Soldier Ghost, Part 5
The $539 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Two Up
Shark America Eight Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 211
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 (5)
Today's code is "61st Day, Last Year".
Americans love war, especially war against much weaker nations. War is America's national pornography.
Were the Republican American Fascists not so stupid about war the American people would be kissing George W. Bush's ass even as the flames of Hell rendered it to Satan's cooking oil.
The relationship between war and big money we see in America today fills exactly the classic definition of fascism; and as you watch this campaign for the Oval Office every candidate but myself...every candidate but myself...every candidate but myself is kowtowing to fascism.
The issue is not how the rapist should withdraw, or if the rapist should keep it in, the issue is the criminality of America's stupid and fascist invasion of Iraq.
Now let's return to the story of Soldier Ghost, the first of three stories that will lead us to The Secret Story of how God's Space Sailors rescued the Japanese race and placed it on the islands now known as Japan.
Soldier Ghost, Part 5
Tea was squandering moments in the heat. He was daydreaming in the jungle.
It was hilly country. It was August. The company was taking five.
Tea sat with his back against a tree, knees pulled up, head back so his helmet rested against the bark. His eyes were closed. His nostrils were extended in hope of finding cool air.
A piece of stained GI toilet paper marched by in the hot current. It was pursued by flies.
Tea breathed with as little effort as possible.
It was his twenty-seventh birthday. He was the oldest man on the patrol.
He was a correspondent fresh from working the night desk in Tokyo. His coloring was pasty. His stomach was soft. He couldn’t run 30 Vietnam yards without his tongue becoming a puffy, dry rag in his mouth. None of the patrolling Grunts were feeling all that good; but Tea was feeling very, very bad, like a hangovered drunk on a hot, muggy Sunday with three hours of church looking him in the eye.
Within Tea somewhere a whimper wandered. He had never dreamed war was so oppressive. He took a salt tab and downed it with a swig of hot water from his olive drab plastic canteen. He searched the sky and trees for birds, but there were none.
Grunts were stretched out along the trail in both directions in various poses of rest. They disappeared from view where the trail snaked, twenty yards to the rear and thirty forward.
Had there been a bird to view this unhappy parade it might have noticed that Tea looked somewhat like the Grunts, yet did not. He wore uniform clothing without insignia. It was loose, sloppy. The large pockets of the combat blouse were stuffed with spiral notebooks and lined with rows of cheap plastic ballpoint pens. He carried no weapon.
A sergeant moved down the line tapping the boots of napping men with the barrel of his M-16, waking them quietly in advance of movement.
The sun was an hour past straight up. No one was liking the day. Gradually, the patrol stood up, a hundred and twenty reluctant men feeling mean.
There was one small cloud in the hot blue sky.
The line of Grunts moved.
The trail wandered between walls of green and sometimes under a blessed canopy of leaves.
The grunts were spaced at five yard intervals. No one spoke. It was hot enough to make a man’s brain bubble.
Tea was with the second platoon, about in the middle of the snaking line. It was the third sullen day. Two days more to go. No contact. Everyone wanted contact. No one wanted contact.
The first platoon, the second and most of the third had moved down a steep, straight section of trail, eroded from rainwater wash, into a narrow little valley between two five hundred foot hills packed with jungle, when the firefight began.
It started slowly. Pop. Pop. Pop. Then a space. Then pop, pop, pop. Then a space. Then a machinegun burst. Then it was like being in a swarm of hornets.
Right off, the man in front of Tea was hit. Tea heard the bullet smack into the man’s chest, and watched it lift him off the ground and discard him with contempt.
Tea dove. Everyone dove.
The jungle walls on both sides were spitting bullets. Twigs were breaking. Bullets were passing through trees.
A burst wrapped itself around Tea, covering him with dust and stinging beebees of earth.
“That was aimed! That was aimed! That was aimed! That was aimed!”, Tea found himself whispering to himself. “He can see you! Don’t move! Don’t move!”
The burst moved on and sent the Grunt to Tea’s rear screaming and jerking in spasms of escape.
Answering fire was going out, but not much. The air was filled with fucks and shits, There he is!, There he is! Get him! Get him!, screams, and voices calling Medic! Medic! in shocked terror.
The fire, like a scythe, moved along the line.
Of the eighty-six men who had descended into the valley thirty were killed in the first few minutes and another twenty were killed in the next few, and most of the rest were wounded. Seventy-eight, in all, would be killed.
