tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-348862522024-03-07T17:11:30.341-06:00From Ottawa to the World: Canadian CommandosSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-10063927148392551932010-12-20T19:11:00.040-06:002010-12-20T20:50:24.906-06:00In Which Sarge Concludes His Adventures in South America, Discovers True Heroism and Strikes Forth to Return to Shanghai and CodyA letter describing the events of April, now that it is December<br /><br />the 26th of April:<br /><br />Cpl., I send this with sincere regrets for my silence, which I hope you do not interpret as a cooling of my sense of comradeship with you.<br /><br />Circumstances kept me from writing Cpl., and my voyage to China was delayed by a day and then by months I care not to contemplate. Dissipation yet seeps from my skin but finally it was a mysterious telegram from Nwargo and thoughts of Cody that awakened me in Punta Alta. A crowd of football fans cheered down a street, above a dead and quiet sky, was it a Sunday? How is it that I lose months to these dreams of life? <br /><br />I dread this final confrontation with Medicine Man. I sail today, unnoticed, I believe, working on a cattle ship. I go to Shanghai and from there I shall rendezvous with Nwargo and proceed from there into parts unknown. When I go there, I want my dog with me.<br /><br />Yet I must write you and tell you what has happened, for we are father confessors and penitents both for each other, for even the confessional is compromised for us. I must tell you how it turned out with Panzito in Eldiente de Naga. Where was it I left off dear friend? How is it that this letter will find you? I scratch at my arm for minutes, my thoughts no longer my own, I think once again of the fogs in the mountain and my heart breaks.<br /><br />The silence, I remember it and a dread overtakes me. Then I remember the sounds and for months I sought to quiet these with the needle. Night sweats and window ledges looking out to a squalid beach, far off the sound of the sea and a tiring moon. Let me tell you though, what it was.<br /><br />Panzito and I approached cautiously, the other men running away, several of them even then, leaving us and giving up the mission as a cursed one, had died, but as cowards instead of men. It is the anchor of our sanity, you and I, I believe, that we have faith that this matters: how we die.<br /><br />The oaks twisted and gnarled, seemed to appear out of the earth as an outgrowth of dreams from beneath, as if beneath us slept some dreaming god and as the fog rolled in they appeared almost by accident, swimming across our fields of vision, Panzito looked over at me and made a series of signals. He circled left behind a few rocks, covering my advance into the village itself. I signaled to the nearest hut, from that doorway I covered his approach. We seemed small against the mountain, now almost a shadow in which that which was solid and that which was imaginary seemed to meld.<br /><br />I entered the village slowly, I thought of Tallinn and of Fu Shan, I thought of Cody: those who I wanted to live to remember, those who I wanted to live to protect. I loosed the loop over my knife, I felt the comforting weight of my MK1 in my right hand, knowing that it was a fool’s comfort. Somewhere far off I heard the cry of a bird. <br /><br />I reached the first hut, it’s door hung from a hinge like a drunk at sunrise, keening for balance. I dared not touch it. I crouched under a window streaked with dust that had been undisturbed for decades and waited for Panzito.<br /><br />Shots rang out. One shot ripped into Panzito’s right bicep. I wheeled around firing shots in the direction of a tree and a hut from which the shots seemed to come, Panzito with some luck ran for cover near me. Echoes of the shots reverberated and Panzito collapsed against me, breathing heavily. I held him and felt his blood warm against my neck. <br /><br />“Panzito! Can you hear me?” His eyes stared blankly at me. “Your daughter, Panzito! She waits for you!”<br /><br />“Yes,” he said. “Promise me she will be safe Bearded One.” <br /><br />“You must make that promise Panzito! I can barely be responsible for a dog!”<br /><br />He laughed weakly and I dug around in my pack, I stuck him with some morphine and wrapped his wound tightly. My eyes darted this way and that like a wild animal, wounded myself though it was only the sting of pride. How had I not seen signs of this mysterious sniper?<br /><br />“Panzito, I must examine some of these huts. Can you protect yourself from a covered position?” He nodded weakly. Cautiously I pulled him into the hut. It was empty and full of dust, yet I knew it wasn’t that simple. I leaned him against a wall. <br /><br />“Do not move without me, Panzito, unless I am dead or the sun rises and you do not know if I’m dead.” I looked at him in the eyes. He stared at me and nodded again. <br /><br />“If you feel faint, you must think of your daughter. You must imagine her at a window…” My voice caught as I thought of Fu Shan again, the floating mountain and the house on stilts. “You must do this. It must be the most important thing.” He looked at me understanding then. He held his good arm up, hand on my shoulder.<br /><br />“I promise you, Bearded One, that I will love my daughter more than the comfort of death.” I left him there then, not daring to look back. I did not want to abandon the quest now that I was here. The village again was filled with its awful silence. The fog covered everything in shadows and deeper shadows, and I felt perhaps I had an advantage against my adversary or adversaries, who were perhaps holed up in one place straining to see.<br /><br />Cautiously I stepped into a lane between two rows of huts. Shots rang out. I rolled, a piece of the earth fell into itself to my right and as I hit the opposite row of huts the shots stopped. I dared not look into the earth but instead made myself quiet, trying to feel if I had been hit. I had only been scraped, but blood and dirt made dark one sleeve. Out of anger I foolishly fired my gun into the fog twice. More echoes then nothing. I entered into a hut, empty again. I dared not touch anything. I entered another hut and another.<br /><br />The fourth hut was different. A bureau, painted to match the earth outside jangled four drawers and tilted to the right. A kitchen table held an ancient wine bottle three fourths finished and a notebook. I knew that this was an offering of Medicine Man as soon as I saw it. Understood that he was offering some illusion of understanding in return for an attempt on his enemies’ lives. I had taken the bait. I knew he would leave nothing of consequence, only those things that could corrupt the souls of his pursuers. With more hatred? With the promise of shared knowledge and power? I had to know. <br /><br />I found as I looked, that the notebook was a journal. I shall transcribe some of what was there for you in my next missive. It was hideous to behold. <br /><br />There in what had perhaps been Medicine Man's home once, I knew that I did not have time, I went to the drawers and cautiously began to attempt to ascertain if the drawers were trapped. I felt no wires, cautiously ran a light where I could see under one of the drawers and saw nothing. I expected death for my curiosity but felt impelled to look. In the crevices I could see papers and bits of life pasted to papers diagrammed. Slowly, trying not to shake, I moved one of the drawers. Sirens burst to life around the hut and an explosion went off in front of the doorway, collapsing that half of the hut, I was exposed suddenly and took cover in the rubble trying to figure out some route back to Panzito. I felt the notebook would be enough, even if only to make Medicine Man more real to me.<br /><br />As I tried to move back into the fog I saw running figures coming from a tree line. Like we had, they moved cautiously but unlike us they had no interest in being quiet. They yelled threats and fired blindly in my direction as the siren unceasingly called attention to the half destroyed hut. I had put the handgun back in its holster and cradled my rifle, firing at two shadows that fell into the earth. My reward for this was a rain of bullets through the fog. Three angry men yelling began running in my direction, two fell screaming into the earth and the other slowed down again still yelling curses. I felled him with another bullet. Still the shadows came.<br /><br />They were closer now and I managed to extricate myself briefly into the open, drawing half-blinded fire and moving for cover into the rows of huts, trying to navigate my way without rushing into a trap. Sometimes from trees guns would blindly fire and I realized they were rigged to some kind of optics that only seemed to discriminate against Panzito and I.<br /><br />I had to get back to Panzito! Now however the henchmen were amongst the village and as I crouched behind a hut I knew the odds were against me. It is pointless to discuss the blood I loosed from the bodies of men over the next several minutes, they were simple men, paying off debts, from nearby villages, given little choice but to work in the service of evil. I ended their lives with no joy, instead the cold blade of death did its work stoically amidst the fog as I made my way back to Panzito. I fought then so that his daughter could still dream of beautiful things, and not only of the dead. I fought so that I could see Cody again and so that I could revenge myself on the man who had made for himself a kind of palace of death in the neglected places of the world: Oh Medicine Man! I vowed then I would kill you as I have vowed many times. Even in the nights when I felt I could leave everything behind for the sweet solace of the junk, I knew the vow burned ever deeper in my soul. <br /><br />I made it back to the hut where Panzito lay. And when I made my way into the hut I saw Panzito was gone, blood and two bodies in the doorway the only clue that he had not gone quietly.<br /><br />They could not have gotten far.<br /><br />I heard screams from near the river and without thinking began to run. The earth opened up then and I began to fall, but it was a stumbling fall and I caught myself against the edge of the cavernous trap and dug into the earth, letting myself lower slowly, for I could not fight the progress yet I heard the screaming continue. There was no silence to be had between the siren and the screaming. The siren would not stop, the screaming would not stop and I lowered myself down into a pit of knives.<br /><br />Slowly so that I could arrange myself around the knives I felt myself impressed by the artistry of the trap, against my will: the knives arranged in such a way, running several feet up against the wall, as to rip the struggling life from one so unfortunate as to find himself in Eldeiente de Naga.<br /><br />Deliberately, without hurry, I lifted myself out of the trap, every inch of my body screaming to rush, only my experience kept me alive. Only memories of Chimoio and Mount Bêngo slowed me. The screams were gone now, replaced by loud voices cursing and groans. I knew Panzito suffered, they would not kill him, he was the colorful lure bringing me to them.<br /><br />Now I was slow and full of purpose, they called out. “Are you dead Canadian?” <br /><br />“Canadian, your friend cries no more.” Laughter and his groaning.<br /><br />I decided to cross the river and cross back again. Panzito would suffer, but if I could get in close enough before the fighting they would not have time to dispatch him. It was my only chance.<br /><br />The water was cold and jarring, I had gone upriver so they could not hear me as I splashed, but I could hear them calling out.<br /><br />“Canadian, we will rip your skin with the teeth of our knives when you are dead!”<br /><br />All things I had heard before. <br /><br />The birds songs were gone, the fog remained, less dense here among the trees than in the clearing and against the mountains face. Quieter now I crossed the river again, emerging against the river bed with only my knife, my pack further up along the river where I had left it.<br /><br />There were four of them to begin with. I recognized two and felt genuine shock. Domanieu was there, one of Medicine Man’s top lieutenants, and LaStrue, he of the double cross. My hand tightened round my knife.<br /><br />The other two were guards and I dispatched them as they tried to make a perimeter and suddenly I had a chance to free Panzito. I had to choose: the death of these evil men or the life of this good one? <br /><br />I ran to Panzito.<br /><br />Already I could see us floating down the river, perhaps a mile, from there I could get him on the riverbed and see how much he could do. Then it would be down the mountain and I would make for Caraz and then to the coast. These thoughts were flashes in my mind.<br /><br />Panzito’s eyes were gauged out. His arms, cut off at the elbow were stuffed carelessly into a couple of shirts already filling with blood. Soon he would be dead, I picked him up as Domanieu appeared shouting and firing wildly. He always was kind of stupid. With one hand I supported Panzito who was groaning. <br /><br />“Bearded One, that is you?”<br /><br />“Yes, Panzito, you will love. Call on your daughter’s name.” I wheeled us behind a tree. I could hear LaStrue running down a forest trail laughing. Escaping again. The oak protecting us I lay Panzito down.