Unity Ranch

By Patrick McCarthy

In the sixties, a trio of young blacks from Detroit descend upon the racially homogenous plains of Eastern Colorado to start a ranch.  In their quest, they partner with a drifting hippie and a college reject to form lifelong relationships and serendipitous success.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597051415

Book preview

Dedication

I dedicate this book to the writers who lost their lives and careers in Vietnam, for their untold stories.

Part One

One

The soft breeze sifted through the palms with such a calming effect that it was hard for him to believe he was in the middle of a war. Waves lapped along the banks with a soft rhythm that could put a man to sleep. The mesmeric drone of the boat’s engine that lazily pushed the craft up stream didn’t help any. Yes, that was a very hard time to stay awake, but Ned Washington had been through long boring nights before, only to have them punctuated with moments of sheer terror. Staying awake was necessary for survival. Sleep-starved decisions were safer than naps.

He was irritated at how the two new sailors, Randy and Dan, took the enchanting evening with such nonchalance. They’d been assigned to his PBR (Patrol Boat River) about six weeks ago. Neither had experienced how nights like this could turn into terror in a heartbeat. Ned thought back to what he’d seen just before embarking on this mission. He remembered how Lieutenant Walker abruptly left muttering staccato grunts of profanities after receiving the orders. That both amused and bothered Ned. It amused him because the word fuck was so overused in the Navy; it took special imagination and creativity to express lucid thoughts without it. Lucid thoughts were not usually a product of the lieutenant’s mind. Other than being amused, Ned had a sick feeling about the reaction. The lieutenant stammered off and did not talk to anyone for several hours. The next night, he and his crew were up the river.

Ned emphatically hissed at the men, Knock off that bullshit and how ‘bout payin’ more attention to what is happenin’ on the starboard bank ferchrissake. Man your weapons and stand by. I heard something up that inlet. Be quiet, it was really faint. Lieutenant, cut the engine down a notch so we can hear. Ned cupped his ears for several minutes, and then said in a hushed tone, Okay Lieutenant, let’s go.

Ned was a Second Class Petty Officer, an electrician’s mate to be exact. Although he was well below the lieutenant in rank, everyone knew who really ran things once the PBR was underway. Ned smoked a little weed in the past, but with his new responsibilities, he never touched the stuff. His pants fit a little looser and his appetite was weak. He forced himself to eat. As the weeks passed, he asserted his opinions more to Lieutenant Smith. In turn, the lieutenant asked Ned for advice on just about everything.

Two

The eastern plains of Colorado took a back seat to the rest of the state in most categories. Nobody ever went out there for vacation. They headed to Aspen, Vail, or some other nook. When the news networks reported the weather back east, all they usually reported was the snow accumulations in the mountains. They never told the people in Boston about the weather in Greeley. All the weathermen wanted to talk about was the conditions in those mountains. Due to all this negative publicity, Colorado’s weather was one of the best-kept secrets in the country. The lack of humidity made summers cooler and winters warmer. Eastern Colorado winters were a cakewalk compared New York, Chicago or Seattle.

The state flower of Colorado was the columbine. It grew throughout the mountains and foothills. It was the perfect little artisan’s choice fitting right in there with the corduroy wearing, latte sucking, twits who invaded the place. It was a wimp of a flower.

The real flower of the state was the wild sunflower. Now that was one stud of a flower. If you took away its water, it spat in your face. It ate droughts for lunch. If you cut it down, it grew back bigger the next year. They were everywhere on the plains. It was the only flower people feared. They feared not being able to get rid of it. The flowers’ omnipresent polka dotting of ditches consumed nature’s yellow quotient for the area.

The region was east of Fort Collins and northeast of Greeley. The Rocky Mountains bounced along its western horizon. It was funny how one could travel from the east on absolutely flat land all the way from Ohio, then suddenly drive into the side of the Rocky Mountains. Mother Nature forgot to give any warning. She put down a few foothills near Fort Collins and suddenly motorists were staring at the snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains.

The buffalo was supposed to be the high plains dominator, but the little prairie dogs were impressive. They lived out there around the aforementioned sunflowers. People tried to shoot them, poison them, relocate them, or wipe them off the face of the earth. If there was an empty lot on the edge of town, they beat a path to it quicker than an in-style hiker trampled off the trail. They were survivors. When the prairie dog had his territory encroached upon by that hiker, the riled rodent stuck its head out of his hole and barked a litany of prairie dog profanities at the intruder.

Chester and Lester Gleckler spent their early years growing up amongst all those prairie dogs and sunflowers. They were twins, but different as Holsteins and Herefords. Chet was the shy one who took a more analytical view of life, and Les was more kinetic. It was Les who made his rancher father proud by participating in the Mutton Buster events at the local rodeos, and showing more interest than Chet in the daily activities around the ranch.

Actually, the ranch was just a farm, a seventy-eight acre spread of corn, wheat and a dozen steers, but the boys’ father Jake hated calling his place a farm. Just where was it that a farm became a ranch? In Louisiana they didn’t call them ranches, but if you crossed the state line into Texas and called the smallest parcel a farm, Texans would gore you with one of the horns strapped on the hood of their Cadillac. Calling them ranches in Nebraska or Kansas was a stretch. Once you reached Colorado, however, they should have put on the sign at the state line reading: Welcome to Colorful Colorado. It’s OK to call them ranches now.

Chet was the one who made his mother Mary proud. Always doing a bit better in school than other kids his age, he was the brain of the pair and Les, the muscle. Similar in appearance, they were tall, rangy kids with wavy manes turned golden by the Colorado sun. Their long hair was a bone of contention between their parents. Mother Mary won that argument every time. They were the typical high plains family and the twins were the quintessential ranch rats of the region. Different as the boys were, they were inseparable.

