Dust Soldiers

Dust Soldiers

Creeping through a labyrinth of blackberry bushes, Charles Kent, halted his forward progress a moment and listened for sounds outside his thorny tunnel. A few feet further, and he would be back at home sweet home. He had always desired to get a place in San Francisco Bay; complete with the panoramic view of the bridge. Now, here he was living the dream.

Kent carefully untangled himself from the briars and dislodged a dozen or so thorns caught up in his clothes. Although the brambles might not be as effective as razor wire for keeping the unwanted visitor away, the wicked little thorns would slow down any ambitious intruder from easily accessing his camp.

Utilizing and camouflaging one’s immediate surroundings was one of the skills Kent learned at Quantico. He became really good at it Then. he learned to shoot all kinds of weaponry and he became very good at that as well. His accuracy scores were epic during training and qualifying. He was a highly motivated and talented Marine, which eventually earned him the rank of Master Gunnery Seargent. He excelled as a scout sniper for the Marine Force Recon.

Seemed like a century ago to Charles, as he stretched cramped muscles resulting from hunching his six-foot frame inside the narrow tunnel. Back in the day, he could low crawl through nightmarish terrains with the best of them and laugh it off as just another occasion of supreme suck. Well, he wasn’t laughing now as he took inventory of the pitiful suck which had become his life as of late. The real shame was at age thirty-seven; he’d allowed himself to become an out of shape train wreck. He sighed with resignation and turned to look beyond his sad-sack campsite, to the breathtaking view of the bay.

In the distance to his right, Charlie could barely see the outline of Alcatraz. Maybe one day, he would take the tourist ferry out there and scope out the infamous island more closely. He glanced to the left at the massive steel trusses of the Golden Gate Bridge arching above the Fort Point Museum, some three-hundred yards away. He had never envisioned himself living the San Francisco experience while covertly camped in a National Park. Nope, he’d always imagined himself living it up with some smoking’ hot “California Girl”, in his classy, multi-windowed townhouse. But the reality was, he was a vagabond who managed to find a suitable spot to squat for now, behind the Fort Point complex.

Despite the sparse and wretched collection of scrubby bushes and trees, not to mention the hiking trails to avoid, Charlie’s camp was cleverly concealed from all eyes, whether on the ground or from the air. Necessary, as squatting without permission on protected government property was highly frowned upon by a multitude of zealously protective government agencies. Charlie knew if he was discovered, he’d be arrested and hauled off to jail, without any further ado. Because the threat of arrest was ever-looming, it kept the hobo numbers down to a few, which was just fine by Kent. His neighborhood policy was: “Stay away from me and we’ll get along just fine. Trespass into my space, and I’ll rip your arm off and beat you to death with it.” With the exception of only one other man, nobody would have dared enter Charlie’s space, even if they had known about it. The “crazy veteran’s” no-tolerance-for-bullshit reputation was legendary amongst the homeless population of San Francisco. Even most of the displaced veterans gave Charles Kent a wide berth, and he liked it that way.

There it stood…his casa…his castle by the beautiful shores of San Francisco Bay. A rugged lean-to, cleverly hidden amongst a grove of Monterey Pines and thick blackberry brush was home for now. The thorns not only served as camouflage but as a security measure as well. Anyone stupid enough to squeeze through the doorway of prickly pain to get at him would immediately discover the error of their ways. He had served just shy of seventeen years in 18 Bravo Corp. After numerous and many extended combat deployments to the worst shitholes on earth, he reckoned he could hold his own all right against anyone hunting homeless people for sport. Even after retirement from the military, a well-trained Marine simply would not ever forget how to dispatch a human being with just one’s bare hands if necessary.

* * *

The Marine Corp., had force-retired Staff Sergeant Charles Kent, as a highly decorated and wounded warrior. Although three years had gone by, he still sorely missed the consistency and discipline of the military. You most always knew where you stood with things. The same could not be said of the civilian society. Out there in the general population, everything was different and seemed chaotically senseless to Charlie. The society he had gone overseas to fight for, now seemed tarnished, selfish, and shabby; not even worthy of any soldier’s ultimate sacrifice.

After two years of listening to angry and bitter railings of how American society had seriously turned to shit, a VA psychiatrist began to have doubts about the retired specialist's ability to interact with the civilian world; at least, without the help of a hefty dose of anti-psychotic meds.

Before his second round at the VA hospital compound was up, Charlie one day flatly refused to be medicated into docility anymore like many other veterans. He also demanded to take his leave from the VA circus. From now on, he’d work out his own damned problems. His assigned mental-health team strongly advised Kent against leaving the hospital AMA, especially without meds. The psychiatrist’s diagnosis read, “Severe PTSD, and Anti-Social Personality Disorder with paranoid tendencies; In short, this man was clearly unstable and a probable danger to others."