<br /><br />“I will be here,” I said, and wheeled to face Domanieu who appeared then. <br /><br />“Canadian,” he said. “I will not spare you.”<br /><br />“You can never let go of Morocco, can you Domanieu?” Truly I regretted Morocco at that moment. He raised his gun and I dove at him then with my knife, praying for its truth to be revealed in Domanieu’s death. I heard the shot and felt a tunnel dug into my shoulder, I do not remember in what I order I remember these things. My knife dug into his belly and I felt it unconsciously dig north for his heart. His surprise was his first profundity. I looked into his eyes then, Panzito, sightless groaning, the siren in the distance still wailing.<br /><br />“Canada already forgets you,” I whispered into the man becoming corpse in front of me. His face stilled, uncomprehending.<br /><br />I grabbed Panzito and he leaned against me.<br /><br />“Can you walk?” I asked.<br /><br />“I can walk,” he said. We descended the mountain. The village we stayed in was destroyed and the woman who had refused to cook for us was spilled in pieces near her home. The old woman watched Panzito and I through the village, she shook her head slowly.<br /><br />“And what did you learn?” She called out in her rook's voice.<br /><br />I could not answer. Panzito caught a sob in his throat and called his daughter’s name. I felt the tears then, and cried them for Panzito. Still we descended.<br /><br />Three days later I walked into the convent school and pulled Panzito’s daughter from her catechism class. <br /><br />“Your father is alive. But he is very hurt. Do you understand what I am saying?”<br /><br />“Yes, my father needs me.”<br /><br />“Yes. He has no arms. He has no eyes.”<br /><br />“I will be his arms. I will be his eyes,” she said.<br /><br />I held her. “He is still lucky. For you are his daughter,” I said.<br /><br />She looked at me. I met her gaze. I owed that to her.<br /><br />“We will still taste life together. We will still sing its songs. I will sing them first and he will remember the words. Sister Jerónima will let me study when I can. She understands. At night when he cannot sleep I will sing softly so that he dreams.”<br /><br />“I must go. But I will remember you. Your father lived for you. He stayed with me when others ran away. He fought bravely. He fought because he didn’t want you to have to fight later. He will say he is not a hero. But a man who is loyal and does not leave the side of those he fights with, he is a hero.”<br /><br />“I will be a hero.”<br /><br />Her voice echoed in my head for weeks. I meant to write you so much earlier. But her voice, calm in the broken masts of her life’s journey, so young. I could not. What is it that we fight for? Is our fighting just a function, an illusion of trying to create peace when in fact we only incite the evil to violence? In the ports of South America I have found refuge again in the needle and again I have taken the cure to take up the fight. I grow weary though. If I don’t kill Medicine Man soon, I will go mad.<br /><br />So I go to Shanghai to find Cody, and we will from there meet Nwargo. My friend I am broken in the strong places, but I trust in your wisdom and look forward to your words.<br /><br />I remain,<br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-25222933897051504432010-04-28T12:26:00.007-05:002010-04-28T13:12:22.929-05:00Ranger - Watery Grave<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZh7wSjU9lIe9e6edwQNapBeZ0J3Ze_qp5vwd7uiG27BRop_cq9hHbdtkq59XLuF_C1vKwifDDHbPqub1fKhGjOkW68pFsihu58xhexVaymbQS-0l_2MlGZHPoQ-K0QoJg5WHC7Q/s1600/Fiat+in+Bermuda.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465248827320222098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZh7wSjU9lIe9e6edwQNapBeZ0J3Ze_qp5vwd7uiG27BRop_cq9hHbdtkq59XLuF_C1vKwifDDHbPqub1fKhGjOkW68pFsihu58xhexVaymbQS-0l_2MlGZHPoQ-K0QoJg5WHC7Q/s320/Fiat+in+Bermuda.bmp" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Dear Sarge:</div><div></div><br /><div>I have enclosed a picture from my recent trip to Bermuda. I appreciated the car you left. Our friends there are well. </div>*<br /><div></div><div>I find though my blade continues to find its mark that the man attached to it has dulled. Day after day of this grind - stretching out as far as I can see. My company is younger. They are filled with a passion for life (which I feel drifting out of my reach), and hatred. Uncompromising hatred. I congratulate myself that my mind is clearer, less emotional. When I take a life I understand complications. But what I hear from the soldiers I serve with is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">elimnationist</span> rhetoric, and religious fervor. I have always been in opposition and now I am growing tired. Even when they say we must kill the rats - I disagree. Where is the pleasure in killing a rat? We are killers of men - men with real ambitions and families and pasts who have for legitimate or illegitimate reasons come into conflict with our way of life. I do not want to die at the hands of a man who believes I am vermin. I do take pleasure in knowing that these new soldiers will learn that life is less than clear, less than comforting. Or they will embrace insanity. </div><div>*</div><div></div><div>For me the lack of clarity and comfort have been <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">transformed</span>. First from a source of fear, then as a known truth and finally to providing consolation in a world where others appear to be engaged in a rebellion which is beyond my imagining. </div><div>*</div><div>I cannot fool myself into believing that there is a greater reward waiting for me. I do not try and justify my actions in that way, especially when I retrieve my knife from the punctured lung of a fallen foe. I can no more believe that I am heaven-bound than the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">essence</span> of that corpse is in hell. Nor can I allow myself to believe as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Deseilligny</span> did that life itself has no meaning and that my actions can be divorced from reason. Perhaps I am too simple of a being, but I have tried to ascribe meaning to my activity which I know does not exist. I try to find joy in what I do even when what I do is not joyful. Rather than serving only myself, I can serve others and bend reality to my will in this way. Perhaps I am the one embracing insanity, though I hope that it is an innocuous variety. </div><div>*</div><div></div><div>I hope that you and Corporal can make some progress on your current charges. If my letter indicates anything I suppose that I am set upon by enemies more piercing than bullets. But today the sun is bright and warm and I go on. </div><div>*</div><div></div><div>I remain your friend.</div><div></div><div>*</div><div>Ranger</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div>Rangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18021204695804826155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-84996616845121438242010-04-24T15:08:00.005-05:002010-04-24T15:27:34.808-05:00In Which the Trials of Peru are Remembered and Recounted: The Second PartWell, Cpl.,<br /><br />Perhaps I will get out alive. If I do, I have made some valuable discoveries, most of them found in the ruins of a burned hut. A strange village, Eldiente de Naga, obscured in low and angry clouds, didn't announce itself so much as it huddled against an extinct volcano and waited for us to set upon it. Slowly we approached, still, three men were killed quickly with traps, one man fell screaming into a pit of jagged animal teeth and bones, ripped up only to be impaled at the base of the trap. We could not look save to make sure there was nothing to save.<br /><br />The village was long deserted. In truth locals had denied it existed, exchanged strange looks and told us we must leave before we brought with us evil winds through the mountain passes.<br /><br />"You are already an ill omen," one woman told me. "You are already an announcement of some evil that will be visited upon us but I do not hate you for it." Panzito asked her if she would cook for us. "We will pay you well," he said. She refused. "I must be able to say I did not help you," she answered, "this might be a thing that allows me to survive." An older woman who did not care anymore cooked for us. She said she would send our money to the Church. She told us that if we continued into higher altitudes we would encounter something that would teach us to respect evil. "You will die understanding at least." Staring at the ripped flesh of the first dead man of our journey, I felt I already knew too well. But then why do I continue? What is it that I pursue, save perhaps proof of my own mortality? My own immortality? Ah, Cpl.! These are discussions we must shelve for better days, when we share a bottle of good wine along the northern Superior coast! I dream now of those Lakes and the flat skies there, in the early spring, when you feel the birds approaching once again from the south to take up residence. It is still cold then, but the wind does not bite anymore, it is a vitalizing thing. <br /><br />We approached this village, itself an enemy, unyielding and petulant. Another man was dragged up into a tree and hacked by knifes that fell upon him. A third man ran screaming at this point and was quickly eaten by the earth. We could only hear his screams, for the earth had him and he was no longer visible. The silence that descended was awful and we gathered together. The village needed no men to protect its secrets, it would put up enough of a fight. "I will not stay," one man said. Two other men nodded their heads.<br /><br />Panzito looked at me. "Go," I said. "Live for your daughter."<br />"What? And leave you? She would never again look me in the eyes."<br />"Don't tell her. Tell her I sent you away."<br />"She would know I lied. You know that."<br />The three men left at this, for they had their own children, and I think they wanted to leave before Shame set upon them and offered them death for their honor. Panzito and I were alone against the village of Eldiente de Naga.<br />"Tell her I asked you to go, as a favor to her."<br />Panzito laughed.<br />"You are clever, bearded one, but she is not a princess. She would not want that gift."<br />"I will protect you Panzito," I said. "You will live if it means my life."<br />He hugged me. We drank something fermented and strong. We looked around. A wrong step meant a death we did not care to contemplate. And why had I led men here to die? I looked over the landscape. Innocent-looking and abandoned, the huts offered cold comfort from a steady wind, but I suspected they were designed now as coffins, full of death to shield what it was that had been left here.<br /><br />Cautiously we approached. At one point I felt a give in the earth and stopped, pointing silently down. Panzito nodded gravely and stepped carefully in another direction. Grimly, he pointed toward the earth as well. We had fallen silent now, on approaching closer to the village, and communicated the way we once did, Cpl., as snipers in a Liberian church. I could not help thinking of that, and of all the circles of hell earth holds. I thought of Cody in Shanghai and willed myself to live so that we could once again run the dawn streets of that city and keep these hells at bay.<br /><br />My pen is weary, but I will pick up this tale tomorrow and take it to its conclusion. The stars are bright in this harbor town, and I can hear the drunken sailors and music from the taverns along the water, mixed in with the warehouses. The women, most of them prostitutes, laugh and scream in feigned delight. It is that time of the night, and in the darkest part of the sky there is that deepening which is itself, the first sign of dawn.Sargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-59759978307361211942009-05-25T22:41:00.002-05:002009-05-25T22:43:22.610-05:00What was true then is true now...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouFl3VoBjbYKrm86DmU027TWS2H2wKnCPFcBggewcQix2t0SEMTj0ILIl-QL3C9f4kdmtptKRGUWpkDAJQv96s6Z6GZ8ErzyjrOpiNVz3koTAo2GI0UqDt4DzUZHwvaZ5FqJk/s1600-h/AMINNESOTAIG_10311395586.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 265px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjouFl3VoBjbYKrm86DmU027TWS2H2wKnCPFcBggewcQix2t0SEMTj0ILIl-QL3C9f4kdmtptKRGUWpkDAJQv96s6Z6GZ8ErzyjrOpiNVz3koTAo2GI0UqDt4DzUZHwvaZ5FqJk/s400/AMINNESOTAIG_10311395586.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339973197441857314" /></a>Sargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-880967723715079952009-04-15T16:29:00.004-05:002009-04-15T16:36:09.000-05:00In Which Sarge Must Make an Aside to Peru, Leaving Shanghai and His Beloved Codythe 13th:<br /><br />It has been some time,<br /><br />Sometimes the cold in the mountains feels like a slap to the marrow of my bones, Cpl. I sit here under my poncho, the fire does its slow dance and the local men look at me like I might know something they don't, but they also know things I do not, and they hold them like talismans they will not give up save to protect the life of their firstborns. The night passes this way, strange sounds about us and occasionally a faraway shout. They are tracking us and don't care too much to hide it. Who they are isn't quite clear, and I hesitate to jump to conclusions. Especially when I remember that incident in Mali.