There were moans and whimpers, whispers in cracked voices.
The Americans on the high ground were not touched. They were the weapons platoon and the company commander, a captain from Baltimore.
The weapons platoon was ordered not to fire its mortars and machineguns. Artillery support was not called in. The fighting was too close and the captain still thought he had a company.
The captain set up a defensive perimeter and listened to the crackle of the fight, the fight hidden by the roof of the jungle, going on below.
The tail end of the third platoon fought its way back up the hill, walking backwards and firing from the hip into the jungle. Only one of them actually saw a Vietnamese.
Tea lay still. He wondered if he was hit, but he could hear the screaming of the wounded, so he figured he would know if he was.
Up front, the last of the point platoon had found cover and was making a fight of it. Tea could hear six or seven M-16s. There seemed to be 30 AK-47s. That meant death. Certainly. The Gooks would crossfire the Grunts one by one.
Smack! Death! That was all that was left for them in life.
There was movement in the jungle near Tea, but Tea’s head was twisted downward and he could not see what was taking place.
Someone stepped through the foliage onto the trail.
Tea focused on not moving.
Another person stepped through.
There were whispered commands.
Tea could feel himself sweating. The dust the bullets had thrown up was beginning to itch. An insect was biting his right testicle. He felt a hot gun muzzle against the back of his head.
The muzzle was pulled away and footsteps went to the next body, then the next. There was a bullet’s crack. A bullet had been fired into a wounded Grunt. They weren’t taking prisoners.
Up forward, the firing was getting lighter. There were three M-16s. To the rear the firing had stopped.
Tea’s bladder was bursting. Things were crawling on him. He wondered why his breathing had hot been detected.
He felt someone kneel or sit on the ground beside him. He felt a tugging. The straps of his pack were being undone. A hand was reaching in. Rations and cigarettes were being removed. His wallet had been found.
The voice belonging to the hand called out. It might have been radio static for all Tea understood of Vietnamese, but he heard two of the few words he understood, “Bao Chi”, “Correspondent”. His credentials had been found.
The feet belonging to the voice walked away. There was a huddle. Tea was being talked about.
The first whistle of American artillery broke the moment.
The captain back in the rear had decided his men were dead and had finally called it in.
Tea heard the pop of mortar rounds leaving the tube. Then the first large shell hit after a flight of ten miles. Then the first mortar round hit after a flight of forty yards. Both were off the trail. The jungle absorbed most of the shrapnel.
Tea felt something plop onto his possum-playing face. It was his wallet, dropped by a VC standing over him.
Tea felt a muzzle hard on his head. He wondered if he would urinate when he was shot. He hated dying in this hot jungle like thiis.
The muzzle tapped his skull. Tea continued the charade of playing dead.
` “Bao Chi,” a voice said, “you one lucky son of bitch. No weapon; no die today.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Three quick American rounds came in. They hit a close, jarring twenty-thirty yards off.
The VC ran back into the junglle.
Whack! Stones and dirt hit right next to to Tea.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Shit! The rounds were too close. Tea chanced a look. The VC were gone. A shell was bursting thirty yards down the trail. There was a blur of spreading shrapnel. Tea grabbed his balls with his left hand and held his helmet down on his head with his right. He closed his eyes and curled.
Things thudded around him. Fist-sized stones and clods of earth.
Something hit the ground with a dull thud and rolled up to him like a slowly moving bowling ball bowled by a small child. It stopped when it came up against his right hand holding his helmet. Tea had the uncanny feeling his hand was being kissed. He looked. A severed American head had come to a stop, its lips against the back of his hand.
“Shit!” Tea was up and running toward the rear. His mouth was dry and his legs were leaden. He stepped on an American body in the grass and insanely said, “Excuse me!” and ran on.
Splat! Splat! Whomph! Splat! Splat! Splat! Whomp!
Tea hit the hill with his breath burning in his throat. He ran past six or seven dead Grunts, his eyes looking at them out of the corners of themselves.
Splat! Splat! The shells were falling behind him. He was getting close to the American position above the valley. He allowed himself to fall to the ground and lie stilll.
The shelling stopped.
Down in the valley, someone was moaning. Tea’s breath was squeaking. A limb fell from a tree somewhere, crashing against branches as it made its way down.
“You hit?” It was a medic making his way down the trail. A squad of riflemen was with him.
“I don’t think so. Not a scratch,” Tea answered.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” the medic said.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 61st day of its last year..
