Soldier Ghost, Part 1
The $535 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Two Down
Shark America Eight Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 278
Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Soldier Ghost (1)
Today's code is "57th Day, Last Year".
Don't worry about that extremely rare 4.7 earthquake in England early Wednesday; that was only a death spasm of this Earth.
Don't worry about those blackouts in Florida Tuesday, either; they were just God's hand covering the pistol grip of the Fancy Ray Gun I have told you about; God apparently preparing to give you a demonstration of its power.
And whatever you do, don't worry about the quake in England and the blackouts in Florida being connected--even though they were, but that's a later story.
If you look at Florida on a map of the United States of America, you can perhaps see it is in the shape of the grip of a handgun; and if you put the workings of the gun in Georgia and Alabama; perhaps the trigger at Mobil, or Biloxi, or New Orleans, you can perhaps see that the barrel of the Fancy Ray Gun is aimed West toward the Pacific.
We know we have had one use of the Fancy Ray Gun in Dallas, with the death of the motorcycle officer escorting Mrs. Clinton's motor-parade; one use causing one death in Australia; and going back further we assume we had four deaths to the Fancy Ray Gun in Corpus Christi.
With that little knowledge and with great anticipation, we are watching the writing on the wall of the news to see if God pulls the trigger of the Fancy Ray Gun; and if God does, where the Fancy Ray will strike.
That said, as promised we today begin to tell you The Secret Story, the story of how the Japanese race was saved by God's Space Sailors; the story is known as Himitsu No Monogatari in Japanese..
The Secret Story is concealed in my novella, The Art of Space War. It begins this way:
If we say the world is round
If we say it too soon
What are we but laughingstocks
What are we, but victims of the moon?
Tea, Circa 1978
THE ART OF SPACE WAR
Book 1: Soldier Ghost
By Virgil Kret
It seemed Tea and Soldier Ghost met on a battlefield called the Iron Triangle. That would have been in August of Sixty-seven. That would have made Soldier Ghost US First Division dead.
Tea thought he knew which body had been Soldier Ghost’s.
The Grunts were going in on Huey helicopters. The little ships looked like giant grasshoppers in formation. It was hot LZ all the way -- almost -- incoming seemed to catch the wave of copters just before Tea’s, then stop. To Tea, it was as if Hell had frozen over in seconds.
Soldier Ghost might have been in that last-hit wave. The grass in the LZ was a foot or more high. His body could not be seen until Tea’s copter’s left runner touched down four-five feet from it. It was laying full length flat on its face, left arm wound around its rifle somehow. Its uniform was first-day clean, as if Soldier Ghost had drowned in the font of his baptism of fire. Tea had had to dodge around the body in his run for the trees.
As he did so, the ghostly thing happened. Soldier Ghost attached himself to Tea like a possum to its mother, and held on to him as if for dear life. Tea saw it happen. It was a white flash of movement about one-fiftieth the brilliance of a flash bulb, and twice as quick. Tea felt it, too. It was like a tiny sob of a broken heart implanting itself into his muscle tissue.
The war was thick that day. Everywhere the air smelled of cordite and adrenalin, but the action kept slipping out of Tea’s hands. Everywhere he went, he just missed the fighting. It stopped seconds before his arrival or began seconds after his departure. Not minutes; always less than a minute. Tea felt the impact of the coincidences. It was like he was riding through the war that day in a protective bubble.
Tea was with his partner, Sakai Toshio, a photographer who that day carried with him exposed film that would win him a Pulitzer if it got through that day without being blown to smithereens. They were hopping from battlefield to battlefield, catching rides on helicopters and fixed wing transports like hoboes hopping freights. They were there to see war. They were at the crest of journalism’s ego; they were war correspondents. War was to them Satan’s Disneyland, and they had tickets to all the rides. Ostensibly they were there to cover battles; but that was just the means of getting to the Anaheim of it; for in fact they were there for the Hell of it, for the high of it, for the terror of it, for the being there of it.
To them, Soldier Ghost’s Death Place was now like a boxcar on a siding; meaning there was no shooting going on in that meadow surrounded by jungle; so they wanted to hop another ride to another fight as soon as possible.
They had been there for less than an hour when they saw a Huey revving up, flattening grass, a flurry of Grunts with orders to leave the battlefield running up to it. Tea and Sakai sprinted to it, too, and over the roar and pulsing flutter of the grasshopper’s heart and wings, got permission from the pilot to board, not knowing or caring where it was going.
