My 6th story in the series of those not accepted by journals for publication is about justice late and unknown.
Rat
On the 20th anniversary of the Vietnam Tet Offensive, forty-year-old US Army veteran Carl ‘Rat’ Moreau left the federal prison gate with Salvation Army release-clothing and $100 in gate-money.
A guard stopped him as he started to board a shuttle bus going to nearby Leavenworth KS, saying, “Boss wants you to have this. Good luck out there Moreau.” A note and 100-dollar bill were attached to a bus ticket to Portland, Oregon. “Rat – I hope this helps. What you did for me and others in the tunnels of Nam needs some reward. – Carter”
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By the time Moreau’s official birth records caught up, he’d served his draft requirement, been wounded twice, decorated for saving his squad and honorably discharged. Moreau thought he’d been born at Seattle’s Virginia Mason Hospital of parents from Quebec, but he’d only received undefined emergency treatment there as a two-day-old.
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A setup by his employers and discovery of false birth records gave prosecutors a slam-dunk in front of a federal judge. The court ordered Moreau to serve three years for felony real-estate fraud. He wasn’t charged for fraudulently receiving GI Bill benefits, but a garnishment of future income order went into his record. The US Immigration and Naturalization Service was notified so deportation to Canada upon his release could be effected. Warden Parker Carter purposely misfiled the order to contact INS.
Moreau had academic and pre-prison experience qualifications, but to be truthful on any job application, he had to declare his felony conviction and that he wasn’t a citizen of the country he’d served. He could work for cash, without a written application, in nearly any agribusiness along the I-5 corridor from Canada to Mexico.
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On the 50th anniversary of the Tet Offensive, seventy-year-old, undocumented Moreau was anticipating his tenth anniversary of being clean and sober. He’d worked those ten years cleaning toilets, showers, and the processing floor at a slaughterhouse in central Oregon for less than minimum wage in cash. He ate ‘clean-up’ from the plant cafeteria and slept under the modified canopy of his unregistered pickup parked on the back lot of the plant.
Rat was cleaning the packing company office restroom when he heard a man ask the manager, “Is Carl Moreau employed here?”
He looked around the door, saw two suited men in the office, and heard the manager ask, “Are you police or immigration?”
Before Moreau heard an answer, he went out a side door. By sunset, Rat was underground in California and would never know the answer given to the manager.
“Neither,” one man said. “We have very good news for him from the Innocence Project.
-end-
As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder. Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
We know of Adam and Eve, but what do the names mean in my 5th story in the series of those not accepted by journals for publication.
First or Next
Havah and Mattea became close friends after Adam and Rishon died. The women often speculated about which of the men died first or next. Authorities ruled their deaths suicide, but both women had questions. Were the experts wrong and one death was by murder?
If so, who murdered whom?
Rishon and Mattea met during their studies for an MA Degree in Sociology. Research revealed no record of their having children. Adam, also a student in the Masters in Sociology program, met Havah about the same time but under different circumstances. Havah was the graveyard shift waitress at the Dunkin` Doughnuts where insomniac students added to their inability to sleep with strong brewed coffee and often unnecessary over-study of assigned material. Oral and documented history confirmed that Adam and Havah had at least two sons.
Adam and Rishon were raised as one and what one did the other did also, but not necessarily at the same time.
Rishon was generally kicking, crying, and colicky, Adam was restful, cooing, and tranquil.
Just as in the legend of Romulus and Remus, Adam and Rishon were orphaned, disagreed on most things, were raised without human loyalty, and found women lacking in their early lives.
Romulus killed his brother Remus and Cain, a son of Adam, killed his brother Abel.
Only Rishon knew he would be taking Adam with him when he leapt into the River Styx.
Or did Adam jump first?
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As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder. Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
This third of my stories in the series of those not accepted by journals for publication was by random selection. I is derived from an incident in my youth.
Snipe Soup
The sun went down across the frozen lake and the boys from Boy Scout Troop 316, including Tenderfoot Billy Bloom, were gathered around the cook fire for their dinner of chicken noodle soup from a mix and very dark brown, crunchy campfire biscuits.
