that had just dropped lightly to his feet. They probably would never have even noticed Josh had he not, in his haste to make good his getaway, tripped over a rock, sending him sprawling… head first, into the dirt.

Ughhhh, was the unexpected grunt that emanated from the young corporal’s throat as the quickly exhaled air was forcefully expelled from his lungs. Hearing the peculiar sound, the three insurgents squatted down in order to look underneath the helicopter to see where the utterance had come from. Josh’s eyes met their dark gazes, and the young corporal knew he had to act, and fast.

Generally speaking, odds of 3-to-1 aren’t too bad, all things considered. Chavez was confident in his marksmanship skills, and knew he could take them down if he had to. But when the men’s leader stood up and started shouting and waving for reinforcements, he knew the odds were changing… rapidly, and not necessarily in his favor.

Ah shit! He swore out loud when he spied no less than two dozen irate insurgents swarm from hiding, running toward the helicopter… and the solo Marine: Corporal Josh Chavez.

It’s at times like this the intense training that Marines are put through comes into play, or not. To Chavez’s mind, at this point, there were only two choices: fight or flight, and the odds had just been suddenly jacked up to 28-to-1. Not good, or… as a buddy of his was fond of saying, No bueno.

Scrambling to his feet, Chavez started to run back toward the foxhole. He knew his Marines would lend supporting firepower once he got within range. But as he ran, Josh began to feel guilty. He was bringing no less than twenty-eight problems to his friends that already had enough troubles at the moment. Did they really need twenty-eight more?

Ah damn, Josh panted, arms pumping hard as he ran a zigzag pattern at full speed across the desert. There were few times in his life that he was glad he’d lettered in Track in high school, and this was one of them.

Next time, Chavez… he shouted at himself even as his right hand worked to sling his rifle back around to the front of him, do… not… volunteer! He scolded himself, and forgetting about watching where he was running, his eyes instead, looked to his weapon, setting it for full automatic. He knew the magazine was full. Every shot would need to count.

It would.

Taking a deep breath, which he needed anyway, he suddenly stopped… turned, knelt to one knee and opened fire.

Stunned that their prey had ceased running, and indeed was now turning on them, the insurgents pulled up short… confused by this new and unexpected turn of events. Screaming like a banshee on an adrenaline high, Chavez depressed… and held, the trigger spraying the insurgents with more than enough stopping power.

Surprised at seeing someone fight?! Don’t know what that word means, do ya?! Lousy, cowardly bastards! What’s wrong? Your cojones misfiled?! Ahhhhhh!

It’s been said that, ‘he who hesitates is lost’. That adage proved to be true and Chavez was glad of it as the group of insurgents, one-by-one… died.

After the noise of the short-lived firefight, the eerie silence that descended upon the desert was nearly deafening. Pushing himself to his feet, Josh looked at what he had done. Using one finger as a pointer, he counted the bodies that lay sprawled across the desert sand, and he gulped. He was single-handedly responsible for the deaths of nearly thirty men, and for the briefest of moments, he felt bad.

Then he snapped right out of it.

Better them than me, he stated defiantly, and shrugging, he then shouldered his rifle. Brazenly turning his back on the dead men, he began walking back toward the foxhole, humming the Marine hymn.

*     *     *

The walk wasn’t particularly long or arduous but it was made more exciting when Josh realized, as he was nearing the foxhole, that he was being watched.

There was a small knoll off to the right where some scrub brush and a couple of withered trees concealed a small… though manmade, observation area. He had noticed this when the sun happened to glint off of something, and he knew for a fact that there were no mirrors out here, or empty soda pop cans. So, it could only mean one thing. Trouble.

Chavez… he muttered under his breath, you are having one bad day. Knowing he was in somebody’s sights caused him no small amount of alarm, but Josh kept his cool, maintaining his air of ignorant bliss by keeping his pace even, and not speeding up. Keeping his eyes averted, he managed to take surreptitious glances in the bunkers direction.

It wasn’t until he had passed the bunker that the men swarmed from the earthen recess. Now close to his own foxhole, and his fellow Marines, Josh took off running hoping that he would make it back in time.

