The Man Who Wouldn't Die Special Posting For Veterans Day by BJ Neblett

 The Man Who Wouldn't Die A Special Posting For Veterans Day by BJ Neblett

Wishing all a happy and healthful Veterans Day. Here is one of my most popular short stories. Let's all learn from it.

Peace,

BJ

The Man Who Wouldn’t Die

BJ Neblett

© 2009, 2015, 2021   

 

The subject known as X was a healthy extremely fit and tone young man of about nineteen or twenty years of age. X first came to see me a week ago. He was agitated and under extreme duress. Refusing a mild sedative, he demanded he be given a complete check-up, including some procedures not normally associated with a routine physical examination. When he returned to my office yesterday, I had the results of those tests.

            And X had a most unusual tale to tell.

 

            “It is good to see you again. Please, sit down.”

            “Thank you, Doctor.”

            “How are you feeling? You seem much more relaxed today.”

            His gaze passed through me. It was the one striking feature on an otherwise ordinary appearing individual: his eyes, black and dull. Even as I think about them now I am filled with an unexplained dread. Hollow and empty, his eyes were those of a corpse.

            “Yes, Doctor… better, calmer… for now. The tests… do you have the results of the tests?”

            “I do. But as I suspected and told you, they show nothing out of the ordinary. There is nothing physically wrong with you.”

            He looked up at me sheepishly, as if afraid to ask. “Tell me, Doctor, please.”

            “Very well… all of your vitals are fine. Heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, and respiration… all fine. Blood work came back negative as did toxins and other samples. The only thing which stands out is that your vitals and counts are slightly elevated; stronger than normal. This is certainly no cause for alarm.”

            His voice turned anxious. “Go on…”

            “Your reflexes and motor skills scored better than average; eyesight is remarkable. And I have never seen muscle tissue or bone as dense as yours.”

            “And the rest…?” With the question, X once again became somewhat agitated. I was struck with the feeling he knew the results before I gave them.

            “Well… brain activity and function did test elevated, but normal. You can rest assured you are strong; healthy. Why I wouldn’t be surprised if you lived to be one hundred and twenty!”

            With that X began to fidget nervously. My words, which certainly should have assuaged any fears, seemed rather to trouble him. He looked at me intently, those dark eyes studying, piercing. Finally, X reached into his pocket, withdrew a photograph, and presented it to me. It was the picture of a man with graying hair and other signs of impending middle age.

            “How old would you say he is?” X asked.

            “Oh, perhaps forty or so, I guess.” It was then I realized the figure in the picture possessed the same chilling, dark, dead eyes. “Is this your father?”

            X tensed in his seat. His mouth pursed, and then slightly curled in what I can only describe as a failed attempt to smile. “No… no, Doctor. That is not my father. The man in the picture is me.”

            While his words were delusional, X’s posture remained alert, attentive. “You do realize the person in this picture while bearing a striking resemblance to you, is easily twice your age.”

            This time the smile broke through the stoic demeanor. It was a half crooked; I’ve got a secret sort of smile which sent chills throughout my body. Combined with those hollow, dead eyes it was a look I shall never forget.

            “But it is me, Doctor,” he began calmly, with an icy detachment of fact. “This is what I look like when I… if I…”

            He paused.

            We sat for an indeterminable, uncomfortable time studying each other. Finally, X seemed to make up his mind. “It’s the curse you know… the curse...”

            “Perhaps you should tell me about this curse.”

            He arose slowly, his hands finding the bottom of his trouser pockets, and wandered over to the window.

            And so began X’s strange tale.

 

            “War,” he said at last, “war is the curse, Doctor. War… killing… from the moment Cain killed his brother man has been marked. Marked with the blood of Abel, and cursed, cursed with the thirst to make war; to kill his fellow man. It is as normal as breathing. There will always be wars, Doctor. And there will always be young men to fight them.”

            Those empty, hollow eyes glazed over, turning inward… seeing… remembering.

            “I was a sergeant in the cavalry,” he continued. “We’d been engaging the enemy all day long, pointless hit and run skirmishes that slaughter men and gain nothing. Ironically, it was the day of my birthday. By late afternoon everyone was exhausted, the fighting scattered over a quarter-mile of rough ground. A cannon shell landed nearby knocking me unconscious. When I came to it was dark and I was alone, the battle had moved on.

            “Slowly, cautiously I began to make my way through the unfamiliar terrain. After a time, I became aware of something in the woods. It seemed to be following me, marking my progress, moving as I did.

            “I turned.

            “Suddenly, there was a flash of blue steel in the moonlight. Leveling my pistol, I fired twice. A figure staggered from the brush and collapsed.

            “I approached my victim. To my horror, he was just a boy, maybe twenty years old. And he was unarmed. Clutched in his fingers was a crucifix. It was the shiny metal cross that I had mistaken for a weapon.

            “I knelt beside the lad, struck by my detestable deed. Then, without warning, his eyes flew open wide! Clutching at my shirt, his mouth contorted into a soul-searing scream. He thrust the damnable silver cross into my hands.

            “And then…”

            Beads of perspiration dotted X’s forehead. He trembled and began to pace.

            “… then an incredible expression, one of total and unimaginable peace, settled over him, and he died quietly in my arms.

            “It was then and there that I knew I was cursed; that I would never again find peace.”

            It became obvious to me that X was suffering from some sort of severe post-traumatic stress. The cause of his stress seemed obvious. “It is not unusual,” I suggested, “for a young man as you to have lingering feelings of guilt about tragic events in their lives.”

            X turned suddenly, his face now ablaze with the most insipid grin. He laughed aloud. “Young man… young man, indeed! But you don’t understand, Doctor. I wasn’t a young man. I was thirty-five years old! And the year was sixty-three… eighteen sixty-three! I was a sergeant in the 16^th Texas Cavalry with Jeb Stewart. It was the Battle of Milliken’s Bend, Louisiana, what became known as our Civil War!”