While they ate, the senior patrol leader announced, “Breakfast tomorrow morning will be scrambled eggs, bacon and cocoa. And, thanks to Beasley’s mother, cinnamon rolls. Eagle candidate Baseness will lead chapel here at the fire immediately after breakfast clean up. Then, you’ll have an hour of free time to ready your tents and gear for inspection. After lunch, we’ll do some winter survival training. No word on what we’ll have for Sunday lunch yet.”
As if on cue, one of the senior scouts asked, “Are we having the same soup again?”
The cook confirmed they would. Another senior scout said, “The flavor was better than that Army surplus mix we usually get. Did you add something to it?”
The Life-scout cook replied, “Breast of snipe. I used some from home, but that’s all Ma had in the freezer.”
Another older scout, again as if on cue, said, “Plenty of snipe in the woods this time of year, seems they like winter. I saw several when we checked out this site. Be good if we can catch one or two.”
Billy anticipated what was next. He remembered sitting for hours in his uncle’s cornfield after his older cousins put him in the ‘snipe path’ with a bag and flashlight. He said nothing.
There was a long pause before another of the older scouts said, “Can’t the Tenderfoots get checks on their trapping badges by catching enough for the soup? I’ve fixed ‘em for my mother. I could to that here.”
As if waiting to pounce on prey, the Life-scout cook said, “That’s how I got my first check, so I can give you Tenderfoots a check on your trapping badge. We’ll get you set up.”
They’ll set us up alright! Billy thought.
Six were paired up. Billy, the odd number, was stationed alone. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he feigned being excited to be part of the hunt. He kneeled behind the gunny sack with a flashlight inside until the older boys’ voices faded.
Billy propped the bag open with a branch and left the light inside. He quietly circumvented the parking lot back to the campsite where he older boys and adult leaders were laughing around the cook fire.
He found his backpack, sleeping bag and shelter half where he’d left them against the supply trailer wheel. He quietly spread his shelter half over the small cargo deck on the trailer tongue still attached to the scoutmaster’s old Dodge FWD.
He removed his boots and put them alongside his rolled out sleeping bag, then slid into his sleeping bag fully clothed. He flipped the loose half of the shelter-half over his sleeping bag and tucked it under as far as he could reach. He made sure his boots were covered in case it snowed during the night then pulled the loose end of the shelter-half over his stocking capped head. His wish for sleep was nearly instantly granted.
Billy awoke to vibrations of the cargo platform and the squeaking of the trailer hitch jack. He flipped the shelter-half off his sleeping bag and sat up.
The scoutmaster shouted, “Jeez, Bloom! You scared the wiz out of me. Where have you been? We’ve just spent hours stomping the woods looking for you. We thought you gave up the hunt and lost your way in the woods. I was going to unhitch and drive into town to get the sheriff and your mother.”
Billy laughed and said, “Would you have invited them to have snipe soup for lunch?” He laughed again.
-end-
As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder. Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
This second of my stories in the series of those not accepted by journals for publication has composites of persons and events. It is loosely based on vets I’ve met.
Empty Sleeve
A graveyard security person at the Greyhound bus station rousted Paul Carter Jones from a restless sleep on a hard bench saying, “Day shift will be here soon, Doc.”
“Thanks…ah…Guard.” Jones had a five-year history of overthinking, indecision, and not remembering names – even his own. Neither could he fathom why everyone who seemed to know him called him Doc.
Jones limped to the restroom and relieved himself before splashing water on his face and hand-combing his hair. He went to a vending machine and slid in three quarters. While fingering three other quarters in his pocket, he mumbled, “Too many choices.” Buck and a half for a breakfast burger with Gunny. And I can get a free water. He tapped the coin return pad and took the quarters from the return tray.
He limped out of the station into a mix of rain, sleet, and snow driven by swirling blasts of late November wind. His exposed face and hand smarted. I hate Minneapolis! He covered his right ear with his right hand and leaned into the wind. His deaf left ear went unprotected.
The wind driven empty left sleeve of his too large Mackinaw smacked him on the chest, head and back as he shuffled toward the illuminated PCJ Good Eats sign a long block away. He uncovered his ear and the elastic string of his mask slipped off. The wind took it. He struggled to catch his flopping, unfilled left sleeve and tuck it into the same side jacket pocket.