Chapter 2

The campus, constructed amongst the lush greenery of the gently rolling foothills of the placid James River, was not necessarily unlike that of any other ivy league university. Stately, aged evergreen trees were in abundance, dotting the landscape in all the right places. Whenever a freshening breeze blew ashore, graceful limbs bent gently under the winds unseen power. The fragrant aroma of not only the pine trees, but the salty accent of the ocean air was an experience to be treasured and enjoyed as often as was possible.

Occasionally, pine cones dropped upon the soft green earth where they were soon picked up by either hard-working squirrels or by the many fastidious gardeners that were in the universities employ. It all just depended on who arrived on the scene first. Quite often it was one… or several, of the myriad of fortune-hunting squirrels that had taken up residence upon the campuses grounds, who took possession of the prized prey. They simply sought yet another tidbit of food and usually won the friendly competition. The end result was that the grounds were kept free of debris, and the size of the larder in their nests grew in preparation for the coming winter.

In spring and summer, flower gardens were numbered by the dozen, and were brilliantly colored floral designs set against a primarily green backdrop. The grounds were immaculately maintained by a well-organized crew of no less than fifty landscape gardeners who took tremendous pride in their work. In every sense of the word they were indeed artists.

The university was built in the late 1800’s, and the red brick facade of the main hall was now almost entirely covered with thick, forest green ivy. The rest of the various buildings resembled more of an antebellum era plantation than a school of higher learning. The exquisitely maintained campus mimicked the Greek Revival Temple architecture of a time long past. All of the buildings were white-washed and pristine in upkeep, and tall columns embraced the facades of most of the campus halls, offices and associated buildings.

Within one of the halls that overlooked the graceful shores of the James River was an office. This particular office door was adorned with an engraved platinum sign, which stated the obvious:

Jonathan P. Rogers, III

Professor Emeritus

American Military History

Yet he didn’t quite feel like such a noble instructor at the moment. Seated in the high-backed, over-stuffed leather chair, John was deep in thought. The myriad of classes was over for the day and any further work on which his attention was needed, he was ably procrastinating. This behavior was not like Professor John Rogers at all.

Slouched in the soft cushioning of the expensive piece of office furniture, John leaned his right elbow on the well-padded arm of the chair, his thoughts roaming hither and yon within his mind. His chin was braced upon his thumb, and with his index finger resting on his upper lip, he idly stroked the area. Consequently, John couldn’t help but realize that he needed to shave.

Huh, he mumbled, like that’s the most important thing on my mind right now, and he fell silent again, preferring to have his thoughts retreat to the far reaches of his mind rather than have them focus on the more mundane of daily tasks.

All I wanted in life was an interesting job, he mused out loud once again. "I have an interesting job, he argued quietly with himself. Yeah, right. It’s the same thing day after day, semester after semester, year after infernally long year." Putting his hands to the chairs armrests, John wearily pushed himself to his feet. Pacing about the expansive office, he continued to argue the debate that was rapidly reaching the boiling point.

Lap after lap, John absently circled the highly-polished cherrywood desk, then around the two side chairs that had resided in front of his desk for the last twenty-one years. When the janitorial crew vacuumed on their once-a-week sojourn into cleanliness, they moved the chairs, but then just as quickly returned the eight legs to the dips in the plush carpeting where the chairs had set at just the right angle for so very long.

As his frustration crested, John’s gaze wandered upward where bloodshot eyes stared vacantly at the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Ornate, in a Queen Anne sort of way, all of the furniture in his office was coordinated and kept immaculate. If the cleaning crew didn’t do a good enough job, then John simply grabbed a dust rag and did the chore himself. It was just simpler than filling out a Cleaning Request, form C-525, Rev. D, in triplicate and then following-up with the crew to make sure they did what they were supposed to do in the first place.

Triplicate, John muttered as his gaze took in no less than 332 books, journals, texts and various reference materials. Twenty some odd years of my life are in this office, he mused, reaching up to straighten an errant tome. No wife, no marriage, no kids. Lots of money, tons of prestige, acclaim and awards. Big house, fancy cars, a butler, the best of everything, he chuckled. Just then the phone rang and he strode over to his desk. Picking up the phone, he put the receiver to his ear. I’m not in. I’m not here. Got a problem with that? Well, I don’t care. Deal with it! And he slammed the phone back down into its cradle.