            He laughed again, the terrifying baying of a mad man. And yet, throughout his discourse, it became evident that he believed what he was saying.

            “You said it yourself, Doctor. You said you wouldn’t be surprised if I lived to be one hundred and twenty! If only that were true! If only that was where it ended…

            “But no… not at all…

            “After the war, I returned home. Things settled into a comfortable routine. The war was all but forgotten. Then, on my sixtieth birthday, it began to happen. The changes were slow, subtle, and nearly imperceptible. It was my wife who was the first to notice. But within ten years it was frighteningly obvious – I was aging but aging backward; growing younger! My grey hair gave way to its natural dark color and was growing again where it had ceased. My skin seemed to shrink, smoothing itself over my body, erasing the telltale traces of time. Old scars healed and disappeared. Even my eyes grew stronger; I put aside my glasses. And I began to feel as I did in my twenties: strong, healthy, and alive again. And young! My God, I was… I was young again… a young man of twenty!”

            This time his laugh was sardonic; bitter.

            “Providence has its price, Doctor.

            “On the day of my seventieth birthday, I awoke to find myself once again in uniform. I was a new man but with a familiar role to play in life’s capricious game. All that remained of my former life was this…”

            Reaching into his shirt, X tore a metal crucifix and chain from around his neck, flinging it to the floor.

            “…this cursed cross. Before I could comprehend what was happening, I was on horseback; charging up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders. I was twenty again, Doctor, yes. But I was twenty and brandishing revolver and rapier; fighting on foreign soil, and forced once again to slay my fellow man!

            “Returning to the states, I tried to make some sense of this maleficent manifestation. I had a new identity, a new beginning, a fresh start at life. At first, I thought myself blessed.

            “How wrong can one man be? How very, very wrong… not blessed at all but cursed…

            “About the time of what would have been my eighty-fifth year, although I carried the looks and constitution of a man just thirty-five, I began to regress again, to age backward. Only the process progressed with amazing rapidity. Changes seemed to take place overnight. In three short years, I was back to being a young man of twenty again! This time on my birthday I awoke huddled in a mud and blood-soaked trench near Verdun, France. All about me, weird, mechanized monsters spewed fire and destruction. We had created even more efficient means of dispatching our fellow man. It was the war to end all wars. Only it didn’t… and certainly not for me.”

            X returned to his seat. A tormented look of determination, which was that of a man desperately baring his soul, shadowed his grim face.

            “Life became a nightmarish roller coaster ride. I would live and age as anyone for a time. Then, one morning, there’d be one less grey hair, one less wrinkle staring back at me from the mirror. And I’d know it would be just a matter of time.

            “It was my one hundred and thirteenth year on earth. I was forty-five again but looked not a day over twenty-one. I awoke, transported in space and time once more, an Ensign aboard the U.S. Battleship California at Pearl Harbor as the Japanese attacked! Now the devastation reached to the heavens, as airships rained death from above.

            “I tried abandoning my conspicuous companion, dropping the insidious icon into the ocean; burning it; even burying the regenerating relic in a graveyard by moonlight. But to no avail…

            “… I became a twenty-two-year-old lieutenant at the Chosin Reservoir in Korea. Nightly, endless waves of human mayhem descended like locus, obliterating everything in their path. A decade and a half after that war I awoke in a rice paddy. I was a nineteen-year-old corporal caught up in the hopeless chaos of Vietnam during the Tet offensive.

            “For a time, it seemed I had finally beaten the curse. Ten years slipped by… fifteen… I was aging normally again. But it didn’t last. Soon I began to once more regress. I found myself manning the gun turret of a deadly desert tank. Incredibly, our fight was not over borders or principles, Doctor, but for oil! Then, not long after, I was back fighting in yet another desert war, defending ideals I couldn’t comprehend.

            “And I survived, doctor. Each time I survived the nightmare to awake and to kill again; the bewitched crucifix hanging about my neck like an albatross.”

            He slumped into his chair, exhausted from his startling confession. Burying his head in his hands, X began to softly weep. It was my duty to help this poor tortured being climb from the depths of his delusional mind. I touched his shoulder.

            “Well,” I encouraged, “whatever it is that is troubling you, I am sure we can get to the bottom of it.”

            “No!” X screamed, knocking aside my hand. Looking up, his countenance became that of a man possessed. “No! You don’t understand!” He snatched the photograph he’d shown me, from the desk. “This picture… it is me! This is how I was not very long ago. But look at me, Doctor… you said it… you said I appear to be around twenty!

            “From cannons to tanks to airplanes to Scud missiles… where does it all end?

            “And tomorrow… tomorrow, Doctor… is my birthday, and I will be once more constrained into battle!”

            By now X was raving, near violent. With some assistance, I was able to administer a strong sedative. I placed him in the quiet ward of the hospital, taking precautions to secure him to his bed. The enigmatic crucifix, which appeared to be ancient and perhaps gothic, I locked in my safe. When I left, X was sleeping peacefully.

 

            Arriving at the hospital this morning, I discovered X was gone. We searched the grounds thoroughly but to no avail. Further investigation revealed that the crucifix, too, had mysteriously vanished. And then word came that war had broken out.

 

Purple Heart by BJ Neblett

For Veterans Day, one of my most popular stories, based on actual events. Enjoy this story of heroism, sacrifice and mystery as you remember all who served.
BJ

Purple Heart

BJ Neblett

© 1974, 2014

            Fighting had been heavy in recent weeks. The Viet Cong were determined to make this Veterans Day a memorable and bloody one for the US.