On principle, Charlie purposely shouldered past the shrink more aggressively than called for. While heading for the door said, “Just because you're paranoid doctor, doesn't mean everyone isn't ’t{ir eally out to get you. Since you are such a sublime asshole, you can be damned sure there is a list somewhere with your name on it. So...good luck with that."

The doctor blanched and cleared his throat to reply, but Kent had already turned away and walked out the door.

A call for authorities to find Kent and return him to the hospital was made and amounted to nothing. The former Master Gunnery Seargent was never found or seen again.

* * *

Charlie untied a makeshift cloth sack fastened to his belt. He dropped the bundle onto the ground and busied himself stacking pieces of wood into a small fire pit. Pulling a large cormorant out of the sack, Charlie set to cleaning and preparing the bird for roasting.

The sounds of something coming through the briar tunnel, caused Charlie to pause his work to wait and see what was coming. He noted the top layer of the blackberries violently shuddering a moment, which meant the intruder likely got hung up on the vicious thorns.

A sudden blast of cusswords erupting from the midst of the brush tunnel confirmed Charlie’s suspicions the thorns had indeed kicked some ass. Shaking his head, Charlie grinned and turned back to his task at hand. One more tirade of the colorful language sounded, as a gnarly-looking old black man emerged from the bushes. Pulling some thorny remnants from his scraggly hair, beard, and clothes, the visitor called out, “Hello CK…permission to come aboard?”

Charlie chuckled, “Permission granted Frank.”

* * *

Frank Spencer was an old navy man from the Korean War era. He had been a gunner on the USS Walke, which sustained severe damage after striking a mine off the east coast of Korea, in June of 1951. Although seriously burned on one side of his body from an explosion on the deck, Frank did not hesitate to jump into the water to save an unconscious ensign from sinking to his death. After the junior officer was pulled safely into a lifeboat, Frank managed to rescue two more injured men, just before he passed out himself. For these acts of heroism, Frank was commended to receive the Navy Cross. He spent the next year recuperating from his injuries in a military hospital in Germany. Despite several skin grafts, Frank left the navy a scarred man in more ways than one. Haunting memories of the sinking destroyer, and the brave sailors who perished that day, would never leave him. To make matters worse, his young wife was so horrified by the grotesque scars covering thirty percent of Frank’s body that she could not look at him without getting nauseous. Seven weeks after Frank’s return home, his wife filed for divorce. Suddenly homeless, and fearful of other’s like reactions to his horrible injuries, Frank simply “disappeared himself” from polite society, and was never heard from again by anyone who knew him before the Korean War.

* * *

"Staying for dinner Frank?" Charlie asked while sliding the prepared cormorant onto a spit and lit the fire.

“Well that depends on whether you are serving dock rats again,” Frank answered with some trepidation.

Charlie grinned devilishly announcing, “Tonight my friend, we are having roast Cormorant!"

“Hmm, never ate a Cormorant before,” Frank muttered doubtfully.

“It tastes just like chicken...” Charlie assured with a lopsided grin.

“That’s just what you said about the dock rats.”

“Well, chickens and cormorants are both birds right?” Charlie shrugged, “So, it’s probably true this time.”

“Okay…in that case, I’m staying for dinner,” Frank announced and gingerly sat his aged and aching bones in front of the campfire, to take in some of the warmth. For a few moments, he sat silently, staring into the fire, and sighed, “I’m getting too old for this shit C.K.”

“They say you are only as old as you feel Frank.” Charlie reminded lightly.

“Today I definitely feel like I’m eighty-one,” Frank confirmed wearily.

“How old are you really Frank?”

“Just turned eighty.”

Charlie could tell that something was vexing old Frank today. Whatever it was, Charlie knew his friend would eventually get to the matter when he was ready. Until then, a square meal in the belly had a way of making a man feel scores better about life, for a little while anyhow. Besides, Frank looked as though he hadn’t eaten too much in the last week or so. Today the old man appeared thinner and sadder looking if that was even possible. There was plenty of meat on the bird to feed them both. Truth was, after several days of aloneness, Charlie was grateful for Frank’s company this evening. Once in a while, a human being needed to have some contact with other humans, so as to keep from going completely feral, or worse.

* * *

After the meal, Charlie set aside what remained of the carcass to use as bait for catching rock crabs and the likes on the morrow.

A loud belch escaped Frank and he smiled with satisfaction. “That seabird was definitely tastier than the dock rats; even better than chicken.”