It was overloaded. A scared-faced black Grunt carrying a mortar was ordered off because he represented too much weight. (Why he, a fighting man, and not Tea and Sakai, proxy onlookers for the public, is a mystery for the mystery pile.)
Airborne, the insect chugged, chugged along in a sluggish, discomforting fashion, buffeted by fists of wind and (Tea watched them) fists of dead enemy trying to bring the Huey down.
It landed on a runway somewhere. There were mounds of boxes of supplies, but no buildings. The static word was Charley was coming. The atmosphere was tight. The sky was black with roiling, twisting clouds. The air was so thick with anticipatory fear it could be rolled into little balls between the thumb and forefinger.
The field was being used as a body removal center. American KIAs were lined along the runway’s south sideline. They were side by side, stiller than stones. They numbered twenty-eight. Tea counted them. He tattooed them upon his memory’s wall. A Huey landed, bringing two more dead Grunts, its wash sending stinging grit in all directions.
Suddenly, the ghostly thing happened again. Tea saw three or four of those white flashes coming out of bodies and rushing at him as if they iron shavings and he a magnet. His mind reeled. The sky now looked like gray and black of a North Pacific storm. The clouds were scudding fast enough to make a sailor dizzy. The poncho under one of the bodies was whipping in the wind and slapping the body’s dead face. A black body in the row bore a strange wound. It was the thinnest, roundest shaving of black skin just above the right wrist, revealing a milk-white under layer. The white wound first slapped Tea’s eyes and then his brain in quick succession. “Remember me,” it said. The wound might have been a watch or a silver dollar, it was so perfectly round, so perfectly white and bloodless. Tea wondered what flying thing of metal might have taken such a wafer of skin.
That day careened on. Both Tea and Sakai passed through the fire unburned. Sakai’s film survived, too, and won for him his Pulitzer. Soldier Ghost survived too, to fight again as it turned out, although he ran into a remarkable zone of danger after he rode Tea, like a tick in a mule’s hide, to Tokyo a month later.
That zone of danger was to reveal the most unbelievable true story in the history of human journalism and the legacy of human war.
(To be continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through 57th day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Two Down
Shark America Eight Up
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 278
Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: The Secret Story, Soldier Ghost (1)
Today's code is "57th Day, Last Year".
Don't worry about that extremely rare 4.7 earthquake in England early Wednesday; that was only a death spasm of this Earth.
Don't worry about those blackouts in Florida Tuesday, either; they were just God's hand covering the pistol grip of the Fancy Ray Gun I have told you about; God apparently preparing to give you a demonstration of its power.
And whatever you do, don't worry about the quake in England and the blackouts in Florida being connected--even though they were, but that's a later story.
If you look at Florida on a map of the United States of America, you can perhaps see it is in the shape of the grip of a handgun; and if you put the workings of the gun in Georgia and Alabama; perhaps the trigger at Mobil, or Biloxi, or New Orleans, you can perhaps see that the barrel of the Fancy Ray Gun is aimed West toward the Pacific.
We know we have had one use of the Fancy Ray Gun in Dallas, with the death of the motorcycle officer escorting Mrs. Clinton's motor-parade; one use causing one death in Australia; and going back further we assume we had four deaths to the Fancy Ray Gun in Corpus Christi.
With that little knowledge and with great anticipation, we are watching the writing on the wall of the news to see if God pulls the trigger of the Fancy Ray Gun; and if God does, where the Fancy Ray will strike.
That said, as promised we today begin to tell you The Secret Story, the story of how the Japanese race was saved by God's Space Sailors; the story is known as Himitsu No Monogatari in Japanese..
The Secret Story is concealed in my novella, The Art of Space War. It begins this way:
If we say the world is round
If we say it too soon
What are we but laughingstocks
What are we, but victims of the moon?
Tea, Circa 1978
THE ART OF SPACE WAR
Book 1: Soldier Ghost
By Virgil Kret
It seemed Tea and Soldier Ghost met on a battlefield called the Iron Triangle. That would have been in August of Sixty-seven. That would have made Soldier Ghost US First Division dead.
Tea thought he knew which body had been Soldier Ghost’s.
The Grunts were going in on Huey helicopters. The little ships looked like giant grasshoppers in formation. It was hot LZ all the way -- almost -- incoming seemed to catch the wave of copters just before Tea’s, then stop. To Tea, it was as if Hell had frozen over in seconds.