The phone rang again.

Ahh, crap! John swore and he snatched up the receiver once again.

Don’t hang up! The male voice shouted before John could utter a word.

Why the hell not?!

Because there’s no way in hell that I can eat this entire pizza all by myself!

Sounds like a personal problem to me.

"Well, it will be if I do succeed in eating the whole damn thing. Wanna come over?"

No. You’re on your own tonight.

Spoil sport, whined his brother. What’re you trying to do, lose some weight so you can score with some hot chick?

You are such a loser, John scoffed, though by no means was he serious about the accusation. Look, the only hot chick I’m interested in is what comes in the red and white bucket on the way home from work. Besides, I don’t need to lose weight.

Eh, it was a shot, his brother replied with what was obviously an unseen shrug.

A poorly aimed one at that.

So, you having a bad day, or what? His brother asked… the words coming out rather mumbled as he chewed around a rather large bite of pepperoni pizza.

No, just the usual.

Re-thinking your life again?

Yeah, I guess, John sighed, irritably.

Why don’t you just give it up, man. Look, you’ve had this awesome career, now retire and go live on the beach in Tahiti or something.

What good would that do me?

Man, if you have to ask, maybe you should really think about doing it.

I don’t want to do it!

Man, I can’t believe you said that.

Well, I don’t!

John… yo bro, maybe that’s your problem.

Wha… ? He began to form a quick-witted retort, but then realized just what his brother was getting at. You son of a… .

Now… now, mom wouldn’t like to know that you cussed out your little brother.

Have you graduated yet?

From college? You know I have!

No, I meant from Sandbox! Grow up!

I am grown up! I have a wife, and if I can’t convince you then maybe she can explain it to you.

Shut up, just… shut up, John spoke, heaving a huge sigh.

That’s always your answer for everything, isn’t it? Just don’t talk about it. Keep it all tucked neatly and safely away, deep down inside where it can do no one any harm, except for perhaps… yourself.

You’re the shrink, you should know, John shrugged, not really caring where this conversation was going.

Man, I’d love to analyze you sometime, the younger brother stated wistfully.

Analyze this, pal! John snapped, invisibly flipping off his brother.

Shame on you, his brother replied, grinning.

Look, is this conversation over?

Yeah, I guess it is if you don’t want any pizza.

Thanks for asking, but all I want is… all I want is… I just want… John muttered, stumbling over thoughts that tumbled through his mind like a kaleidoscope out of control.

All you want is… his brother repeated… trying to lead him, seeking to coax an answer from his older, highly-successful and tragically frustrated brother.

All I want is… ah, hell! John swore, frustrated that he wasn’t able to translate his thoughts into words.

Nope, can’t get that for you, and that’s my final answer. hell is entirely out of my league, thank God.

I just want peace and quiet, John answered.

I thought you had that already, his brother commented as he raised a dark brown bottle of Mountain Man ale to his waiting lips.

I want purpose.

You have that, Joe said, and up-ending the bottle, he took a long, intense swig of the cold brew.

Well, then I got someone else’s purpose because it doesn’t fit me very well!

What do you want to do?

I don’t know.

Where do you want to do it?

I have no idea.

How will you go about getting it?

Not a clue.

You’re not helping me much here, his brother commented while taking another bite of pizza.

Hey, you’re the one who called.

Something I will think through more fully before I pick up the phone again, I assure you.

Look, Joe… I’m sorry, okay? It’s just been one of those days.

I figured that much, Joe verbally shrugged in between belches.

Oh, that sounded real nice there, John said with no small amount of disdain.

Thanks, but actually… it really wasn’t one of my better efforts, Joe concluded, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

I had one student drop by my office this afternoon…

Well, unless he had an explosive device on him, what’s the problem? Joe interrupted.

"She… she . . . wanted to know if she slept with me would that improve her finals grade."

Man, that’s some kind of chutzpah, Joe mused. What’d you say?

Of course not! John shouted. What do you take me for?!