The wind switched directions at the intersection; he eyed a shallow alcove, hesitated, then stepped behind the post supporting the cover. Should get farther in. They’ll see me. Traffic eased and he went to the curb to wait for the pedestrian crossing signal. A passing bus splashed slush and street debris-infused water from a clogged drain. The mini-flood washed over the tops of Jones’s scuffed ankle-boots saturating his Salvation Army gifted argyles.
The light changed to all-way pedestrian. A red-light running driver in a high-lift pickup passing behind him splattered his back with water and slush.
A blast of hot air from the overhead heater just inside the diner door melted the slush in Jones’s greying hair while he waited his turn. He donned a one-to-a-customer ear loop mask from the box by the door before gimping to the ordering end of the counter.
“Morning Doc,” came from the man behind the pass-through window to the kitchen. “Same?”
“Well, Cook, … ah … well sure.” Jones slid six quarters under the Plexiglas next to Girl at the till and followed the floor arrows to the exit end of the counter. Girl placed the bagged sandwich on the serving end with a steaming 20 oz. cup of sugared and creamed coffee.
“Can’t buy coffee this morning, Girl. Water will do.”
“Not too many customers this morning, Doc. Cook said it’s on the house.”
“Thanks, Girl.”
She put a clamshell next to the sandwich bag. “Cook had a leftover bear claw. You should have it. Want your sandwich in the box with it?”
“Well … ah … sure.”
“And Doc,” Girl said, “your change is in the clamshell.”
Jones slid the container into his jacket pocket, picked up the coffee, and backed out the door into the alley side alcove. The rain, sleet, and snow mix turned to dry snow but was still whipped by gusts of wind. He sat the coffee on the step, removed his mask, and took a long drink. The hot liquid warmed his mouth and throat, and he felt the instant warmness in his empty stomach.
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A navy corpsman in combat uniform slid into the chow line behind a Gunnery Sergeant and a PFC. The medic selected a sausage-egg breakfast burger and coffee from the serving line.
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The lee side of a Dumpster in the alley gave Jones some shelter. He pulled a broken milk crate from behind the trash bin for his breakfast table. He ate the still warm breakfast sandwich first, gulped some more coffee, then nibbled the bear claw with intermittent sips from the paper cup. He took the six quarters from the container and dropped them into his pocket. With his stomach full and warm, he fell asleep sitting on the milk crate. Dry snow drifted and covered his ice coated boots.
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A blast shoved their Humvee to a ditch. Jones landed outside and pulled dizzied Gunny and PFC out of the vehicle. It tipped over pinning the medic’s left arm to the ground. Windblown sand peppered his face as he writhed in pain. Gunny and PFC struggled to tip the burning vehicle from Doc’s arm. Corpsman Jones struggled to roll over but didn’t hear Gunny shout, “Doc, Doc, wake up!”
“No use,” Gunny said. “He might live if I take off his arm. If it blows, we’ll all go.”
Gunny’s prediction wasn’t totally right. The explosion finished the amputation and seared Doc’s flesh where Gunny started the cut.
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Jones struggled to roll over. The wind tipped dumpster held him down by the left sleeve of his jacket and windblown snow peppered his face as he twisted and wrenched with memory pain. Gunny shouted, “Doc, Doc, wake up!”
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Cook and a just arrived patrol officer struggled to tip the overloaded snow laden dumpster from Doc’s empty sleeve. Girl tried to help, but it was too heavy for Cook, Girl, Officer, and their adrenaline.
“Give me your knife officer,” Cook said, “I’m going to cut it off.”
“Paramedics are less than a minute out, they’ll help lift.”
“It’s an empty sleeve. His arm is somewhere near Baghuz Fawqani!”
Officer questioned, “What?”
“In Iraq!”
EMTs wrapped Doc in a warming blanket and started taking vitals. As they started to close the door, Officer asked Cook, “How’d you know about the sleeve?”
“I cut off his arm!”
A small voice came from inside, “It’s OK Gunny. I know there was no option.”
˅
The next morning, Jones heard, “Day shift will be here soon, Doc.”