<br /><br />Medicine Man was here, I feel it. I see it in the strange deaths and arrangements of bones I sometimes come across in the remotest villages. The broken tables and shattered vials, the dogs who will not enter the villages but scavenge along the dissipating borders that separate these places from the nature they sprang from God knows how long ago. I am not here to find him. I am no match for him yet, for I know not how he plays this game. The French Separatists love him for his weapons and his cruelty, but he holds them in contempt for their simplistic political designs. Medicine Man, his aesthetics, his hubris – he insists on larger goals: his is the work of changing the human destiny.<br /><br />Here I will discover something I believe. For I believe it was here he made the discovery that altered the course of his life. Here we see him twenty years ago, and then see nothing of him until he is in Australia, defeated for a moment by a crazy dog and his desperate companion. But we hear the whispers of his shadow crawling across the lonely places. We hear the myths told from outpost to outpost of a man and men who do terrible things. What was it of death he discovered here? What did it mean? There is a village where perhaps this answer might be discovered. At least enough to throw some light on the shadow, and to diminish its reach. I must go now, Panzito is here and tells me I must rest. Of the men, I trust him the most. His daughter is beautiful, at the convent school she leads the daily prayers and the day we left Panzito's village she ran to me and said in a delightful Spanish: "I will say my most beautiful prayer for you!" I leaned down to her and asked her if she remembered my stories about the dog, Cody. "Yes," she nodded her head seriously, "he is a good dog. The best dog."<br /><br />"Pray for him," I said. <br /><br />She nodded her head seriously, for I had given her a mission. Panzito laughed. "You and dogs!" he cried. "You are natural brothers!"<br /><br />Now I must sleep, and hope somewhere I am missed. Somewhere I am prayed for.Sargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-27357485210256878112008-12-15T15:43:00.003-06:002009-04-15T16:52:41.825-05:00Ranger - The BearSarge,<br /><br />I believed this channel had been compromised. Until last month, I feared the worst for Corporal. I received of all things a telephone message from him. From what I could understand, he was headed in the direction of Georgia. I was not certain what business he had there. I had begin to fear that the stranger he met on the train to Berlin was less than a chance <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">meeting</span>.<br /><br /><p>I am in Seattle. Close to home, though with the recent American election all hell has broken loose here. One team of operatives has left for Guantanamo Bay to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">retrieve</span> a few special friends. Another small group is monitoring market changes. A large group of traders seem to be shorting an essential market, resetting it at will. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Mercerier's</span> fingerprints are all over it. My group has been hard at work with dive training and cold environment weather amphibious landings. The locks here seemed an ideal place to train. We hope to be able to assist you in the near future. </p><p>The Moscow Roll you recommended was brilliant. Reminds me of my grandmother's Farina rolls which I have never been able to successfully replicate. I am told she always left out a key ingredient in the recipe. I have enclosed the information our office here was able to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">retrieve</span> on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Fu</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Shan</span> - it is sparse, but I have hope you will be able to make some use of it. </p><p>If nothing else, remember fondly my first day of training, with your soundless blade at my throat, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Calrissian</span> emerging from the bushes with his words of wisdom for me - "knives never run out of ammunition."</p><p><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">leges</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">barbarorum</span>,</p><p>Ranger</p><p></p><br /><p></p>Rangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18021204695804826155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-86883008291048561722008-12-08T19:02:00.004-06:002009-04-15T16:52:31.684-05:00March to the SeaIt is cold.<br /><br />When I inhale, the mucus in my nose freezes, only to thaw again when I exhale, the vapor crystalizing on my beard.<br /><br />The numbing cold invites me to rest while the gentle pain of inhalation reminds me of the consequences of breaking stride and resting.<br /><br />The snow gently slopes to the frozen river, and I cross, ears piqued for the telltale sounds of the death that waits below my snowshoes. It is only thirty meters or so to the other side.<br /><br />Half way across. I smirk as I remember, "To Build a Fire." It is not quite so cold as it was in that story, but it is cold.<br /><br />Death is the natural result of life, and it gives me great pleasure to deny Death while placing myself just outside his cold grasp. One day, it will be over; there will be a mistake: an unheeded warning, an unheard silence, an unseen emptiness. I only hope to die quickly rather have the gnawing beast within slowly suck the flesh from my bones and leave me sunken eyed in a hospital bed gasping for air while tubes push fluids in and suck fluids out. No, rather the ice should collapse beneath my feet!<br /><br />The mixture of bravado and stoicism keep my mind focused, and the river is now behind me. Two more hours of daylight. Three more hours before I reach the coast where I will rendezvous with Marshall, who will have our assignment. The isolation of Arctic Norway has been good. Twelve months at a listening post intercepting messages and sending coded messages to Ottawa. Now, someone else will take on this task. I am glad that our Philosopher Kings have seen fit for me to move on; happy that my old tracks have faded; rejoicing that Corporal will once again rise from the dead to strike Canada's enemies.Corporalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01624947142004162392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-21165999062269998272008-11-11T23:37:00.005-06:002008-11-12T00:11:31.424-06:00In Which Sarge Catches Up Corporal on the Action in Shanghai or "Quiet Days and Monkey Scream Nights"Cpl.,<br /><br />Thank you for the package of the 29th of last month. You were right, and it was used with great effect during an ambush on a river wharf this last week. Around me men bled life into the river which carried that sacrifice along its unceasing current without sense of time. I screamed into the night when the young Ya Hui fell to a frenzied knife and I made the killer taste the river water with his dying lips. Medicine Man was there, overseeing it all, of course. Directing it like some mad conductor trying to raise a symphony out of the death-sounds of an ambush gone wrong. Finally, I was one step ahead of him. I even got one shot off at him, knowing it would miss, but cracking his veneer of impenetrability just the same.<br /><br />I screamed to him something I cannot remember. Something of death and Canada. He only smiled and directed a sniper's bullet which missed me by a hair as I wheeled behind three barrels which were soon shot into shards as I doubled back to destroy the shipment of "pearls" Medicine Man had so dearly wanted.<br /><br />Han and Willoughby fought with aplomb, Han's matter of fact ways with a knife belie an expert and steady hand, and perhaps the one bit of comedy in the midst of the chaos was the odd vision of Willoughby behind an old English Maxim gun firing at Medicine Man's henchmen who attempted to flee on along a path near the river. I see Medicine Man's game though and know I must go to Fu Shan again.<br /><br />I asked later Willoughby where he had found the Maxim and he laughed. <br /><br />"These warehouses," he said, "are odd jumbles of history and patient investment."<br /><br />I think it is more complicated than that, but whatever it was, it kept them from any ideas of doubling back. There were riots in the Yangpu District last night, the night was filled with burning things and the police, oddly, were content to let it play out. Perhaps they were bribed and I wonder what went hidden then, under the generic chants of undirected discontent that quite conveniently broke up just as two o'clock was struck? Cody was restless all night.<br /><br />We are closer though, than we have been. The months of planning have led, as late, to quick spars that are like the wild punches of two careful boxers, who know now that they must fight all night. Han told me that Nwargo had sent a communique, he had found a dried hand, cut off and covered in a film of dirt along a garden path he is in the habit of walking as of late. Han then held up a sculpture that had been brought to him in the Putuo District by several boys as he made his way to a meet-up: it was of a withered hand.<br /><br />There are more disappearances and I have heard from someone who knew once, the true measure of pain I felt that night in Fu Shan.<br /><br />with warmest hopes that we again know each other by sight!<br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-50172241931973450652008-06-27T15:35:00.003-05:002008-06-27T16:03:28.515-05:00Ranger - The ReturnCorporal,<br /><br />It has been too long.<br /><br />I have been in London for quite some time. Menial work. The people at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Schengen</span> Office are sometimes clueless, which is fine. I hear stories from old men about the "good times" at the height of the cold war when movies glorified our work and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">anecdotes</span> about pulling concealed messages out of the carcasses of dead rats. Their stories about the local girls only hold my interest temporarily. But I prefer their stories about the hot war. If only the world could still open up for me like that. <br /><br />I found myself in a toy store of all places the other day and saw a model of a Me 262 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Schwalbe</span> and thought of you. <br /><br />Write when you can. I can only hope that one of us has accomplished something in these last few months. <br /><br />- RangerRangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18021204695804826155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-53901759220540038682007-12-15T13:37:00.000-06:002007-12-15T19:24:52.643-06:00In Which Sarge and Cody are Reunited and The Sea is Remembered, Filled with Screams as it Was...Cpl.,<br /><br />By now I imagine you have heard of our adventure in the "Country of the Blacks." Such history there, where once the Egyptians were afraid to adventure, where the war and peace of empire play like a tug of war over centuries. From this history we adapted our own program, graphically reminding at least one official of that lesson that tyranny is always visited on tyrants. It is a lesson that would be well-heeded by our neighbors to the south, but I digress.<br /><br />My bullet wound heals, though I am often troubled by it and irritable. For days after deploying that horrible chemical scar to the decimated village I wandered, missing Cody. Medicine Man's trail had gone cold but on a satellite transmission I followed a hunch and made contact with our Asian Sector, it was Willoughby who responded.<br /><br />"Yes," he said, "we might have something for you. I was hoping you weren't dead!"<br />We laughed.<br />"In Africa to be dead is to be too many things, it is a word like 'interesting,'" I responded. "What have you heard?"<br />"A man being called, well, in the dialect it makes sense, but, well," Willoughby hesitated, "you speak some Northern Wu don't you?"<br />"Enough in a pinch."<br />"Well, in a village in the Jinshan District of Shanghai, as a matter of fact, you'll know this," he said brightly, "on Fu Shan..."<br />I barely heard him as he continued, instead I remembered the burning cries of an overcrowded rowboat, the semi-automatic fire. Devenuelle's reputation made that night on the swells of that East China Sea. I remembered those screams little over a year ago too, when I heard Nwargo's yell of triumph as he stuck a knife deep into Devenuelle's neck, through arteries and veins that pumped the venomous blood of the man. His blood spilling onto the sand, falling all over his clothes, his face uncomprehending to the last. Strange that his death should be so silent. I remembered a woman who had died that night on the sea. Before Tallinn that was. I remembered the weeks of opium that followed, the heroin and the hookahs, waving the prostitutes away. It was you, wasn't it? Who dragged me out of that truck stop after I had cut the pimp up and left him dead outside the locked stall where I intended to fill myself with enough heroin to kill a mule? It was the one time Cpl., the one time the emptiness of my heart would not fill. The tide had gone out and never returned. How you knew where I was puzzles me to this day. I remember stealing three cars on my way...