            The jungle plains around Bu Dop, a strategic village on the Cambodian border, were normally quiet. Occasionally, the enemy crossed the border, made their way around behind the village, and then snuck back over in a flanking maneuver from the west. The small bands of guerillas and mercenaries were lightly armed and not well organized. They made hit and run raids on supply convoys or set IED’s – Improvised Explosive Devices – for patrols around Saigon.

            But the past few weeks saw a sharp increase in hostilities in the area between the capitol city and Bu Dop, one hundred klicks to the north. These were seasoned troops, North Vietnamese regulars, equipped with Russian made assault weapons as well as mortars and shouldered rocket launchers supplied by the Chinese. The surprise escalation caught US forces off guard, and causalities were mounting. Frightened locals flooding into Saigon clogged vital roads, making a bad situation worse.

            Sgt. Ryan wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his fatigue shirt. He looked at the stain left by the combination of sweat, grime and camouflage grease paint. It was the rainy season in Southeast Asia. Like most of the men, Ryan ignored the army issued poncho. In the downpours common to the area, the protective cover felt hot, heavy and cumbersome. There was little one could do to stay dry. Rains fell like a violent steam shower in the dense jungle. Foot fungus; damp, malfunctioning weapons, and cold, wet meals were a fact of life while on patrol.

            Sgt. Ryan looked around. He took a grim mental count of the men in his command. When he set out seven days ago they numbered twenty one, split into three squads: Alpha, Delta and Echo. What was once Echo squad laid scattered several klicks behind along with some two dozen dead VC. The thirteen remaining battle weary GI’s, including three wounded, were headed back to base camp.

            “What the hell am I doing here?” Ryan muttered to himself for about the thousandth time. He adjusted the M-16 slung over his left shoulder. A year ago he was studying automotive mechanics at Lincoln Tech in Philadelphia, and engaged to his childhood sweetheart Carol Sawyer.

            Ryan relaxed against a tree as his men filed past. He thought about Carol. He used to have a picture of her. But like everything in this lousy forsaken jungle, it succumbed to the rain and humidity, crumbling in his hands one night as he pulled it from his breast pocket.

            But no amount of rain could blur its image tattooed in Ryan’s mind. Or the memory of the day she gave it to him.

            Ryan graduated at the top of his class at Lincoln Tech. Then his deferment ran out and Uncle Sam came calling. Carol was a freshman at Villanova University. The night before Ryan left they drove to the Springton Reservoir in his Dodge Coronet. It was their spot, about thirty yards from the boat ramp, a clearing between two old pine trees by the water’s edge. As they sat and talked, watching an orange moon rise over the frosted water, a pine cone dropped, denting the hood of the muscle car. Ryan was furious, jumping out and vowing to chop the offending tree down.

            Laughing, Carol ran a hand through his collar length wavy brown hair. The simple, affectionate act had an instant calming effect on Ryan. Carol’s touch always affected him that way.

            Hand in hand they wandered down to the water’s edge. It was there Carol gave him the snap shot of her. In it she wore his orange and black high school jacket. Long strands of golden rod hair tumbled over one shoulder partially covering the letter he earned in varsity baseball. Now that hair shimmered like a halo from the moonlight reflecting off the tranquil water. Carol looked like an angel. Ryan thought so the first time he saw her back in the fourth grade.

            “I have something for you, too,” Ryan said. He held out the keys to the red Coronet convertible. “I left some instructions in the glove box. Make sure you use only Sunoco 260, and change the oil every three months. She likes…”

            Carol accepted the keys putting a finger to his lips. “Pennzoil 20W50,” she said, smiling up at him. “I know. You forget I’ve spent as much time under her as you have. Sometimes I’m not sure which of us you love more.”

            She took her finger from his lips and they kissed. Later, alone in her bedroom, Carol cried herself to sleep.

            Despite his conflicting feelings about the war, Ryan determined to make the best of his service time. With typical military logic, the army completely ignored his mechanical aptitude and love of anything with a motor and wheels. Eight weeks basic training at Fort Dix, New Jersey, was followed by a grueling ten weeks in infantry school. Ryan and five others were offered a chance to receive further training in explosives. One of them was Kurt Taylor, Ryan’s lifelong friend and former rival for Carol’s affections.

            The two emerged as E-4’s, Specialists Fourth Class, experts in explosives and demolition. After a short leave, they found themselves attached to the 1^st Cavalry. It was then the friends discovered, despite the mechanized designation and the silhouetted horse’s head which graced their shield shaped arm patches, the cavalry did a lot of its moving on foot. In the thick over growth that covered much of South Vietnam, a vehicle of any type could be a liability, a fact US forces quickly learned the hard way.

            On their first patrol into the green, Ryan and Taylor’s unit was caught by surprise and hit hard. The fierce fighting, often close enough to make out the enemy’s frightening crooked sneer, cost the lives of a raw Lieutenant, both platoon leaders, and several young men. They were pinned down and desperate.        Acting on instincts and training, Ryan radioed in an artillery strike on their position. The result was a costly victory and a field promotion for his quick thinking and action. Ryan reluctantly accepted command of his own platoon, much to the ribbing of his friend Kurt.

            “Hey, you gonna hold up that tree all day?” It was PFC Washington. His words brought Ryan’s thoughts to the problems at hand. They were approaching base. He jogged through the sheets of rain, catching up to the others. Sgt. Ryan signaled and his men stopped, squatting behind available cover. Corporal Hunt un-slung the radio he carried.

            Outpost Tango Two-Nine-Five was located atop a low hill. It commanded a view of the valley and the single dirt road that wound its way through the jungle. The small compound, consisting of partially buried buildings and twin lookout towers, was surrounded by four rows of alternating chain fence and concertina wire. Anti-personnel fragmentation mines were scattered in-between. Beyond that a one hundred yard killing field had been cleared.