Well, seems a lot of teachers go for that sort of thing these days.

Well, this one most definitely does not!

Okay… okay, simmer down, I didn’t mean anything by it. Have you considered medication?

Joe… really, I mean it, go to…

I know… I know, you want me to go to hell. Can’t. Booked solid. Okay, so you told her no.

Right. I told her no, and she left.

Okay then, no biggie.

It’s just the concept, Joe. Why do these young people think they can put forth absolutely zero effort and skate by for free?

Best guess is that because they’ve tried it before… and succeeded. They figure, it worked once, why not again? The problem is… they can’t, not with a prof like you.

Precisely.

It’s a wonder you have a waiting list for your classes… with you not puttin’ out, ya know?

Joooe… John growled, and the distinct sound of warning in his voice did not go un-noticed by his brother.

Okay, so is that all that happened today?

They promoted a known loser to full professor…

That’s just politics, man. We live far too near DC to escape any fallout from the convoluted machinations of a power-hungry government gone out of control. You should be used to political crap by now.

I will never get used to it. It’s just not right, some things are just not right!

Then learn how to deal with it, came Joe’s calm response.

Shut up.

How can I communicate with you if I shut up?

I… oh crap.

You gotta use the bathroom?

No, I meant… just… oh crap!

Okay, carry on, Joe said simply, and something about the tone of his voice caused John to stop short.

What’d you say? John asked, a quizzical expression touching his good-looking features.

Me? Nothing, Joe replied as he drained the rest of the beer from the dark brown bottle.

No, really. What did you just say? John asked, for some reason something his brother had said piqued his interest.

Uh… carry on?

That’s it! Yeah, ‘carry on’.

And this is an epiphany in what way? Joe asked, wondering where his brother was going with this newly discovered idea.

I’m not sure.

Cool. Feeling better?

Yeah, in some strange way, I am, John commented, a curious frown creasing his beleaguered forehead.

Good. You’ll get my bill in the mail.

No doubt. Talk to you later.

Yep, Joe replied, a huge belch roiling forth from his lips.

Nice, John chuckled… finally.

I do what I can. Okay, catch ya later.

Sure thing. Bye, John muttered and the men each hung up their respective phones. Carry on, the erstwhile professor mumbled as he grabbed his coat and briefcase. Now, frustrated in a whole new way, he headed toward the door, and the words touched his lips again.

Carry on.

Chapter 3

This is not the way I pictured Christmas this year, sighed Captain David R. Wilkinson as he gazed mournfully about himself.

What? In a rain-soaked foxhole in the middle of some God-forsaken desert, isn’t your cup o’tea? Lt. Col. Martin Wojtysiak commented, casting a droll expression at the captain before turning his attention back to the business at hand. I wish you’d stop doing that, he asked, his gruff tone of voice belying his inner emotions, which were really much more heartfelt for the men in his command. Especially Sergeant John Hodges who lay on his back… injured, in front of him as the commanding officer lifted the hastily discarded T-shirt to check on the flow of blood.

How’s he doing, sir? Master Sergeant Ryan Close asked, and genuinely concerned about the deteriorating condition of his fellow Marine, he leaned over… toward his downed compatriot in order to get a better view of the injury.

He’s bleeding, if you must know! The colonel snapped.

Well, bite my head off… sir! Ryan muttered as he sat back down onto the hard-packed ground.

I think he just did, the prone patient commented, quite unexpectedly.

When’d you come too? Colonel Wojtysiak asked, glancing down at the patient.

A few minutes ago, but I heard you guys and figured I was still here… in Indra, in this stinking foxhole, so I tried to pass out again.

No such luck?

No, sir, John gasped, momentarily wincing in pain.

Well, then try again, man! Marines never give up! Dave commented… chuckling, though desperately trying to lighten the currently depressed mood of the men.

Since the shelling and gunfire seemed to have stopped, he crept to his knees. Rising slowly, the captains helmet-clad head seemed to eerily appear from the mist as he tried to glance about the men’s surroundings… their extremely hostile surroundings.

Where the hell is Chavez, anyway? Ryan asked curiously.

He’ll be here, be patient, Col. Wojtysiak offered.