<br /><br />I heard nothing of what Willoughby said after "Fu Shan."<br />"Copy, Willoughby," I said, "I think the satellite hit a sun spot, you want to repeat from 'Fu Shan,'" I stumbled over the word.<br />"Right Sarge, right, on Fu Shan animals and some children have disappeared. They're pestering the government about it, but it's being dismissed as runaways and perhaps a thieving ring, but it sounded odd based on your last few communiques and on a heads up we got from Ranger, so I sent Han Zhecun there, he's from Vancouver but his grandparents are from Da Jinshan. He said the villagers talked there of a 'Sugared Devil' or sometimes just 'Sugar Man,' who appears on their streets and buys excessively from their shops and sometimes talks to some of the children and presents them with gifts."<br /><br />There was a pause.<br /><br />"Han saw one of the kids who had a gift. It was a bone sculpture of a bird. Han thought it might be African, but he let the kid keep it. But he's been over there a few times for Ottawa, and he usually knows these things."<br /><br />So it was Shanghai. I wasn't going there without the dog.<br /><br />Of picking up Cody, I will have to relate some of that to you later. We are in Shanghai now, and the afternoon beckons with small errands. Han is a trustworthy and enjoyable companion, and Willoughby has been excellent company. We were recalling last night the time in school when you insisted to Professor MacAllen that a cover fire often proved more distraction than it was worth. You won that argument! We had a good laugh.<br /><br />Cody loves Shanghai, the smells, the attention, but always there is the work. And I feel this is where I will confront Medicine Man. This is where the souls must be put to rest.<br /><br />with warmest wishes of the season,<br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-79821160346080379112007-12-14T14:42:00.000-06:002007-12-14T16:17:45.039-06:00Ranger - The DevilCorporal,<br /><br /><div align="justify">The purpose of the military is not to build nations. It is to destroy them. Sometimes, I think differently, but I am reminded that eventually - if you have done your work properly - every <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">imperial</span> power is at the wrong end of a patriot's rifle.<br /><br />All of us long for a delineation between good and evil. And so we question ourselves and our work at times. Only in the bleakest of worlds does what we do began to lose its imprimatur of wretchedness. Only then is the evil we perform revealed for its greater good. </div><br /><div align="justify">I should have paid closer attention to Cody's photo. On the back, in a relatively simple code, were the coordinates. Once I arrived I only asked if we had been asked there by Ottawa. Sarge shook his head no. I don't know if <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Darfur</span> was intended for his benefit, for my benefit, or for some other, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">unrevealed</span> reason. If the last time I saw him he had a death-pallor, he now had a halo. </div><div align="justify"><br />I hear <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Antonov</span> in the distance, and smile. Soon the village homes will empty and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">janjaweed</span> will arrive. An observer from the Sudanese government lays in wait with us. Of course, as our guest, he has been treated to all of the comforts we have to offer. He has until recently been blindfolded and handcuffed. He has no idea who we are, but clearly knows what he is about to watch. He begins to writhe and attempts to break free of his bonds after the blindfold is removed. Though we are masked we have offered him enough of a glimpse of our light skin and pale eyes to terrify him further.<br /><br />“They will not find us here.” I assure him. “And we have no intention of killing you. On the contrary, we intend that you report on what you have seen.” This comment does not seem to put him any more at ease. </div><br /><div align="justify">Within a number of minutes, two score of armed men appear in the village. They are confused by the dozen or so individuals who appear out of their homes, expecting to find hundreds more who lived here a few days ago. Only the bravest remain. The camel riders fire their weapons, and begin setting fire to several of the homes, finding hearth fires burning but no inhabitants. Our prisoner attempts to speak.<br /><br />“Did you think you were here to see these bandits destroy another village?” I asked. A few pops of gunfire ring out below and we see three villagers fall. Several of the men dismount and began approaching an old woman who told us she has been dead for over two years, since the last time she met these men. “You already know that story. Let me tell you another.” Sarge's outstretched hand signals and there is a flash of light followed by a cloud which descends over the village.<br /><br />When the air clears, I remove his gag. “What?”<br /><br />The camels are dead. One or two of the rapists and murderers continue to scream and twitch, rolled into the fetal position on the ground. No bullets. No burn marks. Their final cries are strange. “I assure you <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">VX</span> is quite painful.”<br /><br />“You jihad” he asserts.<br /><br />No. “Those men are no more true Muslims than I am Christian. And I am no Christian.” Sarge slammed the but end of his gun into the man’s head before his drive home. “Remember <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">UNAMIR</span>?” I asked him.<br /><br />“I remember <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Dallaire</span>” he said. Then silence.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">It was an hour before he began to speak again. He told me that the Medicine Man was passing through North <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Kivu</span> on his way to kill me. He told me one of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Nwargo's</span> wives had betrayed him in a moment of indiscretion. He told me more about the men you brought to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Kukes</span>. It has been a long time since I have seen him speak in such length. I am to deliver a package to Marble Arch, though for now he and I will enjoy our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">injera</span>.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Jus</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">belli</span><br /><br />Ranger</div>Rangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18021204695804826155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-64014240219588990102007-12-07T00:30:00.000-06:002007-12-07T00:55:49.958-06:00In Which Sarge is Vague and Alludes to Shadows...Cpl.,<br /><br />The Congo again, four million dead and the world only notices the genocides on its borders. I went in pursuing a lead on Medicine Man and overzealous, felt the cold fire of a bullet fill my lungs, my body felt like sand. Once again Medicine Man had set a trap, a breadcrumb trail to the cemetery. Villagers in Kindu remember with dread the murder of a local man left skinless in a bed of ivory. The phosphorescence of the coffin served as a warning not to ask questions, to ignore the comings of goings of the strangers, but of "The Skull Prophet" there is no doubt: I call him by a different name.<br /><br />Somewhere in North Kivu the trail ran cold. The sniper's bullet was true, I felt my hands, numb, clawing at some cellophane, my fear immense, my sweats full of terror, like junk sweats, Death once again not a stranger but a distant friend come from some far country with an invitation only half understood, spoke in a language unfamiliar yet clear. Even now, the cadence stops my heart, but Ranger was there and I must discuss some of what transpired after I left him but not now.<br /><br />The hour is late, I go to join my dreams, which perhaps already progress down paths that wait for my step and form along the odd contours of a dark river.<br /><br />regards,<br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-39774633855199906042007-11-21T11:27:00.000-06:002007-12-14T16:11:05.186-06:00Ranger - Caduceus<div align="justify">Corporal,<br /><br />One month in the Congo is interesting. Two months are torture. The fighting in the south has returned. Sarge was an unexpected casualty.<br /><br />It <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">wasn</span>’t too hard to pick out the august white man the Red Cross brought into town after a tip by a Spanish photojournalist. “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Lambchops</span>” was the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">tipoff</span>, though I had no idea how the Spaniard knew the idiom. He came into town with the remnants of the militia unit which had days later toppled <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Kabamba</span> in North <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Kivu</span>. What the hell he was doing there, I have no idea. But as always he was surrounded by an attentive crew – locals who he had somehow managed to charm while barely being able to draw breath and without knowing anything more than pidgin <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Kiswahili</span>. One man in particular, gaunt, dark and battle-hardened was keeping a keen eye on him until I arrived.<br /><br />“Fucking lung.” Were his first two words. “Had to borrow cigarettes from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Zico</span> to use the cellophane as a field dressing…flutter valve Corporal said.” As he lightly pretended to tap his chest. “Too bad…Project X…not real, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">hunh</span>?” Asshole. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">couldn</span>’t help but laugh. I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">hadn</span>’t stopped smiling since I saw the attractive field nurse look over at him four times. Four goddamn times.<br /><br />His eyes started to roll back in his head. I checked his arms just in case. I have no idea where he was or how long it took him to get here, but I also remember your stern lecture about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">pneumothoraces</span>. Bad survival rate, if its not handled right I thought. He mumbled something about Leopold and Mobutu, but I have no idea if he was still trying to make me laugh, if it was some kind of code, or if he had latched on to some kind of conspiracy theory.<br /><br />They took him to the nearby hospital where I was replacing U-joints last week. The roads here are murder. I am recognized there and so was allowed to stay nearby during the surgery. I don’t recall how long went by before I was overtaken by fatigue. Three days passed and Sarge and I were able to discuss some of what has been happening here. “You know what the Romans did with wounds like this don’t you?” was one of his more memorable quips. And I haven’t read Dumas enough to have any idea what he was talking about half of the rest of the time. Then he took a turn for the worse again. After another long wait, the doctor came out to tell me Sarge was recovering and that I would be able to see him soon. But I was troubled, the man who I had seen before had reappeared to me in my dreams, or in something like a dream. I went straightaway to his room, which was empty.<br /><br />“We did everything we could” a new doctor told me “but we cannot save your friend.” Show me the body, I asked. Given the new doctor’s genuine look of surprise on our visit to what passes for a morgue here, I decided not to kill him.<br /><br />“Well you will certainly be hearing from the blue helmets for loosing this body” I told him, not knowing why. That bastard left a picture of Cody in my room before taking off again. I haven't seen the cute nurse either. I’m sure he will fill you in on the rest.<br /><br />So long,<br /><br />Ranger</div>Rangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18021204695804826155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-16397840900431366372007-11-08T14:49:00.000-06:002007-11-08T16:01:21.282-06:00In Which Sarge Pleads Mercy From Dark Clouds...Ranger,<br /><br />Abdul was screaming, an endless wail of suffering that connected him horribly to a distant past of jealous gods and the harsh duties of desperate faiths. Africa hangs on to these gods even as it puts up cell towers and hunts those animals to extinction that once made this land sheer wonder even to those who would be Caesars. The rain fell in thick sheets, tearing at trees and pummeling the tall grass. I had carved a place in the mud for myself and set up a field of fire hoping to ride the storm into the morning, hoping it would not come to shooting, for if my place was discovered my final battle would be an empty gesture prelude to the cyniade pill. I felt for its vial and caressed it as one would a sad lover. I was wet through and my clothes clung to me like paste. Calrissian's incursion team lay dead like breadcrumbs for the last six miles or so. I had not liked radioing that one in, and had argued against their inclusion. I know Medicine Man has contacts in too many places not to connect the dots, for his shadow is long and his claws are sharp. I imagined that their bodies must be flung and buried by the consuming jungle and idly to myself I sang grimly a song from my youth:<br /><br />When the green dark forest was too silent to be real<br />And many are the dead men too silent to be real.