            “Tango Fox Trot Charlie, over…” Ryan spoke deep and clear into the radio’s handset, glad he got it right. Call signs and military lingo wasn’t his strong suit. Raindrops stung like bee stings as the wind shifted.

            “Tango Fox Trot Charlie, this is Tango Fox Trot Bravo Two Niner Five…over,” came the fuzzy reply.

            “Papa Bear, this is Yogi. We have Jellystone in sight, over.”

            “Yogi, this is Papa Bear. What’s for lunch? Repeat, what is for lunch?”

            “Order me a large pepperoni with extra cheese,” a voice said into Ryan’s unoccupied ear. The whites of Kurt’s eyes contrasted sharply against the chocolate pupils and dark, smeared grease paint. He wore the same familiar toothy grin.

            Ryan smiled back, shook his head and shooed Kurt away, trying to think of the counter-sign. Even in the green, Kurt could be counted on to make you laugh.

            “Picnic baskets,” Ryan said finally, “picnic baskets. Over…”

            “Acknowledged… over.”

            “Papa Bear, this is Yogi. Visual now, over...” With that Ryan nodded to PFC Johnson. The private lobbed an olive drab colored canister into the clearing.

            “Yogi, this is Papa Bear. I have green smoke at eight o’clock. Repeat… green smoke, over…”

            “Confirmed, over…”

            “Yogi, this is Papa Bear. Welcome home, over and out.”

            Ryan let out a long sigh and passed the handset back to Corporal Hunt. He looked over to Kurt who had removed his helmet. His dirty blonde hair was flattened and stuck out to the sides, below the impression left by the leather head band. Ryan couldn’t help but laugh. It was the worst case of hat head he’d ever seen.

            Despite the dirt and grease paint and the stark realities of bloody combat, Ryan realized his friend still possessed the eager expression and questioning eyes of a young boy. Sitting there in the rain, they could have been playing war games in Kurt’s back yard.

            Ryan smiled and patted Kurt’s shoulder. “C’mon, Boo Boo, let’s go before they burn the pizza.”

            Mike Ryan met Kurt Taylor in Miss Sherbet’s fourth grade class at St. Pius X Catholic School. Fresh out of college, the attractive teacher with the funny name sat the boys next to each other, touching off a friendship and rivalry that defied understanding. To the casual observer it seemed the only thing the pair had in common was a strong proclivity for mischief.

            Kurt was wild, funny, outgoing and studious. Coming from a large poor family, everything he owned was second hand. Tall, thin and lanky, he always struggled to fit into clothes that were either too big or too small. The humorous appearance only accented his comical antics and natural ability to make people laugh.

            Mike was upper middle class. His father’s job as supervisor at a local plant brought the family to a comfortable home in the suburbs. While his older sister was a straight A student, Mike was more interested in exploring the world around him than his school books. Quiet and shy, the short youngster with the deeply mysterious cow eyes was often picked on by the other kids. He never let their taunts bother him, preferring his Hot Rod magazines and model cars to Cub Scouts and board games. This didn’t prevent him from getting into his share of trouble.

            Mike Ryan hated the strict atmosphere of catholic school and the boring, repetitive teaching methods. He often skipped class, idling away hours wandering through a nearby junk yard. Mike felt a strange kinship with the forgotten vehicles he claimed spoke to him. With flair and imagination, he created histories and stories for each of the lonely wrecks.

            When the two boys met it was like oil and vinegar: keep them well shook and you have an unbeatable combination. Both youths knew exactly how to keep their friendship well shaken. It was in Miss. Sherbet’s class that they met Carol Sawyer.

            Fair skinned, precocious and already developing, Carol was a good student with a keen wit and an inquisitive nature. And she actually liked boys, something rare in a nine year old girl. Carol found Mike a prince charming, even if his steed was an off white. They shared interests in music, baseball and the emerging race for space. She especially enjoyed Mike’s knowledge of cars and the stories he made up about them. Years later, those stories would be the basis for Carol’s first novel. The two drew close as time passed. Despite attending different high schools they remained a couple.

            Actually, Kurt was the first to take notice of pretty, indigo eyed Carol. She sat behind him in class and delighted in irritating him by gently blowing on the back of his neck. However, it wasn’t long before he found himself the reluctant middle man in a lopsided love triangle, passing notes between Carol and Mike, always with a sarcastic remark.

            Kurt would often deliberately read a particularly interesting looking note from the lightly freckled girl, knowing it made Mike furious. The resulting dispute usually climaxed at recess in a dramatic and funny duel with water pistols, and detention for Kurt, Mike and Carol.

            Ignoring his bad boy reputation, Carol’s mom took an instant liking to Mike. One afternoon after school, over milk and Oreo cookies, she revealed that he reminded her of Carol’s dad. Carol’s eyes gleamed dreamily. Mike recognized something in them that gave him a shiver.

            It was a warm spring day in the sixth grade. Mike remembered it like it was yesterday: Friday, May 18. The boys were swimming in the Ryan backyard pool. Mike had bought a friendship ring for Carol and Kurt was riding Mike hard, teasing him mercilessly.

            “Ok, lover boy, it took you long enough to save the five bucks for that hunk of tin,” Kurt teased. “Now all you gotta do is find the courage to give it to her.”

            “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mike countered. “I’m gonna give it to her Saturday afternoon at the movies.”

            Studying the silver plated ring, he wondered if he indeed did have the courage. Mike was in love with Carol. He knew it that afternoon eating Oreo cookies with her mom. The look in Carol’s eyes, and the kinda sickly way it had made him feel, told him so. It took years for him to admit it to himself. Saturday afternoon, somewhere between the Road Runner cartoon and the attack of the flying saucers, he was going to admit it to Carol; and show her with the ring from Woolworths.

            Mike swallowed hard. He felt like the Coyote. He knew he was running off the cliff but he just couldn’t stop. Smiling to himself Mike wondering what the fall would be like.