Mother Mary tried her best to get the boys some culture by driving them into Fort Collins, a small upscale city sporting Colorado State University. Frequently she ushered her little buckaroos to plays at the university, and exposed them to cuisine other than red meat at good restaurants. On most trips, she insisted they visit the mall. It was her secret desire to get the boys to wear anything other than ranch-wear. She won the battle with Jake over the boy’s hair, but their Wrangler, Stetson, Roper wearin’ dad had put his Tony Lamas down right then and there.

She thought the exposure to other fashions would be good for them, but it had different effects on the boys. Les loved wearing his shit-kickers in a sea of loafers, tweed, and leftover beatnik regalia. Chet wasn’t into the department store fads. He looked forward to the day he could dress like those crazy students down in Boulder.

At that age, Les hadn’t given college any thought because he knew he was going to be a rancher like his dad and that didn’t take any brains according to Mother Mary. The real truth, however, was that Mother Mary was no intellectual acrobat and Jake was above average when it came to sorting out the travails of life.

Mother Mary had a way of elevating her intellectual image by constantly referring to the activities of her husband as stupid. Chet wanted to grow up to be refined and intelligent like his mentally challenged mother, and Les wanted to be nice and stupid like his father, whom he thought a very bright asshole. Although Mother Mary was a little slight of gray matter, God gave her a far, far greater gift in the form of two titanic tits mounted on a svelte body.

Mother Mary was a good mother and wife. She was an upstanding pillar of the community (if you could find one). When she was young, she was in 4H, the Nifty Needlers, cheerleading, home economics, and band. She was a nice girl in her youth. She became dutifully righteous when anybody cursed in her presence.

In spite of that perfect upbringing, she did develop a nasty habit as an adult. Buried deep beneath her angelic aura lay a monster. It was a monster that made men mutter. That monster was her realization that she could wield her anatomical attributes with more persuasive power than any cognitive process she ever had in her life. To counter being outsmarted, and to neutralize any sudden testosterone infiltration, a well-placed tit was always handy. Of course, the boys and Jake had no idea of what happened and never knew what had hit them. They just chalked it up to—women.

Three

It was a moonlit, erection throbbing, nipple nibbling, moon-over-Miami night, if you happened to be in the States. The only thing throbbing there was the PBR’s engine and Lieutenant Walker’s chest. He hated the weather in Viet Nam. He constantly removed his hat and blotted his forehead. He hated the humidity, along with the bugs, shakes and prickly plants that came along with it. The jungle never set well with the lieutenant’s pudgy body and nervous makeup.

Ned thought the engine was running a little noisy the last several weeks and was checking the fluids and electrical more often than usual. It just didn’t sound right to Ned, who watched Dan deal to Randy in a game of 500 Rummy. A battle lantern illuminated their cards.

You make damn sure you keep that light contained or I will personally knock your lights out. Is that clear? And God damn it, be quiet, snapped Ned.

They were a pair of rummies. Ned wondered how they could be so oblivious to the all-encompassing danger. Being relaxed was one thing, but their lack of concern was another. Ned wondered if they watched too many war movies with great musical scores like South Pacific. That war movie was romantic and had all the death and horror filtered out. The Vietnamese full moon that night made Ned nervous. It put the PBR at a huge disadvantage.

The only person on board who knew what their mission was, or exactly where they were, was Lieutenant Wilson. That bothered Ned. He didn’t trust the lieutenant’s mental engineering. Ned figured he would freeze-up when he got into deep shit and would not make great decisions. He repeatedly asked the lieutenant to keep him better informed about the missions, but the lieutenant, protecting his ego and turf, always declined.

Ned routinely thought out different situational survival tactics. Some of those thoughts he shared with others and some he kept to himself. The crew never took him seriously when he asked what they’d do in particular circumstances. They gave minimal musings for answers.

Suddenly, Ned froze like a cat on the attack. For a few seconds, he squinted at the inlet on the bank. In a hushed voice, he said, Lieutenant, cut that engine a bit. Do you see movement in that inlet off the starboard bow? Man your weapons and don’t make any noise! Get your ears on and listen tight. God Damn it, turn off that battle lantern!

Everything became quiet as a nursery at naptime. Birds that normally fought during the day over food scraps were in their nocturnal truce. The only things that stirred were the stealthy creatures of the night, and that included the Viet Cong.

Holy shit, they’re off our port rudder. Let’s get the Hell out of here! They’re stalking us and in the water. They are on both banks. Let’s move, Ned yelled.

There was no sense being quiet any more. The Cong knew the location of the PBR. The anticipated noise of the firing began, but another anticipated sound that was horrifyingly absent was that of the PBR’s engine.

Lieutenant, fer chrissake, let’s go! This is going to be hot. Let’s go! yelled Ned.

The fucker stalled, yelled the lieutenant. She won’t crank.

Call in air support, Lieutenant. This is going to be a bitch. I’ll keep trying to get her started, growled Ned.

Ned frantically tried every technical trick in the book to get the engine started, but to no avail.

I got‘em, yelled the lieutenant.

How far are out they, and who’s comin’? asked Ned.

Gooney Bird ‘bout eight to ten minutes out, barked the lieutenant.

Shit, we won’t last that long! screamed Dan.

Dan simply shot into an area where he thought the Cong were. He had no idea if his shots were close. That was the first time he fired a weapon in actual combat. Suddenly, Ned realized that all