<br /><br />But the morning came and with it birds' song and some strands of sun. The rain had past and Medicine Man had left me once again, a plaything for an old cat seemed my destiny. Was I to be killed by such a man? Even after all this?<br /><br />I endeavor most to get my dog back, and then perhaps to kill Medicine Man. But before that, I think we should meet, as you are so close, and we should decide what it is that we are up against. What it is we must do. Perhaps the dead will rest easier, as Hamlet supposed, if there is vengeance. I know this, that Medicine Man deserves nothing so good as hell.<br /><br />I will make my way north over the next few days. I will check in on Cody and perhaps make a few contacts and set myself up for future operations. This land, scarred as it is, acts as a deranged New Lanark of sorts for that dark figure. I am beginning to understand the local predisposition not to name him.<br /><br />You will receive this from the man with three birds and one eye. Please pay him beyond the normal price as he once did a favor for me. We must not forget our friends of the longest nights.<br /><br />with best wishes and anticipation at meeting an old friend after so long again,<br /><br />I remain<br /><br />yours,<br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-82603546314982481032007-10-12T16:53:00.000-05:002007-11-10T15:33:24.975-06:00Ranger - The Wolf<div align="justify">Sarge,</div><div align="justify"><br />You were right. I do not recognize Kisangani anymore. It is raining again today and I hear outside my window the echo of a single vehicle in the water. If Conrad thought civilization was an improvement, I do not think this is what he envisioned. The papers I can find talk about the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">socio</span>-economic crisis, displaced populations and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Kabila</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kabila</span> is too far. The storm is much closer. </div><div align="justify"><br />I have no idea if you are still nearby. </div><div align="justify"><br />I can’t stop thinking back to the last time I was here with Corporal. It was a thing of chaotic beauty, the two of us rushing up opposing stairs, without time to set up a proper pincer or interlocking fire, with only the body of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Mercerier</span>’s lieutenant, materializing through the doorway, standing in the way of our extemporaneous bullets finding one another. That thought brought a smile to my face for so long, so far from home. I question at times whether I should be horrified that I find such a thing so wonderful. </div><div align="justify"><br />Corporal would like the canoes here. </div><div align="justify"><br />In Kisangani, the children are starving. When I can procure food, I pass it along to them. A convoy of provisions is on its way up the river though I am sure the magistrates in the capital have taken their share and that rebels are laying in wait for the prize. I have asked Ottawa for permission to assist the government and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">NGOs</span> protecting the convoy, and am awaiting a response. Unfortunately, I think other matters may require my attention. </div><div align="justify"><br />The past few weeks have been rewarding. I have served as an armed escort to UNICEF, helped to fix vehicles as my limited skills permit and fished. Those who will farm here, attempt to do so. Others join with some militia or rebel group in hopes of an easier life. I think it is a desire for food which motivates rather than any strong political conviction. </div><div align="justify"><br />If your target is moving this way, I will have them. </div><div align="justify"><br />A <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">fronte</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">praecipitium</span> a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">tergo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">lupi</span>,</div><div align="justify"><br />Ranger</div>Rangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18021204695804826155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-17517027304309220562007-09-08T18:36:00.000-05:002007-09-08T19:53:20.626-05:00Back to BerlinThe woman across from me kept speaking, taking my occasional eye contact as <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">encouragement</span> to continue. Oddly chatty for a German. I was used to solitude in the crowded trains and somewhere after <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Nuernberg</span> I lost track of what she what she was talking about. My mind wandered as the landscape sped by. <br /><br />Germany was my adopted home and the train was taking me back to Berlin, the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">safe house</span> and Smitty. After my trial, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Ottowa</span> had ostracized me and gave me orders to establish a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">safe house</span> in the newly unified Berlin. General <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Calrissian</span> had told me how to establish contact with Smitty and told me he could be trusted. <br /><br />I found the house in the former East Berlin. Her beauty still evident under a patina of neglect: plaster cracked, brick exposed, a tree grew from a rift in the wall. Many of the former <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">tenants</span> had taken advantage of their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">new found</span> mobility and had left for the West, leaving squatters in their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">stead</span>.<br /><br />Smitty offered to make the necessary arrangements for "legally <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">acquiring</span>" the house. I made the adjustments to secure the building. Renovations <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">proceeded</span> apace and soon the building was a wonderful hodgepodge of opportunistic artists, musicians, and students. A disco was established in the basement. <br /><br />Those were heady days. Everything was wide open. The East had opened up quickly and those from the West were quick to exploit the price differences, leaving bakeries and grocery stores empty. <br /><br />The disco flourished. House parties were common. No one suspected that Smitty and I owned the building. He spent most of his time in front of the computers: surfing, hacking, monitoring. He would complain about the disco's music being too loud. He complained about the food. He was perpetually grouchy. When I would arrive late at night, I would often find him playing a game he called "Civilization," in which one builds a civilization through settlement and conquest of continents. I often asked him of his progress, and he would mutter obscenities about the Aztecs and Babylonians and the computer cheating.<br /><br />I understood little of what he did. I wandered the streets of Berlin, establishing many <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">personas</span>, making many contacts. Computers were his realm. He spurned the sunlight favoring instead the glow of the computer screen. He sent the missives to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Ottawa</span>. He received our orders. He hacked into banks. He slept little. He asked me to fetch <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Doener</span> Kebabs for him.<br /><br />Over time Berlin became home. I left for missions and returned to Berlin, Smitty doing the debriefing. Other Commandos came and went. Smitty and I remained. The neighborhood changed. Pressure started coming from the city government to restore the building. After Sierra Leone, I left all the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">responsibility</span> for the safe house to Smitty.<br /><br />Now I was heading back home. Odd. I have no relatives in Berlin, yet it is home. Smitty is the only one in Berlin who knows who I really am, yet I have many friends there. Is home where one feels safe? Is home where one keeps those trinkets that bind one to the past?<br /><br />The conductor announced that the next station was Berlin. The woman across from me smiled. I smiled back. Smitty could wait one more night.Corporalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01624947142004162392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-56653518125272264662007-08-22T23:02:00.001-05:002007-08-23T04:33:53.168-05:00In Which Sarge Parts Briefly With Cody To Descend Alone Into The Jungle...Cpl.,<br /><br />Iringa was a disaster, but I learned things. Of Euphrase, he told me terrible things. Of tortures and privations which made me weep openly, the town square behind us dusty with morning and no doubt many eyes watching us, waiting. He gestured with his cup of konyagi to the north and said, "in this direction I have heard of odd occurrences which remind me of The Untouched [Medicine Man], there are those who have wandered from the jungle beset with maladies and wounds grievous to behold. They say one man had the muscles of his upper body removed. He said, they say, he was only shocked at that point, that muscles ripped from the body are blue, not red and smeared with blood. He died soon after, though some have lived. What they have left though, can hardly be called life. The Untouched, some believe, is not human. I think he is all too human. All too much so!" He slammed his konyagi on the glass table and dared me to contradict him, but remembering Sydney, I could not. Around us the yellowed walls collected silence and I felt I must pursue Medicine Man to the Kagera region and perhaps from there find some sense.<br /><br />I went to Bukoba after a stop in Mwanza, the ferry to Bukoba across part of Lake Victoria would have been pleasant, but I was heavy of heart. Cody was in Mwanza.<br /><br />I had left him with a friend of an old friend, one you may know. I had called Nwargo and he had called his friend Lwiza, strikingly beautiful, she took an immediate liking to Cody and told me he would enjoy the shores of Victoria as if they were those shores further south I had just told her I was sure he missed.<br /><br />"Tell Nwargo he is missed," she said. "Tell him he is missed," she paused, staring through my eyes as though she were suddenly somewhere else, "every day."<br /><br />There is a story there, my friend, but I did not have time to tease it from her. The ferry left soon and there I was, my friend running down the dock to see me off, jumping into the water after me and Lwiza laughing, wading in after him to collect him. Her clothes clung to her curves as she waved me off, the dog letting off a good few barks so that those around him laughed and pointed. I decided it might be a good idea to disappear then, from the shore's sight, and left to the forward deck with a lump in my throat. There I watched the afternoon deepen into the lateness of day. <br /><br />I am alone now though I have a guide. Abdul is quick and easy to get along with. He told me The Untouched is like a ghost, flitting between the hills just west of Bukoba and the jungles of eastern Rwanda.<br /><br />So it is Rwanda again, I fear. Though I seem to have known it, it is like I am being guided, teased into the place I fear most to tread on this journey.<br /><br />I must go now. But I will write soon.<br /><br />be in touch Cpl., you are missed and the light snoring of my new friend Abdul is no company!<br /><br />Tell Ranger to write as well.<br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-34706267823906150352007-08-14T00:02:00.000-05:002007-08-23T04:31:57.833-05:00In Which Sarge Thinks on the Value of Discourse While Watching Cody Forge Along a Creek Bed...Cpl.,<br /><br />It is time to pray. Discreetly I leave the room as Ali Hassan begins intonations of the Fajr and I wonder if the Supreme One, if It be, prefers welcome and thanks for the day in a particular form. From deep in my youth comes a memory of being woken just before the dawn and I shrug it off and wait for the prayer to end. Ali Hassan is the only man I trust in Tanzania right now.<br /><br />My thoughts, as he prays, flit to Tallinn. Odd how tripping over one word on the way to another makes a path. Cody pants and undoubtedly, as the <span style="font-style:italic;">Daily News</span> loves to point out, five new stomachs enter Dar es Salaam in some attempt to feed. It is dreadfully hot. Even dawn offers little respite and I think longingly of my little home on the shores of Stockton. I look at Cody and wonder if he remembers chasing the gulls. Odd that we grow more tolerant of our own sentimentalities as we age. Cody barks once. I turn, Ali Hassan has joined me.<br /><br />"So you are enjoying Dar?" He laughs as if it is understandable I prefer somewhere else, but I answer honestly.<br />"I am very much enjoying Dar, just last night I heard some amazing music that somehow made me sad for the mountains of my own land."