The Unfortunate Circumstance of Us.

This isn’t the way I wanted to write it. One of the problems I have writing war stories is getting the point across. For me it’s therapy, see, this story like all my war stories are part of my memoirs. Needless to say, I’ve been working on that on and off for about twenty years. Other things get in the way, like publishing things I can finish and maybe sell.

Another issue is this is a short story. There’s a truck load of back story I can’t figure out how to explain and keep it a reasonably short story that’s accessible. Another criticism is I can’t go into deep background detail because I either don’t know it or have the National Security Act of 1977 hanging on my head until about 2037.

Part of the reason why I write these war stories is because of what wasn’t put into the history books. It was a real war, right? When I walk down the main street of where I live, I see banners put up by the American Legion on telephone poles with local veterans from WW2 all the way through to the mid-east. I don’t see So-and-So killed in action Cold War, El Salvador. This is probably of all the reasons I have, one of the biggest one that drives me to write it and then post it. It makes up for not having a banner on a telephone pole for Cold War Era veterans. This is probably of all the reasons I have, the biggest; It’s not about me.

That being stated, let’s get on with some background.

I met both my half-sisters as adults in Wiesbaden, Germany as a part of my normal duties. I had no idea I even had half-sisters. It was random chance…I didn’t plan it, they didn’t plan it, none of us knew each other existed. To add to the astronomical odds of me meeting 2 out of 255,000 females soldiers I was related to, twice in the same year, and all my paternal cousins were there by chance too, convinces me of intentional Divine Intervention. My opinion. You judge that for yourself.

My oldest sister’s code name is ‘Satan’s Whore’, she got it from the Soviets when she ran tactical operations against them in Poland. She’s a short woman, however, she is a brutal killer when provoked, and physically tougher than a brick. We have the same mother.

My other half-sister ‘Slut’ is involved. We have the same father. Circumstantially, her full moniker is ‘Mistress of the Sluttery’ which my cousins, shortened to ‘Slut’. She specialized in sexual blackmail.

So, here’s the terse synopsis of the tactical situation. Military Intelligence sent Satan’s Whore into Czechoslovakia on a mission. She was injured critically, snapped neck when her vehicle overturned and taken captive. She kept her information in her head and the KGB just figured she was going to die anyhow so they turned her over to the local bully they used to scare the civilians into submission. They called him The Madman, a title most descriptive. Please note, the car crash killed her male contact who was driving with the same injury.

My MI handler, The Devil informed me only of the scant details as they were negotiating for her release. The Devil also mentioned I should get religion and pray, since it was that bad. He also said ‘Mr. They’ needed me because ‘they’ were testing out a new medical device that only worked once so far, a 75% failure rate and Mr. They felt a blood relative might shed some light on why it wasn’t a bad idea. Hence there I was and there I went…The official reason. Unofficially, The Devil would’ve sent me anyhow.

We were escorted into enemy- occupied Czechoslovakia by a select group of Military Police, using HUMVEE’s, five-ton diesel trucks, some MP’s rode dirt bikes. They, we, brought enough fire power to shoot our way out. When we arrive at the location, a broken-down manor inherited by The Madman, the MP’s secure the area and the MI guys walk into this enclosed courtyard and begin talking to the Soviets and the lunatic.

I’m waiting outside chain-smoking standing on the side of a dirt road frustrated. Me? I want to storm the place, kill everybody that we don’t know and leave with my sister. At this point Mr. They referred to me as Cerberus, shortened from ‘Cerberus the Three-Headed Hound of Hades, Lap Dog to Satan’s Whore’. It relates to Poland.

My family however, called me ‘Grace’.

Anyway, I’m leaning against a Hummer standing in an ashtray during a rainy nasty cold day in somebody else’s country hoping that my sister isn’t already dead and I’ll live to see tomorrow. I’ve been doing this job long enough that I’m not fully human anymore…I didn’t consciously acknowledge the emotional and spiritual gravity of the thing, I was wondering if when things were over if I’d be back in the rear in time to go drinking and whoring around. After all it was a Saturday.