            “Not if you don’t have it you can’t!” Kurt snatched the ring and dashed off, Mike in hot pursuit.

            They chased each other around the pool, Kurt laughing, Mike hurling names, swearing revenge. Then Kurt slipped on the wet cement. Striking his head on the side of the pool, he tumbled into the deep end. Mike dove in and reached the unconscious boy before he hit bottom.

            In the hospital, Mike was hailed as a hero for saving his friend’s life. Kurt joked he would never leave Mike’s side till he could even the score. Making good his promise, when Mike received his induction notice Kurt volunteered for the draft. Fate, and the army, kept the boys together.

            Platoons assigned to a forward base went out on patrols in rotation. Excursions in-country could last five to ten days, followed by five days rest. Depending on manpower, base personnel were rotated after three months and then reassigned. Most forward posts were staffed by a mix of A.R.V.N. troops – Army of the Republic of Vietnam – and US forces.

            Sgt. Mike Ryan and Spec. 4^th Class Kurt Taylor were in their third month at forward outpost Tango Two Nine Five. They would pull one more patrol and then head to Saigon or Cameron Bay for some rest and relaxation. If they were lucky they might even score a few days on the sugar white beaches of Thailand.

            The week passed quickly. Kurt’s mom sent the boys a big box of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Mike received a letter from Carol. It smelled like orange blossoms and the envelope and paper were peppered with pink and red hearts. Kurt didn’t miss the opportunity to tease his friend.

            The letter contained a photograph of Carol in a revealing two piece red swim suit. She stood beside the Dodge convertible. Her sun lightened hair now reached to her elbows. Ryan ran a finger over the image, his eyes welling up. Then he laughed. If Carol could see him he knew she’d ask who the tears were for, her or the car.

            It had been quiet… too quiet.

            The more experienced men knew things didn’t stay quiet for long. The holidays were coming. Charlie liked nothing better than to ruin Thanksgiving and Christmas for homesick GIs. On Monday morning Ryan received orders; they were headed back in-country.

            An armored personnel carrier had been abandoned due to mechanical problems. It sat some thirty klicks north in an area the army declared secure. Ryan was to lead two squads and retrieve the vehicle. If it couldn’t be recovered he was to destroy it… simple.

            The rain let up, the humidity lingered. Steam rising from the thick green foliage cast an eerie smoke grey fog, cutting visibility. Securing his perimeter, Sgt. Ryan set about deciding what to do with the stricken APC. He always felt bad when he had to destroy a vehicle. But he knew it was better than letting it fall into Charlie’s skillful hands. They would make use of whatever they could remove. Or they might bobby trap it for unsuspecting patrols.

            Ryan became aware of the sudden silence. Then the jungle came alive with small arms fire. Ryan threw himself into a shallow mortar crater. A skinny GI with a toothy grin landed next to him with a thud.

            “Jeez, Kurt, you scared me! What the hell is going on? I thought this place was secure?”

            “Well,” Kurt replied over the intermittent din of automatic weapons, “I would say the US Army has a strange concept of the meaning of the word secure.”

            “How bad…?”

            Kurt’s demeanor turned sullen. “Hunt took one. He’ll be alright, the radio won’t. Charlie is to the north, west and south maybe.”

            “How many…?”

            “Too many, we’re holding… but if they get behind us…” He didn’t have to finish.

            “Damn… ok…” Ryan’s orders came fast, automatically. “Have the men fall back to a tight perimeter around this spot. Have them set fraggers. I want you to take four men, secure the trail out of here. I’ll take care of the APC. Let me know when you are set. Go!”

            Kurt nodded and took off, zigzagging, keeping low to the ground. Mike Ryan watched his friend disappear into the thicket. Several rounds clipped the growth above Kurt’s head.

            Ryan could hear movement from all sides. He prayed it was his own men. With two satchels of C-4, Sgt. Ryan crawled the short distance to the APC. There was no time for anything fancy. Working franticly, he did his best to conceal the explosive around the drive sprocket, along the track, and in the engine compartment and driver’s controls. Carefully inserting the primers, Ryan made his way back to some fallen trees, leaving a trail of thin wire. He found Kurt waiting for him.

            “Everything is set, boss, just say the word.”

            Just then a muffled explosion ripped through the jungle to the right, followed by several gut wrenching screams. An anti-personnel mine had done its deadly job, taking out several VC.

            Then all hell broke loose.

            Branches and leaves shattered in a hail of bullets. Ryan and Taylor hugged the wet ground. An eternity later the air, tinged with smoke and cordite, turned deadly quiet. Ryan knew Charlie might be getting set to attack.

            “Ok, it’s the APC they’re interested in, not us. Get the men out of here two by two, now.”

            Kurt grinned his boyish grin. “Just like Noah’s Ark,” and he was gone.

            Ryan checked the clip in his M-16. He watched the clearing ahead. Sure enough, the bushes beyond the doomed vehicle began to move.

            “C’mon kiddies,” he said to himself, “come and get it.” His finger twitched over the curved leaver of the detonator.

            The APC began to look like an ant hill, swarmed over by eager workers. Jeez, how many were there? Ryan thought he counted maybe twenty.

            “Secure my ass!” Ryan cursed under his breath.

            Fortunately, he was right. The VC were not being careful. They probably thought the American GI’s had retreated. Instead of attacking, they surrounded the APC. Several crawled inside. Ryan shook his head. He thought of the junk yard he escaped to when ditching school. Images of twisted chrome bumpers and mangled rusting fenders tore through his mind.

            “Sorry old girl.” He pushed the plunger of the detonator home.

            Nothing.

            “Damn it!”

            Risking a look, he saw the problem. A stray bullet had severed one of the two detonator wires. If he didn’t act fast Charlie would discover the explosives and remove the primers.