<br />"Yes, yes," he laughs, "Taarab can have that effect. It makes everyone miss home!" He laughs again and I laugh.<br />"You are looking for The Untouched One then?"<br />His question is sudden and direct. The laughter is gone.<br />"Is this another of his names? Medicine Man?"<br />"It is the same," he nods slowly.<br />"I will take you to Iringa. He is not there, but you will learn things. But The Untouched," he pauses, "your...Medicine Man, he prefers jungle. He does not really like Tanzania!"<br />"I can make it to Iringa on my own..." I start.<br />"No. No! It is important, for a note from me will not get you the introductions you need. I will come with you, that is the only way the doors will open. You seek death, but there is purpose in it."<br />"And you?"<br />"I do not seek death," he laughs and pauses, then says more seriously, "I hope it does not seek me. Yet."<br />Cody approaches him and Ali Hassan bends down to pet him, looking him in the eyes.<br /><br />Hours later we are in another Cessna, careening over and around the mountains that play hell with the ride. We are as likely to end up slammed against a mountain as we are landing in Iringa, but despite this Ali Hassan's mood has improved considerably. Despite everything, he is going home. I look at the bare landscape beneath us, they say people come from everywhere to birdwatch here, and sometimes one of them is shot by a poacher. Ali Hassan gestures and soon we are landing.<br /><br />We tried to make our entrance inconspicuous. Iringa is big enough that we shouldn't be noticed, buses and trucks pass here on the way to Dar or Zanzibar all the time, but yet it's not large exactly. Even if this might be a Tanzanian equivalent of say Edmonton, it's not much bigger really, then an average suburb of Toronto. The mountains in the distance rise up reminding me how lost I've become. Suddenly I've had a premonition and I feel a cold sweat, for I feel I must play it all out, but I think I know where I will end up.<br />"We will avoid taxis from the airstrip, a friend of mine will meet us and we will meet a few others and switch cars at a restaurant. Not much, but we know this town, they will know if we've been followed. Still, we will never be safe. The Untouched knows much more than we do. We are not quite professionals the way you are, I think."<br />I nod to show I understand, still lost in thought.<br /><br />I am able, Cpl., to remember lately, the time before I fought addictions and grief, though I still turn from most of these memories, sometimes I forget and am lost in them. I wonder what I mumble in my sleep Cpl., when I cannot turn away?<br /><br />Ali Hassan's friends are a serious lot, and we discuss much politics and philosophy. It has been a long time, and it seems, even longer when I have been among those of my own kind, or at least those familiar with the routines of our kind, who actually considered why it was they carried the burdens we all must about us. I'm convinced these mindless thugs like those I encountered in Sydney will one day learn this. Medicine Man knows, I know he does, but it is not anything he would know about himself.<br /><br />"No!" Ali Hassan shouts at his friend Mkwawa makes a point, "you forget that Céline and his generation were the first generation in more than a century forced to reckon with just how cheaply they were regarded by their governments. It was government that ruled without fear of its people! Government that refuted all the revolutions and the myth of revolution. Why would Céline find much to differentiate one government from another? And where survival is not a skill but a lucky positioning of the flesh, what is their to differentiate one individual from another? There is no heroism, there is only thought. It is the only distinction worthy of notice."<br />"No, he sought a new imposition of hierarchy. He was desperate. Like us. I wonder how we recognize truth where there is no such thing complete of itself." Mkwawa held up a hand as Ali Hassan attempted to rebut this.<br />"I know your faith Ali, and I respect it. Obviously. But even faith is not truth, it is assertion and its validity as truth extends only as far as the community that agrees to it." Ali, out of respect to Mkwawa, and perhaps me, was silent. A hush fell across our lively table, and then Euphrase, an older, bent man, leaned forward and began to speak to me while everybody listened.<br />"I think I know why you are here, though Ali has kept his silence. I think there is only one reason one such as yourself would be here."<br />The lack of breathing as everyone unconsciously squared themselves to what came next told me they knew what Euphrase would say next.<br />"If you wanted to, I've no illusions, you could kill all of us, but you will not touch him. He is slow the way waves are slow on a quiet day. But try and stop a wave my son. At Zanzibar, where I buried my wife, my child, my life, I pushed at the waves, but my fury was nothing to them. I was young then. Much younger. My sense of outraged justice though, was nothing to a wave. The Untouched is such a wave. I hated the ocean and moved here, but there are waves everywhere. And I buried more of those who I loved. I say this to you, all of this which is my life, because I know and I wish to save one life, at least that. If I do not, well, there are others I would like to have saved more. I will still drink konyagi and eat mandazi."<br />I nodded to show I appreciated his mark of respect and honesty. He clearly was the leader of this small group which, as Ali had informed me, mostly acted as vigilantes against government corruption. "I have myself killed two policemen," one of the men had informed me, "and I do not ever question what I have done when I think of them. Other things yes." His near peace of mind would be nice, I think, for the nights when I lie there convulsing, begging for the tranquility that sweats from the needle's edge and vainly calling some angel down to whisper forgiveness and assurances that it was the only way, every time. <br /><br />I could not help but wonder, if Medicine Man had been here, why had he bothered to let them live? They were excellent for amateurs, but they were not pros. Just dangerous enough to accidentally kill you. Why would Medicine Man leave them then? <br /><br />Perhaps? I tucked away the thought.<br /><br />The safehouse was comfortable. Cody even enjoyed a brief foray along a nearby creek, mostly mud at the moment. I left him tied to a tree a bit down the way and assured him I would visit before dawn. The night was not to continue so comfortably I felt.<br /><br />My suspicions were correct. I did not hear them enter, but two of Ali's friends had air taken from their throats and bled all over the small kitchen, smearing the teapot we had used a couple hours earlier, the walls marked in a primitive language of violence, the ink flown from outstretched and pleading arms and gashes to the throats. But Medicine Man's thugs were not so careful as they thought, for I was waiting to be surprised. And when I heard sounds under the sounds of night, I knew they sought me and made myself, new words with their blood on the walls of the room I was to sleep in. Then I kept my promise to Cody and went to visit him at the creek and we left, otherwise unaccompanied. I write you from the second floor of some bank, where the dawn can be seen just now arriving again. <br /><br />Ali is safe and undoubtedly prays his Fajr to another morning. I wonder if I am the first he unwittingly lead to this trap? Perhaps another will visit with him to Medicine Man's first web.<br /><br />Still, I plan to meet with this Euphrase before I leave. He knows things and there are things that happened here. Not all amateurs are useless. And I enjoyed a pleasant enough day thinking about things I used to think about. I continue to trust Ali and think he will redeem himself, though I doubt I will see him again.<br /><br />hoping you are well,<br /><br />I remain,<br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-8526139935116559872007-07-10T19:37:00.000-05:002007-08-23T04:27:38.727-05:00Ranger - Hortus Conclusus<div align="justify">Sarge,</div><div align="justify"><br />I am in Afghanistan. I was assigned here briefly as an embed to assist a regular military force on what should have been a simple operation. Canadian intelligence received word that a Taliban narco-trafficking unit was on its way down from the mountain with a supply of <em>papaver somniferum</em>. The plan was relatively simple, divide into two units, one at each end of the mountain valley, on high ground and pin any convoy in a cross-fire. Ordinance on the valley road would finish anything left over. </div><div align="justify"><br />In the light of day, briefing them on the plan was simple. Most of them seemed tired from the work of the past few months. A few feigned excitement at the prospect of another fight, but mostly out of sheer boredom. Fighting guaranteed at least an adrenaline rush, and the prospect of being shot or blown up on base without that adrenaline was the worst kind of fate. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to where the troops went before the sun began to set and we marched. </div><div align="justify"><br />Our night equipment underscored the difference between our army and their mujaheddin. I cautioned against overconfidence. None of the soldiers here were aware that the Afghanis were carrying more precious cargo than poppies. I had been told that they held a Commando. </div><div align="justify"><br />We set up a perimeter, and waited. The night stretched out and my mind began to wander. Had we received bad information? Had some simple issue forced the run to be postponed? Had they been alerted to our presence? It was less than four hours until dawn and I had checked weapons at least a dozen times. Then I got word from an advance scout that a truck was headed our way. </div><div align="justify"><br />Another fifteen minutes with nothing. Everything was in place. </div><div align="justify"><br />I heard mortar fire. Immediately thereafter I saw an ancient ZIL-131, with no lights, streaking out of the Valley at top speed. The mortar slammed into the mountain near us and then small arms fire began. I saw djinn moving around our position, from the front and below. The mountain opposite us exploded with responding fire, the tracers creating red smoke and an erie shadow-play on every ridge and crag. I heard explosions in the valley below and then our side of the mountain erupted. I grabbed one of the soldiers and headed down to where our point man should have opened fire an eternity ago. </div><div align="justify"><br />When I got there I heard yelling in Arabic. They pointed their guns in the air and fired wildly. </div><div align="justify"><br />“What are they yelling?” </div><div align="justify"><br />“The first transport is away,” my soldier replied. “Feeling all right, sir?”</div><div align="justify"><br />My stomach turned. A few feet away I saw another of our number. Not moving. Dead? No. The needle near his arm told another story. Too much time in Afghanistan. He had a shallow pulse and I felt mine race knowing that there had to be 20 or 30 men closing in on our position. I breathed in and let my lungs expand, dulling some of my immediate urges. But not all of them. </div><div align="justify"><br />“What do we do?” my soldier said, looking at his brethren, as he moved into position to lay down a cover fire. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Help,” I responded, my mind on other things. I ripped the Canadian flag from his shoulder, and began to go through his pockets. That flag shows up on night vision and is not to fall into enemy hands. But the gesture of rending it from his uniform was fulfilling. The ammo I tossed to my friend or kept for myself. The knife for my boot. The cigarettes, no doubt laced, the Taliban can keep. A few other choice items for my pack, and finally the offending item. I grabbed that needle and sent it into his jugular. Here is your fix. My new friend wretched. His eyes looked towards me but saw Longinus. I heard a second truck and then another explosion. Looking down in the valley, I saw a Russian truck blown across the road. </div><div align="justify"><br />The djinn were on us and my friend opened fire. From the look on his face, I was fortunate his bullets found their mark in the enemy. We deserted the fallen soldier there on the mountain as a second round of mortars went airborne. </div><div align="justify"><br />“Closed off garden,” a voice sputtered over the radio. </div><div align="justify"><br />No, I thought. One is enough. </div><div align="justify"><br />Ad victoriam,</div><div align="justify"><br />Ranger</div>Rangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18021204695804826155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-79496361471251402672007-07-07T16:00:00.000-05:002007-07-07T16:28:28.044-05:00At SeaThe grey seas stretched on into infinity. There was no difference between the sea and the sky. I felt as if I were in a giant grey sphere. The grey skies and the gentle swell of the grey sea engendered a melancholy <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">state</span> of mind. I thought of a hamster in a ball, running about, terrified, amusing the children while they set loose the cat upon the globe containing the trapped <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">hamster</span>.