Jews Jaws Two Up
Shark America Eight Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 211
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 (5)
Today's code is "61st Day, Last Year".
Americans love war, especially war against much weaker nations. War is America's national pornography.
Were the Republican American Fascists not so stupid about war the American people would be kissing George W. Bush's ass even as the flames of Hell rendered it to Satan's cooking oil.
The relationship between war and big money we see in America today fills exactly the classic definition of fascism; and as you watch this campaign for the Oval Office every candidate but myself...every candidate but myself...every candidate but myself is kowtowing to fascism.
The issue is not how the rapist should withdraw, or if the rapist should keep it in, the issue is the criminality of America's stupid and fascist invasion of Iraq.
Now let's return to the story of Soldier Ghost, the first of three stories that will lead us to The Secret Story of how God's Space Sailors rescued the Japanese race and placed it on the islands now known as Japan.
Soldier Ghost, Part 5
Tea was squandering moments in the heat. He was daydreaming in the jungle.
It was hilly country. It was August. The company was taking five.
Tea sat with his back against a tree, knees pulled up, head back so his helmet rested against the bark. His eyes were closed. His nostrils were extended in hope of finding cool air.
A piece of stained GI toilet paper marched by in the hot current. It was pursued by flies.
Tea breathed with as little effort as possible.
It was his twenty-seventh birthday. He was the oldest man on the patrol.
He was a correspondent fresh from working the night desk in Tokyo. His coloring was pasty. His stomach was soft. He couldn’t run 30 Vietnam yards without his tongue becoming a puffy, dry rag in his mouth. None of the patrolling Grunts were feeling all that good; but Tea was feeling very, very bad, like a hangovered drunk on a hot, muggy Sunday with three hours of church looking him in the eye.
Within Tea somewhere a whimper wandered. He had never dreamed war was so oppressive. He took a salt tab and downed it with a swig of hot water from his olive drab plastic canteen. He searched the sky and trees for birds, but there were none.
Grunts were stretched out along the trail in both directions in various poses of rest. They disappeared from view where the trail snaked, twenty yards to the rear and thirty forward.
Had there been a bird to view this unhappy parade it might have noticed that Tea looked somewhat like the Grunts, yet did not. He wore uniform clothing without insignia. It was loose, sloppy. The large pockets of the combat blouse were stuffed with spiral notebooks and lined with rows of cheap plastic ballpoint pens. He carried no weapon.
A sergeant moved down the line tapping the boots of napping men with the barrel of his M-16, waking them quietly in advance of movement.
The sun was an hour past straight up. No one was liking the day. Gradually, the patrol stood up, a hundred and twenty reluctant men feeling mean.
There was one small cloud in the hot blue sky.
The line of Grunts moved.
The trail wandered between walls of green and sometimes under a blessed canopy of leaves.
The grunts were spaced at five yard intervals. No one spoke. It was hot enough to make a man’s brain bubble.
Tea was with the second platoon, about in the middle of the snaking line. It was the third sullen day. Two days more to go. No contact. Everyone wanted contact. No one wanted contact.
The first platoon, the second and most of the third had moved down a steep, straight section of trail, eroded from rainwater wash, into a narrow little valley between two five hundred foot hills packed with jungle, when the firefight began.
It started slowly. Pop. Pop. Pop. Then a space. Then pop, pop, pop. Then a space. Then a machinegun burst. Then it was like being in a swarm of hornets.
Right off, the man in front of Tea was hit. Tea heard the bullet smack into the man’s chest, and watched it lift him off the ground and discard him with contempt.
Tea dove. Everyone dove.
The jungle walls on both sides were spitting bullets. Twigs were breaking. Bullets were passing through trees.
A burst wrapped itself around Tea, covering him with dust and stinging beebees of earth.
“That was aimed! That was aimed! That was aimed! That was aimed!”, Tea found himself whispering to himself. “He can see you! Don’t move! Don’t move!”
The burst moved on and sent the Grunt to Tea’s rear screaming and jerking in spasms of escape.
Answering fire was going out, but not much. The air was filled with fucks and shits, There he is!, There he is! Get him! Get him!, screams, and voices calling Medic! Medic! in shocked terror.
The fire, like a scythe, moved along the line.
Of the eighty-six men who had descended into the valley thirty were killed in the first few minutes and another twenty were killed in the next few, and most of the rest were wounded. Seventy-eight, in all, would be killed.
There were moans and whimpers, whispers in cracked voices.