The men sat before the fire in companionable silence for a while, each in his own thoughts, until Frank spoke up,

“Another street person was murdered the other night, by that same gang of thugs. This time, they grabbed a woman; her name was Sophie. She was really a sweetheart too, always trying to help everybody as best she could. A couple of those twisted bastards raped her. Afterward, they cut her throat and torched her body. The cops are supposedly investigating, but they won’t really do anything. They’d rather all street folks disappeared. It’s become really dangerous to be a hobo these days, nobody is safe anymore.”

“Why don’t you forsake the city life as the saying goes, and stay out here with me Frank?” Charlie suggested, “There is easily enough room in this camp for a few people.”

Frank stared hard into Charlie’s eyes and knew the offer was genuine. “I already owe you my life Charlie,” the old man acknowledged gruffly, "and, hopefully, I can repay you someday.”

Frank was referring to the evening Charlie had been passing by an alley and heard the sounds of someone getting a beating. Upon investigating the situation, Charlie found Frank struggling to get to his feet, only to be knocked down again by the two laughing thugs. As one of the hoods readied to put the boot to the old man’s head again, he was violently jerked off his feet and painfully elbowed in the face. Within minutes, both thugs were laying on the ground in varying levels of consciousness. Carrying the injured Frank over his shoulder, Charlie vacated the alley quickly and vanished into the darkness of the night. From there, Frank stayed for several weeks in Charlie’s camp, recuperating from the severe beating. During that time, the two men had become friends. They swapped political opinions, ideas on how things worked in the universe, uproarious stories involving crazy women, and they traded war stories. Most importantly, they were able to understand each other; identifying completely with the associated highs and the lows of a warrior’s heart, mind, and soul.

“I don’t want to cramp your style.” Frank commented quietly, “Being stuck with a useless old man might get on your nerves real quick.”

“You may be an old codger Frank, but you are never useless. If it wasn’t for you helping me get through some of my own problems, I don’t know what I would have done. You owe me nothing, old man.”

In truth, Kent felt the so-called debt had already been paid in full many times over. While healing up at the camp, Frank had intervened and looked after Charlie during several disorienting flashbacks and mind-numbing nightmares. During his convalescence, Frank became curious and queried about the multiple tiny notches carved into the wooden handle of a hatchet. Charley explained each notch represented a dead enemy. There were exactly one hundred and seventy-four marks in all. Charlie’s practice of notching each kill he’d personally made onto the ax handle, weirded-out even some of his closest compatriots. It also acquired him the nickname of C.K., not for the actual initials of his name, but for his confirmed kills. In truth, Kent never celebrated, nor felt bad about the service he performed for the Marine Corp. He had done his job well, without getting hung up on feelings and remorse. In short, he had been an excellent Marine. Charles Kent had indeed received many military awards and medals testifying that he was the shit, with a promising future career loaded with advancements. At least until the day he completely snapped out and attacked a visiting Lieutenant Colonel for picking up and examining the sacred hatchet without even a by-your-leave. From there on, everything went downhill for Kent. In lieu of being shipped off to Leavenworth for assaulting an officer, he was instead field diagnosed as suffering a mental breakdown; which got him shipped back to the U.S.A., and committed to a military psychiatric facility for safe-keeping. There, for almost two years, he’d languished in anonymity and shame, merely existing and collecting dust like other broken men on the “flight deck” of a veterans hospital. His high-speed, highly respected military career was ended with being drugged to the hilt and pissing all over himself. Hell of a way to thank a Marine for his service.

The two men talked for hours into the night and it was finally decided that in the morning, they would both travel into the city to gather up whatever personal belongings Frank had left stashed in an alley, and bring it back to the camp.

* * *

Early the next morning, as Charlie and Frank traversed the back streets of San Francisco; the word was Sophie’s remains were going to be cremated and laid to rest in some obscure cemetery. The street people would mourn her in their own way, the loss of such a kind and loving lady would be greatly felt by everyone who had the pleasure of knowing her. A newly arrived face to the homeless community, a twenty-three-year-old kid just back from Iraq, mentioned he’d heard a group of veterans had established a community somewhere near Seattle, Washington. He was leaving California in a few hours and heading that way. He invited Frank and Charlie to travel with him. Politely declining the young veteran’s invitation, for the time being, they wished the kid luck in finding the group, but added they might see him up there sometime n the future.

The two men turned down a particularly long alleyway and headed for a cluster of green painted, commercial-sized dumpsters. Behind one of these, was where Frank had stashed his belongings. However, as he rounded the corner of the trash bin, he was met by one of the thugs who had attacked him before.

The gang member immediately recognized Frank and grinned wickedly.