<br /><br />I could spoil the children's game. I could cheat the cat. I could slip over the railing and feed the sharks.<br /><br />I laughed softly to myself. Far more exciting to break free and kill the cat...<br /><br />Freedom. What is it? Are we free? Was I not compelled to take on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Nascimento's</span> contract? We argued late into the night. The bargain: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Nwargo</span> to Lagos to escort the shipment of guns to the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Yoruba</span> rebels. I was to kill a German who had failed to pay for "services rendered."<br /><br />A crisis of conscience. Feed the fire in southern Nigeria. Kill a man, whom I did not know, with whom I had no quarrel. Life. Death. Peace. Conflict.<br /><br />I looked again at his picture. The man whom I would kill. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Nascimento</span> had been vague. Perhaps <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Nascimento</span> himself had no quarrel with this man. Perhaps it was merely another contract... another way to earn money.<br /><br />Perhaps I should have stayed with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Soleto</span> in his <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">monastery</span> and sought the Truth.<br /><br />I thought of our days at the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Academy</span>. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Calrissian</span> walked beside me along the path to the Sacred Grove, where the Maple was tall, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">beneath</span> the canopy of branches which must never be cut. Our training was near completion. Soon we would venture forth to serve and protect Canada.<br /><br />We reached the Sacred Grove. Maple seeds spun down towards us in greeting.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Calrissian's</span> voice was soft but firm as he turned to me and spoke. "It is your duty as a Commando to serve the Truth."<br /><br />"But what is the Truth?"<br /><br />A faint smile accented General <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Calrissian's</span> wise face. "That is your quest. To seek It out."<br /><br />"Can I not find It in the holy texts?"<br /><br />"They contain much wisdom. Many claim to have found the Truth in them. However, were it that easy, there would be no conflict."<br /><br />"Perhaps conflict is the Truth."<br /><br />"Perhaps. Perhaps." <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Calrissian</span> placed his hands on my shoulders. His brown eyes seared through to the back of my skull. "Explore not only the path to your home. Drink not only from the well before your house. Eat not only the bread baked in your oven."<br /><br />That seems eternities ago.<br /><br />Now I sought a truth. I needed to know if Sarge had betrayed <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Nwargo</span> and I.<br /><br />Perhaps the only truth was that I would not grow old.Corporalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01624947142004162392noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-3317285544432846692007-07-05T18:13:00.000-05:002007-08-23T04:23:56.437-05:00Ranger – The Pit<div align="justify">Corporal,</div><div align="justify"><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Boleh</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">merokok</span>? The wretch asks me. I am waiting to leave Jakarta at last. I long for clean air. </div><div align="justify"><br />I was ambushed at our arranged meeting place. I have no idea of how long they waited or how many were there, but they were smart enough to only reveal themselves at the last possible moment. I was only able to make contact with their first <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">emissary</span>, hearing the satisfying thunk as my walking stick cleared through where his windpipe had been. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Eskrima</span>. I knew I was cornered and for some reason as they began speaking to me I could not take my eyes off the man. Watching him clutch at his throat, the look in his eyes, the attempt to move air into and out of his lungs. I suppose I should have been paying more attention, but it was doubtful I would have remembered anything anyway. My shoulder felt warm and about that time I think the but end of a rifle found a home in the back of my skull. </div><div align="justify"><br />I give my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">accommodations</span> only two stars. At first, I got to hear a lot of talk about how Sarge had betrayed us, about how you were dead and about how <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Nwargo</span> had finished you. They examined the letter you sent, invalidating their story, and the trinket contained within the envelope thinking it contained microfiche or a chip or some nonsense. They did not share my sense of humour about the whole thing. It was good at least to see the maple leaf again. Though the questioning was painful enough, it was the cuisine that really got to me (minus one star). The water was sewage quality and the food not much better. I craved <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">poutine</span> and in my delirium I let myself believe. After a few weeks the gendarme who had been questioning me disappeared. I was left with his underlings. They took great pleasure out of extracting the lead from my shoulder with their hunting knives. </div><div align="justify"><br />I can only imagine my remaining captors were <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">mercenaries</span> rather than attached to some government. I heard far too many complaints about money and they each carried some different and clearly scavenged armament. They also kept debating whether they could pass me off as an American. Apparently, Americans have some value here. </div><div align="justify"><br />I was surprised to find out I was still in the city when it was time for me to be moved. In my first effort to escape, I helped my captors hail a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">bajaj</span> which I had noticed held only two lug nuts on one of its rear wheels. There was little time to create a diversion to check on the other two nuts, which I hoped had started to counter-rotate. No luck that day. </div><div align="justify"><br />June was more of the same. Though one of the men who tried to befriend me in order to get more information was kind enough to tell me that “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Gorman</span> Brown was at 10 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Dowling</span> Station.” No doubt that information came at a price. Damn infection in my shoulder. </div><div align="justify"><br />It must have been late June when I woke up one morning in the jungle alone. I can only assume a payment was missed. The next week was a test of endurance, but the wilderness again provided for me. Though it is not the rainy season here, I got to spend at least one night under the stars listening to a passing rainstorm and its million echoes on the canopy above. Again, I let it remind me of home.</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">The last few days of the month were spent in a Jakarta hospital. Cammy arrived from the embassy, and she has not changed. She sends her love. </div>Rangerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18021204695804826155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-14090313471044377412007-06-30T19:17:00.000-05:002007-08-23T04:18:14.474-05:00Leaving NwargoIt was time to part company with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Nwargo</span>. His leg was better and he was becoming antsy, always worrying about his children, his wives, and his cattle. I was never sure in which order.<br /><br />Neither of us had any idea who could be after him, but we agreed that the leak was severe and needed to be patched.<br /><br />Our isolation within <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Soleto</span>’s monastery had been complete. No communications had arrived for me. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Nwargo</span> had received no missives from abroad. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Nwargo</span> and I agreed upon a code to avoid further misleading <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">communiqués</span>.<br /><br />As <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Nwargo</span> boarded the boat to Africa, I was torn between my sorrow seeing him go and my desire to find Sarge. In essence, I agreed with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Nwargo</span>: it was unlikely Sarge had betrayed us, but a lingering doubt persisted. It was essential that doubt not be allowed to fester, lest mistrust poison my mind.<br /><br />***<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Nwargo</span> and I had roamed the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">favellas</span> of Recife, listening to whispers, searching for unglazed eyes which might hold information. It was not long before the gangs that rule here heard of the odd couple and investigated. They were young, intoxicated, and heavily armed. In a word, dangerous. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Nwargo</span> and I explained that we were migrant farmers looking for work in the sugarcane fields. As proof we showed them our machetes.<br /><br />“We were hoping to help harvest the fields of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Nascimento</span>.”<br /><br />The most sober of them took renewed interest in hearing the gun-runner’s name. He chuckled, “I doubt <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Nascimento</span> needs help with the harvest.”<br /><br />They all laughed. One of the more intoxicated tossed his gun aside and a machete was handed to him. “Little man, I will feed you to my dog!”<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Nwargo</span> said nothing and saluted his opponent with his machete. The drunk youth towered over <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Nwargo</span>’s squat frame. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Nwargo</span> easily parried the first few poorly-placed blows. The crowd laughed and heckled. The youth grew impatient and his blows became more desperate as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Nwargo</span> danced before him. The youth roared. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Nwargo</span> sidestepped the blow and brought his machete down on the youth’s arm. The roar became a scream of pain and the youth crumpled. The crowd pressed forward, straining to see the severed limb.<br /><br />The arm was bent in the middle. Not severed, but broken. The youth writhed on the ground, clutching his arm. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Nwargo</span> kicked the machete out of the youth’s limp hand. “Boy, next time, I use the sharp edge.” <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Nwargo</span> glared at the crowd, and with a flick of his wrist, turned the blade so the sharp edge was the striking edge.<br /><br />“You wish to find work with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Nascimento</span>? Come with us.”<br /><br />We followed.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Nascimento</span> stared at us. His remaining hair had grayed and his belly had grown since I had seen him last. There was no recognition in his face. His basso voice boomed. “Eh? you are looking for work? You want to harvest ‘cane?” His mouth split into a toothy grin.<br /><br />“We wish to harvest special ‘cane.”<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Nascimento</span>’s smile disappeared and his eyes scanned us with renewed interest. “What can I help you with?”<br /><br />“We are looking for a friend.”<br /><br />“<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Hmm</span>. And why should I know where he is when his… friends do not?”<br /><br />“He admires the quality of the ‘cane you sell around the world. Perhaps he has bought some recently?”<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Nascimento</span> stroked his chin. “You are not police. Mercenaries?” He tapped his upper lip absentmindedly, then spoke with finality. “I do not disclose to whom I am shipping.” He motioned to his bodyguards to take us away.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Nwargo</span> spoke. “We seek the Pink Mamba.”<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Nascimento</span> pursed his lips. “He died in Sierra Leone.”<br /><br />No hint of recognition of who we were crossed his face. “We have heard otherwise,” I offered.<br /><br />“If he lives, he has not made any purchases of late.”<br /><br />“When did he make his last purchase?”<br /><br />“It was long ago in Freetown. Perhaps you should look there.”<br /><br />I frowned. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Nwargo</span> shifted uneasily now.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Nascimento</span> smiled at our discomfort. “I could arrange passage... if not to Freetown, then perhaps some other destination?”<br /><br />“We lost our passports to pickpockets.”