The Americans on the high ground were not touched. They were the weapons platoon and the company commander, a captain from Baltimore.
The weapons platoon was ordered not to fire its mortars and machineguns. Artillery support was not called in. The fighting was too close and the captain still thought he had a company.
The captain set up a defensive perimeter and listened to the crackle of the fight, the fight hidden by the roof of the jungle, going on below.
The tail end of the third platoon fought its way back up the hill, walking backwards and firing from the hip into the jungle. Only one of them actually saw a Vietnamese.
Tea lay still. He wondered if he was hit, but he could hear the screaming of the wounded, so he figured he would know if he was.
Up front, the last of the point platoon had found cover and was making a fight of it. Tea could hear six or seven M-16s. There seemed to be 30 AK-47s. That meant death. Certainly. The Gooks would crossfire the Grunts one by one.
Smack! Death! That was all that was left for them in life.
There was movement in the jungle near Tea, but Tea’s head was twisted downward and he could not see what was taking place.
Someone stepped through the foliage onto the trail.
Tea focused on not moving.
Another person stepped through.
There were whispered commands.
Tea could feel himself sweating. The dust the bullets had thrown up was beginning to itch. An insect was biting his right testicle. He felt a hot gun muzzle against the back of his head.
The muzzle was pulled away and footsteps went to the next body, then the next. There was a bullet’s crack. A bullet had been fired into a wounded Grunt. They weren’t taking prisoners.
Up forward, the firing was getting lighter. There were three M-16s. To the rear the firing had stopped.
Tea’s bladder was bursting. Things were crawling on him. He wondered why his breathing had hot been detected.
He felt someone kneel or sit on the ground beside him. He felt a tugging. The straps of his pack were being undone. A hand was reaching in. Rations and cigarettes were being removed. His wallet had been found.
The voice belonging to the hand called out. It might have been radio static for all Tea understood of Vietnamese, but he heard two of the few words he understood, “Bao Chi”, “Correspondent”. His credentials had been found.
The feet belonging to the voice walked away. There was a huddle. Tea was being talked about.
The first whistle of American artillery broke the moment.
The captain back in the rear had decided his men were dead and had finally called it in.
Tea heard the pop of mortar rounds leaving the tube. Then the first large shell hit after a flight of ten miles. Then the first mortar round hit after a flight of forty yards. Both were off the trail. The jungle absorbed most of the shrapnel.
Tea felt something plop onto his possum-playing face. It was his wallet, dropped by a VC standing over him.
Tea felt a muzzle hard on his head. He wondered if he would urinate when he was shot. He hated dying in this hot jungle like thiis.
The muzzle tapped his skull. Tea continued the charade of playing dead.
` “Bao Chi,” a voice said, “you one lucky son of bitch. No weapon; no die today.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Three quick American rounds came in. They hit a close, jarring twenty-thirty yards off.
The VC ran back into the junglle.
Whack! Stones and dirt hit right next to to Tea.
Whack! Whack! Whack! Shit! The rounds were too close. Tea chanced a look. The VC were gone. A shell was bursting thirty yards down the trail. There was a blur of spreading shrapnel. Tea grabbed his balls with his left hand and held his helmet down on his head with his right. He closed his eyes and curled.
Things thudded around him. Fist-sized stones and clods of earth.
Something hit the ground with a dull thud and rolled up to him like a slowly moving bowling ball bowled by a small child. It stopped when it came up against his right hand holding his helmet. Tea had the uncanny feeling his hand was being kissed. He looked. A severed American head had come to a stop, its lips against the back of his hand.
“Shit!” Tea was up and running toward the rear. His mouth was dry and his legs were leaden. He stepped on an American body in the grass and insanely said, “Excuse me!” and ran on.
Splat! Splat! Whomph! Splat! Splat! Splat! Whomp!
Tea hit the hill with his breath burning in his throat. He ran past six or seven dead Grunts, his eyes looking at them out of the corners of themselves.
Splat! Splat! The shells were falling behind him. He was getting close to the American position above the valley. He allowed himself to fall to the ground and lie stilll.
The shelling stopped.
Down in the valley, someone was moaning. Tea’s breath was squeaking. A limb fell from a tree somewhere, crashing against branches as it made its way down.
“You hit?” It was a medic making his way down the trail. A squad of riflemen was with him.
“I don’t think so. Not a scratch,” Tea answered.
“You’re one lucky son of a bitch,” the medic said.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 61st day of its last year..
posted by Virgil Kret at 3:58 PM
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