How can you be so sure? Hell, the kids only nineteen, he’s barely out of diapers yet.

"Hey, lay off the kid lest I remind you… sergeant that he volunteered to run back to the chopper to see if the radio was working."

Probably not, the thing was toast.

Stop makin’ with the negativity, Close! That’s an order, the colonel stated in no uncertain terms. Besides… he added, turning his attention back to his patients still bleeding wound, the kids twenty… not nineteen, or something… isn’t he? Haven’t you run out of blood yet? He rhetorically asked the prone sergeant.

Sorry sir, I’ve always been a bit of an over-achiever, the patient jokingly replied even though he was grinning through clenched teeth.

Bleeds with the best of ’em, huh? Dave chuckled, and then quickly dove back down into the depths of the foxhole as enemy gunfire, sporadic though it may be, erupted once again. Damn! I heard that one go right past my fecking helmet! Dave gasped as he hunkered back down again, folding his arms protectively across his chest.

What’s a fecking helmet? Sgt. Close asked, casting a quizzical glance at the captain.

Nothing, Dave awkwardly replied, wishing to not have to explain his choice of words… again.

He promised him’s Mommy that him’s wouldn’t cuss anymore, the colonel spoke up, using a very non-Marine-like tone of baby talk.

I did not! Snapped Dave. If you must know, it was my grand-mother, you idiot!

Captain, I believe you just referred to me as an idiot and unless I’m very mistaken… that’s a no-no, Wojtysiak commented, in a rather off-hand sort of way.

Rules change in foxholes, the captain grumpily replied. Besides, I thought we were all friends.

Guess I missed the memo, Col. Wojtysiak replied, and then let the subject drop knowing that they were all under an extreme amount of tension at the moment. "And yeah… we are friends," Martin shrugged, abandoning the topic.

Temper… temper, gentlemen, Sgt. Close murmured. The colonel, as well as everyone else in attendance, fully realized that the men were in a compromised position having had their CH-46 Sea Knight helicopter shot down while enroute back to the base. It could only have been the providence of a benevolent God that saw them escape the crash and end up, only a couple hundred feet from the sight of the blazing helicopter, in a long-abandoned foxhole. Did you see anything out there? Sgt. Hodges asked, managing to speak even though he was in pain, and his throat was parched.

Nothing, Wilkinson muttered, uneasily.

I think the bleedings slowing up some, Col. Wojtysiak commented, once again checking on the T-shirt that had only recently been olive drab.

Good. He’s probably just running out, chuckled Dave. Can we check your dipstick, John? See just how low you are? The captain asked with a chuckle.

You guys can just leave my dipstick the hell alone! Hodges replied with as much gusto as he had the energy for, which wasn’t much at the moment.

I didn’t mean… gasped a startled Dave.

We know what you meant, captain… but before the colonel could say another word the men all startled at the sound of a blood-curdling cry. Holy hell, what was that? Gasped the colonel, and it was quite out of character for him to utter those words in such an apparently terrified whisper.

I don’t know, but we’d better shoot it and put it out of its misery, remarked Capt. Wilkinson as they all warily glanced about the darkened confines of the foxhole, and at each other.

Sounds… Army, doesn’t it? The wounded patient quipped, and then winked when several eyes stared at him wonderingly.

Would you just lay there. Shut the feck up, and just bleed. Hell, Hodges… joked Ryan, shaking his head.

Just then the sound of the screaming banshee drew near and Master Sergeant Close and Captain Wilkinson both readied their service weapons, just in case. No one knew what was happening, but no one felt it was any good, to be sure.

Just then Corporal Josh Chavez came running at a full-out sprint up to the foxhole. He must’ve been being chased by the very denizens of hell, for the young corporal never slowed up one bit… that is, until his next stride hit thin air and he sprawled headlong into the manmade crater.

Crap! Chavez! My nuts! Captain Wilkinson shouted, and gasping for his next inhalation he roughly shoved the breathless corporal off his now prone body.

Sorry sir, bad landing, Josh gasped, trying to regain his breath.