“Well now…isn’t this a lucky day,” the hood purred menacingly.

“Sup?” his friend asked while stepping alongside his friend. In his hand was the backpack with Frank’s belongings.

“Where’s your soldier buddy now old man?” The first thug asked.

“Behind you,” Kent announced flatly.

Startled, the two gang members spun around and faced C.K., who quickly shot out a hand and grabbed the hood who had first spoken. In short order, the thug was air born and unceremoniously thrown into the nearest open dumpster. As Charlie was turning to address the second gang member, he heard Frank croak out the word “NO”, which was immediately followed by the sound of gunfire.

Charlie felt the force of Frank's body crashing heavily against him. Realizing Frank had been shot, Charlie lowered the old man to the ground as gently as he could. He quickly rose and angrily roared as he charged the shooter, whose gun appeared to have fortuitously jammed while trying to get off a second round.

A look of abject terror passed over the shooter's face as C.K. slapped the pistol aside and quickly took the terrified thug to the ground in a chokehold. The shooter struggled in vain as Charlie twisted the man's head impossibly around until the man’s neck gave with a sickening snap. Tossing the lifeless body aside, Charlie snatched up the gun. He worked the slide back to clear the jammed chamber and again to reload. He stalked over to the dumpster where the other hood was attempting to crawl out.

The second thug began begging for his life but could find no mercy in Charlie’s eyes. In a momentary flicker of hope, the hood’s eyes looked beyond Charlie at a small gathering of people who had entered the alley and were witnessing things unfold with great interest. Charlie glanced back at the knot of street people. There was no mercy in their eyes either. C.K.forced the barrel into the thug’s mouth and pulled the trigger. Once stuffing the pistol into his jacket pocket, Charlie quickly went to Frank.

The old man was gurgling up what seemed like rivers of blood, and Charlie could see the bullet had entered Frank’s left lung. Since the bullet had not exited the old man, it had likely fetched up inside the ribcage. He also knew the bullet had not been meant for Frank, but for himself, yet most assuredly Frank would be dead in a moment.

“You saved my life old man,” Charlie murmured softly while tenderly cradling his friend’s head.

Frank was struggling to speak and Charlie lowered his ear to hear his dying friend’s last words, “Owed a friend...” In a moment, the light in Frank’s eyes was gone.

A police siren sounded at the same time as Frank drew his last breath. Charlie stood up and looked at the group of people who were coming down the alley to tend to Frank’s body, and also act as eyewitnesses to a gang war shooting.

A raggedy looking teenager looked mournfully at Charlie. “Frank was my sworn protector,” She told him, “Sophie was also my friend too. Those two dirtbags you just killed, were the same two who murdered her as well.”

A young man, not much older than a teenager himself, reached an arm around the girl to comfort her, and advised C.K.., “You better be going fast.”

Charlie nodded his head once and quickly entering the back door of a Chinese laundry service, vanished from the scene.

* * *

After tossing the pistol off the Golden Gate Bridge, C.K. returned to his camp and gathered up only what he would absolutely need. Stepping outside the lean-to, he pulled out his knife and quickly dug up a spot in the ground. He drew out a rusted coffee can, containing an envelope stuffed with money. He glanced briefly inside the envelope filled with various denominations of bills, then stuffed the money inside an inner pocket of his jacket. This was his emergency money, close to ten grand in all. Charlie knew he would be able to relocate somewhere else, but there were a few details he needed to take care of first.

Former Staff Sergeant Charles Kent took a last look at his temporary home and the spectacular view of San Francisco Bay. With a new purpose, he strode out of Fort Point Park and didn’t look back.

* * *

Showered and dressed in clean clothes, Charlie emptied the remaining contents of a large Wal-Mart bag onto the motel bed. He rifled through the pile of assorted personal care products, a few packages of socks and underwear, and a folded map of the U.S.A. His hand fell on the newly acquired and high-end Trac-phone. The first call was to an airline to book a next-day flight to Virginia. Then, pulling a small leather book from his shirt pocket, C.K. thumbed through a list of phone numbers and dialed the one he was seeking. He listened as the phone rang twice and then rapidly clicked three times.

A familiar voice boomed over the receiver, “Colonel Ballantine speaking.”

“Hey Bal, this is CK.”

“Holy shit…CK?” Ballantine roared with surprise, “Where the hell have you been? You just vanished into thin air!”

“Been out camping for a while,” Charlie answered truthfully.

“Where…the South Pole?” Ballantine queried, “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Well, now you found me.” Charlie chuckled a moment, then turned the conversation to business, “Bal, I need a favor.”