            Leaving his M-16, Ryan slithered over the fallen trees. The cut wire was in reach. Stripping the insulation with his teeth, he twisted the bare ends together.

            So far, so good.

            He scurried back over the logs. Someone shouted. Shots whizzed all around. Ryan felt a burning sensation in his right calf. He tumbled behind cover, the wind going out of him. It felt as if someone had grabbed hold of his leg, tossing him to the ground like a bundle of newspapers.

            “You looking for this?” Kurt lay next to him holding the detonator. The mischievous smile Ryan knew too well beamed at him.

            “What the hell are you waiting for, Christmas?”

            “No… Fourth of July,” Kurt replied and hit the plunged.

            The force of the explosion rocked the ground. Both men covered in a fetal position. Dirt, rocks, bits of metal and rubber and body parts rained down. As the dust cleared, Kurt stole a peak.

            “Nice work… you always did have a knack for destroying things. Remember my old bicycle… Oh, shit!”

            Kurt ducked. A second later he popped up again. Kneeling on one knee, he began firing, his M-16 locked on full automatic. Mike tried to rise. His leg wouldn’t move. For the first time he became aware of a biting pain below his right knee. Dropping the spent rifle, Kurt pulled the pins on two hand grenades. Three VC appeared atop the logs. Three smoking Russian made automatic weapons starred down at the two friends.

            Kurt tossed the deadly explosives into the air and flung himself on top of Mike.

            Mike Ryan awoke in a white room that smelled of an odd mix of disinfectant and orange blossoms. A dull pain throbbed in the back of his head. Slowly, his eyes began to focus. He wore a pair of navy pajamas with white piping. He lay in bed on his back. Tubes ran from his arm and nose. His head was bandaged as was his right leg which hung in a sling.

            An angel with golden hair hovered over him.

            A soft, familiar voice filled the room. “Well, look who finally woke up. Welcome back, solider.” Carol stood next to the bed. Mike tried to sit up but the movement sent a shock of pain through his body.

            “Easy there, baby.” As Carol leaned forward, the silver friendship ring Mike gave her in the sixth grade dangled from a chain around her neck. She fluffed the pillows and helped him into a comfortable position. Her touch immediately eased some of the pain.

            Mike could tell from the faint circles Carol had been crying. He looked at her, recalling the first time he saw her in Miss Sherbert’s fourth grade class. She looked cute in her school jumper. Now, dressed in fresh jeans, a cream colored turtle neck and boots, she was as beautiful as ever.

            Carol’s hair hung long and loose. Their last night together she’d vowed not to cut it till he returned safely to her. It now reached the small of her back. Ryan touched his bandaged head, looking into Carol’s damp eyes. His mouth was dry, his throat sore as he tried to speak. “Where… where… what…?”

            Carol took his hand in hers. The slim white fingers entwined around his. “You’re ok, Mike, you’re safe. You’re at Valley Forge Military Hospital.”

            “How… how long?”

            She kissed his hand and pressed it to her cheek. Mike felt the moisture of a tear. “You’ve been in and out… mostly out… for over two weeks. They took shrapnel out of your head and patched up a bullet hole in your leg.” She forced a smile. “The doctors said you may dance funny but you are going to be fine.”

            She brushed a tear.

            “You’re a hero Mike. Some military brass and a reporter came by this morning and left these.” Pinned to the pillow were two medals: the Distinguished Service Cross and a Purple Heart.

            Mike didn’t understand. He tried to think; remember. Carol held a glass and he took some juice. Over the next hour Mike related the story of the fateful patrol: the APC, how they were ambushed, and how Kurt shielded him from the two grenades with his own body. Carol listened carefully. When he finished her pretty face showed concern.

            Carol’s voice was patient, steady. “Oh, honey, you’re mistaken. It must be the concussion.” She touched his cheek, her other hand cupping the ring on the chain. Tears escaped the corner of her eyes. “Don’t you remember? Sweetheart, Kurt drowned. Mike, Kurt’s been gone for over seven years. You saved your platoon that day.”

            Sgt. Mike Ryan was discharged from the Army with all the honors befitting a hero. A couple of weeks later he left the hospital.

            On a cold December morning, Carol and Mike drove over to the small cemetery near the town where they grew up. In a corner, beneath an old maple tree, lay a carefully manicured plot with a polished marble marker. Mike knelt down, running his fingers over the deeply carved inscription.

Kurt Christopher Thomas

July 4, 1950 – May 18, 1962

            Taking the Purple Heart from his pocket, he laid the medal on the headstone next to Kurt’s name.

            “Thanks buddy,” he whispered.

She Loves You by BJ Neblett

Hello again and happy spring! I have been keeping busy with new stories appearing in Romance Magazine as well as on line at Short Story Me. Thanks to all who have made my work both publications so popular! Once again I offer up another random chapter from my follow up historical memoir A Change Is Gonna Come, which should be out this winter. As you know, like Ice Cream Camelot it not only follows my life, it traces what was going on in the country and the world at the time. So here is a quick and entertaining history lesson from the mid '60's. Enjoy, and be sure to like, link, comment and spread the love.
Peace,
BJ

She Loves You

BJ Neblett

© 2004, 2013

            January, 1964. Emerging folk singer Bob Dylan said it first, and best: The Times They Are A-Changin’. In an ironic twist, it was Dylan’s songs that were helping to bring about dramatic changes to popular music. Folk music had always been about real things, real people; real occurrences. Dylan sang about the things that he saw happening around him; around all of us. What Dylan and the rest of us witnessed in the ‘60’s were social, political, economical and cultural changes. Unlike the personal changes controlling my own young life, thanks to my interest in President Kennedy I had begun to appreciate and agree with most of the changes taking place in the world. They seemed obvious and natural. What I didn’t get was why so many adults didn’t seem to understand. It was frustrating. Most of the changes were clearly necessary and overdue, but the struggle and methodology wasn’t pretty.