Soldier Ghost might have been in that last-hit wave. The grass in the LZ was a foot or more high. His body could not be seen until Tea’s copter’s left runner touched down four-five feet from it. It was laying full length flat on its face, left arm wound around its rifle somehow. Its uniform was first-day clean, as if Soldier Ghost had drowned in the font of his baptism of fire. Tea had had to dodge around the body in his run for the trees.
As he did so, the ghostly thing happened. Soldier Ghost attached himself to Tea like a possum to its mother, and held on to him as if for dear life. Tea saw it happen. It was a white flash of movement about one-fiftieth the brilliance of a flash bulb, and twice as quick. Tea felt it, too. It was like a tiny sob of a broken heart implanting itself into his muscle tissue.
The war was thick that day. Everywhere the air smelled of cordite and adrenalin, but the action kept slipping out of Tea’s hands. Everywhere he went, he just missed the fighting. It stopped seconds before his arrival or began seconds after his departure. Not minutes; always less than a minute. Tea felt the impact of the coincidences. It was like he was riding through the war that day in a protective bubble.
Tea was with his partner, Sakai Toshio, a photographer who that day carried with him exposed film that would win him a Pulitzer if it got through that day without being blown to smithereens. They were hopping from battlefield to battlefield, catching rides on helicopters and fixed wing transports like hoboes hopping freights. They were there to see war. They were at the crest of journalism’s ego; they were war correspondents. War was to them Satan’s Disneyland, and they had tickets to all the rides. Ostensibly they were there to cover battles; but that was just the means of getting to the Anaheim of it; for in fact they were there for the Hell of it, for the high of it, for the terror of it, for the being there of it.
To them, Soldier Ghost’s Death Place was now like a boxcar on a siding; meaning there was no shooting going on in that meadow surrounded by jungle; so they wanted to hop another ride to another fight as soon as possible.
They had been there for less than an hour when they saw a Huey revving up, flattening grass, a flurry of Grunts with orders to leave the battlefield running up to it. Tea and Sakai sprinted to it, too, and over the roar and pulsing flutter of the grasshopper’s heart and wings, got permission from the pilot to board, not knowing or caring where it was going.
It was overloaded. A scared-faced black Grunt carrying a mortar was ordered off because he represented too much weight. (Why he, a fighting man, and not Tea and Sakai, proxy onlookers for the public, is a mystery for the mystery pile.)
Airborne, the insect chugged, chugged along in a sluggish, discomforting fashion, buffeted by fists of wind and (Tea watched them) fists of dead enemy trying to bring the Huey down.
It landed on a runway somewhere. There were mounds of boxes of supplies, but no buildings. The static word was Charley was coming. The atmosphere was tight. The sky was black with roiling, twisting clouds. The air was so thick with anticipatory fear it could be rolled into little balls between the thumb and forefinger.
The field was being used as a body removal center. American KIAs were lined along the runway’s south sideline. They were side by side, stiller than stones. They numbered twenty-eight. Tea counted them. He tattooed them upon his memory’s wall. A Huey landed, bringing two more dead Grunts, its wash sending stinging grit in all directions.
Suddenly, the ghostly thing happened again. Tea saw three or four of those white flashes coming out of bodies and rushing at him as if they iron shavings and he a magnet. His mind reeled. The sky now looked like gray and black of a North Pacific storm. The clouds were scudding fast enough to make a sailor dizzy. The poncho under one of the bodies was whipping in the wind and slapping the body’s dead face. A black body in the row bore a strange wound. It was the thinnest, roundest shaving of black skin just above the right wrist, revealing a milk-white under layer. The white wound first slapped Tea’s eyes and then his brain in quick succession. “Remember me,” it said. The wound might have been a watch or a silver dollar, it was so perfectly round, so perfectly white and bloodless. Tea wondered what flying thing of metal might have taken such a wafer of skin.
That day careened on. Both Tea and Sakai passed through the fire unburned. Sakai’s film survived, too, and won for him his Pulitzer. Soldier Ghost survived too, to fight again as it turned out, although he ran into a remarkable zone of danger after he rode Tea, like a tick in a mule’s hide, to Tokyo a month later.
That zone of danger was to reveal the most unbelievable true story in the history of human journalism and the legacy of human war.
(To be continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through 57th day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 6:22 PM
1 Comments:
You write very well.
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