-end-
As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder. Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
Short stories not accepted by journals for publication will be my next series of posts. Most of them started much longer but were cut to meet flash fiction or other norms. The first in this series is based on events in the life and death of my uncle Arne Gerhardt Benson – the uncle I never knew.
Fourteen Cents
The 35-year-old Gerhardt was neither in combat when he died nor was he in the Army when he was wounded by the enemy on an Aleutian Island in 1942.
America was full into the Great Depression by 1930 and jobs were scarce at best, but the newly married Gerhardt had cooking skills. His new wife hungered for city life and adventure that rich men could provide, so she left a saddened young husband for the streets of Chicago. The divorce judge gave her everything except his clothing and a week’s rent.
Pearl Harbor happened, Gerhardt tried to enlist, but one bad eye, even corrected with glasses, would only allow him to be classified for non-combat duty. He did get a civilian job cooking for a US Corps of Engineers unit at Cordoba, Alaska. He tried to convince the military that his having grown up with hunting rifles and being able to shoot a pistol quite well should be a waiver. He felt that combat would ease his gnawing anger towards the woman he thought had loved him.
His wish would come true but not in a way he expected.
In March of 1942, there was a call for volunteers to cook on fishing boats. Gerhardt was disgusted with partial pay and the long hours cooking for three shifts of difficult to please military officers. He volunteered and was accepted for cooking on the Random. But the Random only looked like a fishing trawler. The rigging masked antennae tuned to pick up Japanese navy and onshore communications.
All but the radio operators’ supervisor, the commanding lieutenant and the first mate were on shore when the Japanese bombing of Dutch Harbor started on June 3, 1942. The Random. and the three men still on board went down in the attack.
Early in the morning of the June 4th, the surviving crew of the Random was flown to Adak Island to supplement the crew of a larger radio intercept ship already diverted to Adak Harbor. Japanese marines were already landing on the island before the ship arrived, so it was diverted. Concerned with the intelligence gathering knowledge of the surviving Random crew, command initiated a plan to have them escorted by American marines to a departing cargo aircraft.
A squad of Japanese marines ambushed them and during the fire fight Gerhardt became separated from his group. He faced a single enemy with a bayonet mounted rifle with only his empty Pistol. Gerhardt realized that if the enemy he faced had bullets he would have been shot. The Japanese Imperial Marine lunged.
Gerhardt side stepped and parried the rifle with his arm. He heard the ulna in his left arm snap but his in-fight adrenalin dulled the pain. The marine continued his parried thrust with a rifle butt-stroke to Gerhardt’s head. He avoided the second thrust with a quick turn, but the tip of the bayonet nicked his already broken arm. The marine slipped on a loose rock and Gerhardt took momentary advantage by striking a blow to the enemy’s jaw with his pistol. The Japanese recovered and charged again but was taken down by a round from an American marine.
Gerhardt had not received compensation for his cooking duties on the fishing boat but did receive all of his Cordova back pay in one check during his fourth week of rehabilitation. With new clothing and more cash than he had ever known in his pockets, he met a woman fifteen years his junior at a dance, and they were married in less than a month.
He still wanted to serve, and his status was no longer a mental roadblock to him. He was reexamined and declared fit for duty in a non-combat role. He was required to take a shortened version of basic training and would be restricted to base for four weeks.
The day before he reported for training, his new wife convinced him to put their accounts in her name so she could set up an apartment for them to share when his training was over. He did that and filed official papers naming her as his allotment recipient and heir to his military insurance policy. The day after he entered basic training she filed for legal separation.
Gerhardt was forced to live on base and the pay he received would be only enough to pay for his necessities. He was resolved that he had been taken, but an Army attorney said his retirement would be safe if he served twenty years.
The soldier cook was hospitalized with scarlet fever in late April of 1943. Pneumonia took over his lungs and his doctors anticipated lengthy hospitalization and possible separation from service after recovery. His estranged wife was contacted, and without visiting, she picked up his belongings.
Pfc. Gerhardt did not recover.
Military mortuary personnel found two nickels, four pennies, and a Washington State tax token on his hospital nightstand.
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As my octogenarianism continues, my mind wanders as I wonder. Or could it be that my mind wonders as I wander?