            The Civil Rights movement was a perfect example; a large part of the irony I saw all around me. In Lawrence Park, the development where we’d moved after leaving South Philadelphia, there were no blacks. In school we were taught God created everyone equally. That tenant was part of the American Constitution. And yet, at St. Pius X Grade School there were no blacks. Furthermore, in class the girls sat behind the boys; and for the most part women in general were treated like second class citizens. Ever since Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery, Alabama, bus in 1955, we’d witness protests and demonstrations against segregation, nightly on the TV news. In the last couple of years those demonstrations had turned ugly and violent. My fallen hero, John F. Kennedy had repeatedly urged Congress to pass legislation directed at ending segregation. On January 23, 1964 the 24^th Amendment eliminated the Poll Tax in federal elections. Kennedy’s successor, Lyndon B Johnson continued his predecessor’s efforts, eventually signing the Civil Rights Act of 1964. And yet, the often violent practice of segregation, and the demonstrations to end it, continued.

            In May, black youths Charles Moore and Henry Dee were beaten and killed by members of the Ku Klux Klan. Although suspects were identified, the murders would go down as unsolved. The same month, the NAACP and the Motor Car Dealers Association reached an agreement on the hiring of blacks. The agreement was the direct result of sit-ins in new car showrooms in San Francisco and fifty other American cities. In June, legislatures from southern states led a successful filibuster in Congress, forcing the Senate to limit debate on a purposed civil rights bill. On the 21^st of June, violence once again flared up in Mississippi as three young civil rights workers were murdered. It would take four decades before a suspect was brought to justice. At the same time some 700 young people, mostly from the north, descended on Mississippi to teach in “freedom schools” and register black voters. The violence in the south and growing discontent in America’s black neighborhoods resulted in riots breaking out in several cities including New York City, Rochester, Chicago, Patterson, New Jersey, and Philadelphia. Later in the year, The Reverend Martin Luther King received the Nobel Peace Prize for his peaceful efforts to end segregation. In a statement that punctuated the growing rift in the struggle for equality, J Edger Hoover called King, “The most notorious liar in the country.” The comment resulted from King’s harsh criticism of the FBI’s handling of racial issues in the south. In 1965 the protests grew as did the violence, with demonstrations and confrontations spreading throughout the south. As Kennedy had done before, President Johnson was forced to send in troops to protect protesters marching peacefully from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama.

            Political and social leader Malcolm X had left the Nation of Islam in 1964. An outspoken proponent of Civil Rights, he believed the group’s policies towards integration to be too soft. Openly criticizing both the Nation of Islam and Reverend King for their non-violence stance, Malcolm X called upon blacks to rise up against what he termed the white man’s rule. On February 21, 1965, as he prepared to address the Organization of Afro-American Unity at the Audubon Ballroom in Manhattan, Malcolm X was shot and killed by three members of the Nation of Islam. By the summer of 1965, race riots had again erupted in Chicago, Los Angeles and other US Cities.

            Watching live coverage of the Philadelphia riots on TV, I bitterly vowed to ignore the ongoing struggles for equality. Camelot was dead. The powers now firmly in charge, the older establishment America, had killed Kennedy. And it seemed they would soon squash his dreams of a racially balanced country. There was nothing I could do about it. I retreated back into my comfortable personal existence, and the world once again receded into its role as background players in my life’s story. Soon, though, a new school and some new, caring teachers would reignite my interest in social issues.

            Bob Dylan’s songs, along with other folk tunes of the decade, sharply reminded America of the many short falls and inequities that still needed to be overcome. At the same time, that very same music helped to polarize the nation, drawing defining lines between the older establishment and the younger generation. As the decade progress, the gap between generations would only widen. And music would be at the core.

            On January 18, 1964, the Beatles made their first appearance on Billboard’s Hot 100 Chart, placing I Wanna Hold Your Hand at the number thirty five position. Following a taped segment on the Jack Parr Show, and the groups’ first live American TV performance on Ed Sullivan, the song shot to number one, remaining at the top for seven weeks, eventually being replaced by their own She Loves You. It was nearly impossible to take a breath during 1964 without hearing about the group of mop tops from Britain. On February 3 their LP Meet The Beatles went gold. The same month they began their first American tour with a concert at Washington, DC’s Coliseum, followed by two performances at New York’s Carnegie Hall and a second appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show. They visited Cassius Clay as he trained for his heavy weight bout with Sonny Liston. Then filming of the band’s first movie, A Hard Day’s Night began in March. The film was released in the US in August to widespread acclaim.

            On the heels of their countrymen, on June 1 the Rolling Stones arrived at Kennedy Airport in New York to begin their own American tour. By year’s end, the music charts had been taken over by the numerous bands of the British invasion. But American music wasn’t quite dead yet. It had been ten years since the first stirrings of rock ‘n’ roll, and a new generation of young enthusiasts had grown up. The new American rock held its own against the onslaught from across the Atlantic with timeless hits like Louie Louie, I Get Around, Where Did Our Love Go, Rag Doll, Baby I Need Your Lovin’, and Pretty Woman. In 1965 a new electrified genre called Folk Rock, led by the Byrds and the Mamas and the Papas would claim the air waves. The same year, Bob Dylan would electrify himself and his music, to the condemnation of folk purists and the overwhelming approval of the new rockers. But by 1966 Dylan had silenced his detractors, even winning over the support of music critics. Once again, the pioneering musician had changed the face of pop music.