“Name it brother,” Ballantine replied without hesitation.

“I’ve secured a flight out to Virginia tomorrow and need to meet with you. I will fill you in with the details in person.”

“No problem. Just tell me when and where?” Ballantine quipped.

“I’ll be arriving at the Ronald Regan National Airport at approximately 14:30.”

Ballantine repeated the time and place and promised to be at the airport to meet Charlie. He sounded really happy to hear from his old friend and war buddy. “You’ll stay at my place CK. My wife is a great cook and my two kids will be thrilled to meet you. I’ve already told them all some of the crazy nonsense we used to pull while on leave.”

Charlie laughed outright, “Hmm…promoted to Colonel, with a wife and two kids. Sounds like you’ve settled down and life is good.”

Ballantine laughed as well, “Roger that CK, I even have a redbone hound napping in a backyard doghouse. Life has been good to me brother. Can’t wait to see you.”

Charlie said goodbye and folded the Trac-phone closed. He set it on the bedside table and reached into his newly purchased backpack for his knife and hatchet. He sat quietly, reflecting a few moments on the last forty-eight hours. As he thought of Frank’s comically exaggerated complaints about dining on dock rats, Charlie’s jaw set. He put the knife blade to the ax handle and began carving two more notches. Frank’s last words echoed in his head, “Owed a friend…”

* * *

As good as his word, Ballantine, and his entire family, met Charlie at the airport. Excited and happy all around, there were multiple handshakes and shy hugs exchanged back and forth. Back at the Ballantine residence, even the hound named “Red Dog” seemed overjoyed to meet Charlie. For CK, it was like returning home after a long absence. He felt genuinely happy for Bal’s good fortune. Everyone talked and laughed and shared stories. It was a good evening. Because it was getting late, the kids were hustled off to bed for the night and Bal’s wife, Karin, discreetly excused herself, so the two men could talk privately and catch up.

Charlie grinned and conveyed his thoughts to his brother in arms. “You’re a lucky man Bal.”

Ballantine nodded, returning the smile a moment, and then became serious. “You said you needed a favor CK. What can I do for you?”
Bal listened quietly as Charlie told him the story about Frank. Who the old man was, his deeds of valor as a navy man, and how they had come to meet in a San Francisco alley was explained. And lastly, how Frank had kept his promise in the end, to repay Charlie for saving his life.

“He took a bullet for me, Bal. He was a good man and a good friend. I want to do right by him.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A burial with full honors at Arlington Cemetery. He served heroically during the Korean War. He deserves to be honored as a hero, not planted in some forgotten hole like a nobody. His body is in San Francisco and needs to be flown back east. He was awarded the Navy Cross for saving some of his shipmates. His life turned to shit shortly after coming back home to the states, and he disappeared himself before receiving the medal itself. He has a daughter whom he hasn’t seen since she was a year old. She is possibly living somewhere in New York. I want Frank’s burial flag and his medal presented to her. She should at least know her real father was a decorated hero. Can you do this Bal?”

Ballantine nodded, “You bet your ass I can. Consider it done.”

Then, Bal pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. He poured double shots in each glass and grinning wickedly, handed one to CK. “I just have one question for you brother.”

Charlie’s eyebrows raised in query.

“Can you still hold your whiskey like you used to?”

Grinning back, Charlie accepted the challenge, “You bet your ass I can!”

* * *

With amazing efficiency and speed, Ballantine made good his promise to C.K. Several calls were made to the right people. Frank’s body was brought to the east coast. His daughter Hannah was quickly located and flown to Virginia to attend her father’s burial. The ceremony was formal and glorious, Frank was buried with the highest of honors. Several of Frank’s shipmates who were still living and contacted around the country, came for the occasion to honor and wish a friend farewell. Hannah was presented with the folded flag and the Navy Cross. She was amazed and swelled with pride upon hearing the accounts of her father’s heroism. Up until now, she had always thought he had been killed during the war.

* * *

Two weeks later, C.K. was readying to board a plane bound for Seattle, Washington. Bal didn’t question his friend's need to move on for a while; he knew they would keep in touch somehow. The kids hugged “Uncle Charlie”, and presented him with a bag of goodies for the trip.

Karin Ballantine smiled and gently patted Charlie’s cheek. “You always have a place in our home C.K. Don’t forget to come back to us from time to time,” she added.

Charlie looked directly at the smiling face of Ballantine. “As I've said before Bal, you're a very lucky man.”

“I know it, brother.” Bal returned, “Good luck finding what you need in Seattle.”

Just before C.K. stepped up to board his flight, he stopped to look fondly back at his “family”. He smiled widely and waving one last time, boarded the plane.