Well, the next time lower your flaps and put your damn gear down first, and don’t… I repeat, don’t… land on me! The captain shouted, and with his hands firmly… yet indiscreetly placed to his lower torso, he rolled onto his side, groaning in abject misery.

At least he ain’t bleedin’ like Hodges there, offered the winded corporal with a shrug as he gestured toward the offended officer.

Chavez! What the feck is going on out there?! Lt. Colonel Wojtysiak demanded, and all eyes riveted on the commanding officer for his particular use of that word.

Bad guys, sir, Corporal Chavez replied, rather simply.

Nooo, gasped the injured, though still sarcastic Sergeant Hodges, thankful that the erstwhile corporal hadn’t landed on his already injured body.

Absolutely, Chavez replied, seriously. I got most of ’em. But there were a few…

How many? The colonel questioned.

I’m not sure, sir. A few.

How many is a few, Chavez! The colonel demanded, rather than asked.

I… sir, I’m thinking… maybe ten?

Ten. That’s not bad. We score that many just walking to chow, Ryan commented, casting a hopeful glance at his superior officer.

You get any?

Twenty-eight, initially, the corporal stated definitely, adding a curt nod for emphasis.

Twen… twenty-eight?!

Yeah… I mean, yes sir. I just flipped my rifle to auto and bzzzz… done, gone… end o’story, Josh explained easily, adding a simple shrug for good measure.

You’re an animal, Chavez! An animal! Captain Wilkinson enthused, high-fiving the young man. Don’t you just love this guy?! He added, clapping the young corporal on the back.

Oh yeah… we dream about him every night, John commented from the damp ground on which he was laying.

Shut uuup, the corporal muttered under his breath.

Did the radio work? Marty asked, bringing the conversation back on topic.

Not really.

How so?

The chopper… bless her, she’s toast, sir, Josh answered, shaking his head.

Some corporal you are… won’t even enter a downed, burning helicopter. Wuse, Sergeant Hodges joked, even though he was in severe pain.

Hey man, if you weren’t bleedin’, I’d duke it out with you over that. Besides, I went inside her, Josh verbally retaliated, in a friend-to-friend sort of way.

You braggin’, or complainin’?

Boys… boys, let’s play nice now.

"We do play nice, boss… but they… those nuts out there, they don’t," Chavez stated, pointing in the direction of the insurgents in question, even though in reality he was pointing at a sandy dirt wall.

Colonel, even if we do take’em out, we’re still way the hell out in the middle of nowhere, and Hodges there is bleedin’ like a stuck pig.

"Thanks for reminding me… friend," the prone sergeant retorted.

Actually, the bleedings stopped, Colonel Wojtysiak updated the condition of the patient.

But if we move him, it might start again.

Naw, I’m pretty sure he’s bangin’ on empty right about now.

Hey now… don’t mess with the Purple Heart candidate, John chuckled, but just as quickly grimaced from the pain that the meager action caused.

Oh yeah, you think just because you’re bleeding… . Josh, the patients good friend, tried to offer the next smartass comment but was quickly interrupted.

Shhh, the colonel hissed, holding up a hand in a stop sign sort of gesture. Hear that?

Hear what?

Precisely my point. It’s quiet.

Uh-oh, Dave murmured worriedly as he grabbed his sidearm and he, Chavez and Close all prepared for the worst.

Only ten guys, remember?

"Ten… nuts," Chavez corrected.

Ten, Dave repeated calmly. On three… stand and let go.

Permission granted to mow’em down, sir? Chavez asked hopefully.

You bet.

Right on! The exuberant corporal exclaimed, but the rest of the men, older and hopefully wiser, just rolled their eyes and took a steadying breath.

You got Hodges covered, boss? Captain Wilkinson asked.

Yeah. Just do your job, the colonel solemnly nodded in Wilkinson’s direction. And captain, do not, under any circumstances… let… them… win, Martin added as somber eyes met eyes forged with steel.

Don’t worry, sir. They won’t, Dave reassured the colonel, and taking a moment to make eye contact with the other men leading the assault, he then proceeded to count. One. Two. Three!

Immediately, three Marines leapt to their feet, rifles and handguns blazing. John grimaced from the sharp staccato rapport of the weapons, while the colonel did