            I had retired my old trusted transistor radio, partly because of the changes coming out of it. The Beatles weren’t bad; I didn’t care much for the Rolling Stones or the other British Invasion bands at the time. Having recently mastered playing the guitar, I clung to what was left of the old rock ‘n’ roll and slowly gravitated towards folk music. It would be another year before I fully accepted what was now passing as popular music. The new friends I encountered at my new school, especially the girls, would have a strong influence on my musical taste.

            While the British were boisterously invading America, America was quietly and secretly invading Southeast Asia. The struggle between North and South Vietnam wasn’t a new one. Since the end of the Second World War when the country was divided, the south had been fighting for its independence while northern forces were intent on unifying the tiny country under communist rule. The French gave up its defense of South Vietnam, and the political mess ended up in the lap of our new young president. Reluctant to bring the US into another war, Kennedy approved sending non-combatant advisers to aid the South Vietnam forces. The buildup of US aid continued, culminating in the Gulf Of Tonkin.

            On August 2, 1964, the destroyer USS Maddox engaged three North Vietnamese Navy torpedo boats in the Gulf Of Tonkin. The three torpedo boats were heavily damaged and four North Vietnamese sailors were killed. One US aircraft carrier and the Maddox were slightly damaged. Two days later, the US National Security Agency claimed that a second encounter between the two forces had taken place. This incident was later proven to be false. However, the result of the two incidents was the passage by Congress of the Gulf Of Tonkin Resolution. This gave President Johnson the authority to assist any Southeast Asian country whose government was considered to be threatened by communist aggression. The resolution gave the president legal justification for the deployment of conventional forces and the start of open warfare against the North. By September, US destroyers were regularly firing on targets in North Vietnam.

            As Russia and Communist China continued to supply the northern forces of Ho Chi Minh, President Johnson steadily increased the number of American troops supporting the Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN), through his policy of “graduated pressure”. In March of 1965 more than 150 US and South Vietnamese planes bombed two bases in North Vietnam in the first of the Rolling Thunder raids. On April 6 Johnson authorized the use of ground troops in combat operations. By year’s end American troops in Vietnam numbered nearly 185,000. Within a year that number would more than double. Meanwhile, the Joint Chief of Staff organized a war game code named Sigma II. The secret operation tried to gauge reaction to continued conflict with Hanoi and the Viet Cong. Ironically it predicted that continued escalation would result in diminished public support for the president’s policies. They were right. In 1965, a new type of demonstration began to appear on college campuses along side of those supporting desegregation. The college students were now protesting America’s growing involvement in Southeast Asia. In Washington DC, the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) held its first anti-Vietnam war rally.

            President Johnson’s State of the Union address in January of 1965 highlighted his goals for his Great Society. The agenda called for extensive programs including combating diseases; doubling the war on poverty; stricter and more extensive enforcement of Civil Rights Laws; reforming immigration laws, and support for better education. The program attracted support for a time, but Johnson’s Great Society would soon fall victim to the escalating, undeclared war in Vietnam.

            While tensions in the cold war between the US and the Soviet Union had eased, a different conflict between the two countries continued in the atmosphere above the earth. By the time Ed White became the first American to walk in space on June 3, 1965, testing of nuclear devices underwater, in the atmosphere and in space had been banned by a 1963 agreement between the US, the Soviets and the UK. Nuclear testing continued above and underground on a limited bases, eventually giving rise to more college protests. But the Soviets had caught America and the world by surprise with their successful launch of Sputnik, the first satellite to orbit the earth, in 1957. Since then the US space program had been playing a game of catch up. Having successfully concluded its pioneering Mercury Program, NASA set its sights on fulfilling President Kennedy’s mandate of reaching the moon. The manned Gemini Program, begun in 1965 placed two astronauts in a single craft. Its successful rendezvous in space with a second capsule in December of that year, and the eventual docking of the two crafts in 1966, paved the way for the more ambitious Apollo Program.

            My interest in the race for space continued as I faithfully watched each launch live on our 19” black and white TV. Slim, attractive color televisions, along with remote controls were rapidly replacing the old boxy sets of the fifties. My practical, thrifty father stubbornly stuck with our old square Emerson.  Dad had been promoted to chief plant electrician at his work, receiving a commensurate raise in pay. But modern conveniences were slow to arrive at the Neblett household. It would be 1970 before Dad bought an air conditioned car, and Mom received a dishwasher and a color TV. The summer of 1965 central air conditioning was finally installed in our house. The same year my second car, a 1957 Chevy, lost its home as the recreation room was expanded into the garage. Still not old enough to drive, and under the surveillance of some nosy neighbors, it became more difficult to sneak away for a night of joy riding.

            Modern conveniences took a hit on November 9, 1965, when a major power failure hit the East Coast of the US. Just after 5:30 PM, New York City experienced a blackout that quickly spread, eventually encompassing nine Northeastern states and parts of Canada. The outage, which lasted for up to thirteen and a half hours in places, was blamed on a malfunctioning switch at a station near Niagara Falls.

            After blowing a shot at the National League Pennant in 1964, my Phillies ended the ‘65 season in sixth place, eleven and a half games behind the Los Angeles Dodgers. LA would go on to defeat the Minnesota Twins four games to three to clench the World Series title. Minnesota had won their first pennant since 1933 when the team was based in DC as the Washington Senators. But the Dodgers had plenty to celebrate as well during their 97 game winning season. Pitching aces Don Drysdale and Sandy Koufax had won 23 and 26 games respectively. Koufax also pitched a perfect game on September 9, becoming the first left hander to do so since 1880. The overpowering southpaw won the Cy Young award in 1963, 1965 and 1966, retiring in 1966 at the age of 36 due to arthritis in his left elbow. Elsewhere, San Francisco’s Willie Mays hit his 512^th home run on May 4, surpassing Mel Ott’s longstanding record.

             My own stuttering career as a pitcher would have a brief resurgence as I fumbled my way through my first encounter with public school.