<br /><br />A great bass laugh filled the hall. “Yes! Of course. We can replace them for a fee.”<br /><br />***<br /><br />Now I stood on the dock, watching <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">Nwargo</span> disappear on the horizon.<br /><br />Alone again.<br /><br />My ship left in two days. I was headed back to Berlin. Smitty might have useful information.Corporalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01624947142004162392noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-59551671496653182732007-05-31T15:01:00.000-05:002007-08-23T04:13:58.727-05:00In Which Sarge Sets Out Once Again in the Darkness...Cpl.,<br /><br />Night, the smell of the earth reached Cody and I before the shadows rose up to greet us, lost companions that they were, I had come across the water to find them. I am back in Africa.<br /><br />Cody does well in this new climate, this new world really, and finds much excitement in everything crossing his path.<br /><br />I do not have time to write now, save to assure you that all goes well. I grow perplexed thinking about my recent adventures, and wonder who this "Medicine Man" was, no contacts so far know of him, only one rumor really, from Tanzania, of gruesome deaths, odd disappearances and a place in the forest where none dared. Why that particular informant saw fit to mention this when I asked him of Medicine Man he would not say, he said he had already said much too much.<br /><br />If you come to Africa you must let me know. I will meet you as far as Abidjan or Port Louis, but I cannot go to Banjul, it is more than my life is worth to go there.<br /><br />with best wishes,<br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-17649786012791009072007-05-24T14:35:00.000-05:002007-08-23T04:12:33.243-05:00In Which Sarge is Full of the Sorrow and the Pity...Cpl.,<br /><br />The days are numb. Barely measurable. I have been in an opiate haze for weeks now. A trap. Canucks, but I remember killing that bastard dealer with my own hands while around me howled Cody and where is Cody I wondered and then I didn't wonder but I slept and it was the needle that made me sleep and I saw that they wanted to make me slave to it.<br /><br />After awhile I drooled and nodded my head. Some dead-end hotel in Sydney, yellowed walls and urine stains against the walls near the steps where they would take me out to some sessions with somebody I only knew as "the Medicine Man," he wore white corduroy suits and spoke Spanish to me as if he wanted to hide his English or French accent. I noticed this only at the end, but automatically answered him for weeks. In the room, the television on constantly, Australian talk shows are the worst, the hussies from Townsville or Cairns going on about some bloke who, surprise! turned out to not be fixable. He was hurt and I felt so sorry for him turns mighty quickly into he hurt me, he's selfish. Ah, daytime tv, in the end they did not have to feed me the needle to make me take it. I reached for it and it soothed me and blanketed me in release from this ugly truth of cinderblock and cockroach.<br /><br />And they tried to make me talk.<br /><br />I told them everything I knew about Canadian history, I told them over and over again that I didn't care, I still loved the Queen, still thought of her as part of Canada. Sentimental I said, sentimental but proud.<br /><br />And there was torture. Withdrawal, the television turned to maximum volume, myself strapped down. Other things not so nice as even that but perhaps sometimes easier to endure. And where was Cody? I figured him dead and thought about how we should not become attached to the living who are not like us.<br /><br />We kill them more surely than the enemy, I thought. I wept as they beat me with knotted rope and as they poured sand into my pried open mouth, but I wept for Cody. And they laughed and did not know they were not the cause of my suffering.<br /><br />In this way I controlled the meaning of the torture and waited for the next fix and when it came, I knew the Medicine Man was close and I would talk to him in Spanish soon. He would be kind and fatherly, then angry and terrible. He showed me his pen made from bone. "Tanzania," he said by way of explanation. "I know," I answered, but it was just to acknowledge Tanzania. "No, Ghana," he said. "Impossible," I said, and then he had me beaten. <br /><br />The jungle would unfold for me in their tortures and again I was running in my mind, Nwargo there, constantly telling me this way, that way, the trees there are dangerous! We must hide here until dark!" And then the Medicine Man asking me about Ottawa, about Calrissian. About Ranger. About Smitty. About the others.<br /><br />About you.<br /><br />"Where are your comrades now?" He would ask. I would not answer.<br /><br />"They believe you a helpless addict. They want to kill you. They know you will talk!" And he would laugh and laugh, then stop and slap me.<br /><br />"Come now, argument like this is useless."<br /><br />Silence.<br /><br />They broke my nose and broke it again. I never hoped for death. Only to see Cody, and walk him on the ocean's edge where arguments and sentimentalities gain the proper perspective of being nothingness itself. I dreamed of shipwrecks and those dreams saved my life. I thought of the waves and Cody, with the gulls crying their song to the end of the world and the beginning of the water.<br /><br />"Come now, good Sargeant," he would continue, "you do not have to work for us, but we will not let you go." And he would lean over and peer into my face, so that we were centimetres apart, and I -- tied down -- would think about tearing out an eye with my teeth and he would laugh again.<br /><br />"But you are a professional," he would finish, reading my thoughts into his argument. "You...are a professional."<br /><br />The odd assortment of dead things he always had there, and photographs. They showed me Ahmet. They showed me a shattered body in Talinn. "He did not make it," Medicine Man said, "we found him in a closet. He was still alive, his ribs on the left side shattered like clam shells when they break. He could not stop screaming."<br /><br />Ahmet's death was simpler, and he did not comment on it. But they had blown up the picture and it greeted me at the hotel room they stowed me in. Sometimes I would talk to the dead body in the night. Not out loud of course, biting my lips to know where my tongue was, then I would talk to Ahmet, and tell him how sorry I was.<br /><br />They claimed they had killed Nwargo. Described his death. Traced it for me. But nothing could convince me of it, as they said they had gotten him in Egypt, but I did not let on and allowed myself to weep for Cody then: the one time I cried.<br /><br />Medicine Man carved a map on my arm with a knife, of the Ministergarten. He laughed and told me how it was so simple when their man told them everything they needed. How could I hope to fight them, when they knew exactly when we were going to punch. I finally talked, I said, <br /><br />"Tell that to Aglionby."<br /><br />He slapped me. It was my turn to laugh.<br /><br />Then I was silent.<br /><br />They did not trust me with needles, obviously, and when I dosed myself with the heroin it was always powder, but as I began to dream more often of killing Medicine Man I found I could not make myself and they began to force me to take it. Torture was increased. The truth was more desperately needed by them as the time wiled away, and I was a tougher nut to crack than they had thought.<br /><br />Medicine Man would say, "The Maple Leaf is crumbling even now. Don't you know how we despise you?" Silence.<br /><br />The Medicine Man would say, "Guards, saltwater." And I would choke and he would intone over me the whole time, "This is the Maple Leaf that has made you thus. This is the water that spills from the Maple Leaf. And it will rain forever." And this would go on for hours, his voice soothing so that I didn't wonder if the guards hated him too. But they were always silent.<br /><br />One night I was dreaming. Sweating. The heroin had not been given to me in a day and a half. Medince Man was gone apparently. Sam stood over my bed. He was talking but his words bent and fell, darker clouds in the darkness. He was gesturing and it felt like we were below the ocean. Echoing and crashing.<br /><br />He shook me.<br /><br />"For Christsake, boy-o!"<br /><br />A guard stood crumpled against a dresser, a trail of blood running from his neck. The door was open and outside I saw another lump as my eyes adjusted to the light. I needed to throw up and get more blankets. Sam pulled me up.<br /><br />"Nwargo's dead," I said in a monotone. I know not why.<br /><br />"Nwargo's not dead you idiot, but we will be!" He hissed at me. "Come on!"<br /><br />He helped carry me out as I staggered and threw up on the corpse of the guard right outside the door. He was one of the ones who had been most cruel to me when we were with Medicine Man.<br /><br />One more brilliant gift I received that night: Cody ran up to me, I fell into a heap, crying, laughing, ecstatic, suddenly not sick. I began to run.<br /><br />"That's better now!"<br /><br />Cody ran beside me, and then we were in a van, then a helicopter, flying low over the outskirts of Sydney, where the lights stop. And then a car, driving now, Cody asleep against my leg.<br /><br />I am at a safehouse now and Sam tells me I must back to Africa quickly. Cody will come with me. I will keep my job at the restaurant, Sam says, for when I need it, for Australia is still hot. <br /><br />Two mornings later, we raided an orphanage and killed three French bomb makers and one of their propaganda experts. The orphanage had been used for making bomb parts because the children's hands, so nimble and small, could fit certain parts together without as great risk of blowing themselves up. Those missing hands, feet or eyes, were kept for cleaning and record-keeping. It was a terrible sight to see, and sticking the knife into Fourait, the bombmaker, not the sabateur, I had said to him, "please sir, I want some more." And I put the knife in deeper. I felt I had finally returned.<br /><br />So it is to be Africa again. I know not why. I shall see Nwargo soon though, and that fills me with happiness. He will meet Cody and we will play chess. Never let Nwargo take a bishop if you can help it.<br /><br />Be careful of yourself. I only wish we could have killed Medicine Man. I wonder often, as I prepare for Africa, who he is.<br /><br />with best wishes,<br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34886252.post-60860810924802955612007-04-26T21:41:00.000-05:002007-08-23T04:05:41.944-05:00In Which Sarge Records Sensations Upon Observing an EclipseCpl.,<br /><br />"What's your name?" I ask him. We are in the little space near the bathroom, the tables are full and the restaurant buzzes.<br />"What's it matter?" He smiles again, that half-smile, like he's something.<br />The time has come.<br /><br />I push against him. He tries to move, then he tries to move his arm, but he can't seem to move it. A brief moment of confusion. Then he laughs again when I take out his wallet.<br /><br />"John-Luke?"<br />"You a blue heeler?"<br />"No. I'm a ------- journo! I want to know how you got your teeth so white?"<br />"You could have just asked...."<br />The restaurant is crowded, loud. Nobody notices us but somebody'll need more coffee, more catsup, more something any time. He knows it too.<br />"I like to know who I'm dealing with is all before I ask what I want."<br />"Well you got Buckley's chance now mate."<br />"Yeah?" I push quickly into his gut with one finger. He gasps. "Yeah?"<br />"Here...no...here..." He gives me his cell number. I reach over to the payphone behind him and call it. He rings and I let him go.<br />"I'll call you later. You better answer, anyhow mate, I'm jack o this." I walk away.<br />He gives me a curious look and turns to leave the restaurant. A minute later, as I pour coffee for the guy that comes in everyday and reads the auto trader magazine I notice John-Luke the dealer looking in at me. His curiosity aroused. I wonder if I've gone too far.<br /><br />Later Sam comes up to me.<br />"John-Luke and you had a bit of the barney there, mate, anything you can't handle?"<br />"It's alright Sam. I don't like him though."<br />"It's not your job to like him, son." He walks away and I feel stupid. Why don't I ask Sam more questions? Pride I suppose.<br /><br />I'm on the beach with Cody when I call him. He answers right away.<br />"Ok, what?"<br />"Right," I say, "I was a bit berko back there...but you're right. I need some of that."<br />Instantly he's guarded, but more relaxed.<br />"Well, mate, you're still a bit of a blow-in, but we'll manage. Right. How about a pint and we'll smooth things over?"<br />"Yep. Ten then?"<br />"Make it eleven."<br />We hang up.<br /><br />I believe now, after having put some things together, that he is the one who led that team against me, and I don't wonder if he isn't more than what he appears. Though a bit less than what he thinks. I will be cautious.<br /><br />I go there now, though I feel something odd about this adventure. I wonder what hornet's nest my anger has turned over.<br /><br />best wishes, <br /><br />SargeSargehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01602197604396266555noreply@blogger.com0