For whatever reason I look over my left shoulder and see motion behind and above me in the woods. I then began hearing women giggling and the first thing that crosses my mind is I finally went insane. Further away on my left the Combat Camera team is chatting with an MP and at the far end of our perimeter another hummer is being waived on. I light another cigarette and then this rustling noise gets my attention. I look over to my left and my cousin Mortician is storming across the dirt road wearing a three-quarters slip carrying something in her hand. She’s barefoot.

She climbs the smaller berm in front of me and begins hacking on this ‘Y’ shaped tree with the object in her hand. This tree seemed to be set apart from the rest of the forest, it wasn’t a big tree but it was a tree. She chopped it down and made short work of stripping the bark and few leaves off it. I noted that the MP’s and cameramen noticed her.

Okay, I now think several people can have the same hallucination at the same time.

As she returns, I meet her in the middle of the road and poke her in the shoulder to see if she’s real. Yep she’s real so I ask her what the flaming blue hell she was doing here.

“I just became Halig Modor of the Wiesbaden Coven and the Landdis guided me here for my staff…” she pleasantly smiled.

Translation; I got put in charge and the guardian angels of the land told me to come here and get a broomstick. When I tell you my cousins and sisters are witches, I mean that literally. They’re real witches. Not Wicca but The Craft…Even in paganism you have different denominations. As a side note, she got the job because her grandmother, my great-aunt retired.

“Really?” I gawked looking at her expecting horns or a third eye to grow out of her forehead. “Please tell me you didn’t use metal on that…and what’s with the underwear?”

“I don’t want the males to get ideas and I used this rock,” she answered and then showed me it. She said the Landdis guided her to that rock specifically as she meditated on the future in the woods around Wiesbaden.

“Since when did you care about what men think? You’re a dyke, I was Best Man when you married Roberta…”

Immediately I regretted that…See Roberta was neutralized a few weeks into their marriage as she turned up on the KGB’s payroll. Military Intelligence colored her gone and I was in on that. Mortician knew that too.

“I’m changing,” she whispered without so much as a blush.

“Oh wow…” I wheezed. Didn’t see that coming.

“We need to talk and let’s do this right,” I reply and then asked her how fast her broomstick went and if she got a deal on it from the dealership. She gave me a sour look, so I asked sourly if she bothered to take it for a test flight first.

So, we both ended up nude in the middle of the road.

“It just started to happen…But that’s not important to you right now. When I was communing with the Landdis a tree told me to tell you that you need to steel yourself. We’re taking casualties again and you’re getting smacked the hardest…No they don’t give details and you should know that,” she whispered in my ear.

“Should I prepare for loosing Satan’s Whore?” I asked quietly.

“I don’t know…” she replied quietly. “Grace…Wars are fought like this. If it’s her fate…It was written before time by the Weavers, either way…It’s the means of wyrd and orlog. As a Beserkergog (warrior leader or ‘Boss’ in the mafia context) you should be prepared to lose your Beserkers (warrior) or Skjaldmaer (shield maiden).”

“That goes without saying…” I mentioned as a gaggle of tiny voices began yelling ‘Grace!’ ‘Grace!’. Looking to my right are my cousins Animal Mother carrying Gustav of Bern’s housecarl axe a four-century old weapon still good for one last shot. Again, as a side note ‘Of Bern’ was Gustav’s last name, housecarl was his occupation and became a family surname when he retired in England. There’s a story there for another time. She’s wearing black and a single cone hat.

Slut is jumping up and down waiving and calling, ‘Hey Steinlitz’. She knows I detest ‘Grace’, and the goofs over at Criminal Investigations think I look like the late 1960’s Russian version of James Bond, aka Steinlitz. She likes watching Russian television and the re-runs are her favorite. She’s wearing black also.

Atomic Blonde and Bavarian Fox are wearing white vestments, both have a black stripe on the cone of their hat with Atomic Blonde also sporting a red strip.

I have no idea what the ranking system means exactly, how they get it or for that matter my sisters and Animal Mother converted.

“Where’s Little Brother and Air Dave?” I asked Mortician not realizing Combat Camera is walking toward us.

“I left them in the rear…Being a Halig Modor gives me some authority over the Beserkers….” She noted. “This way if we all get killed here somebody will be alive to carry on the family name…”

“If this turns into a shootout, I would want Little Brother and Air Dave here…They’re better warriors and ovaries are more valuable…Viking Gold is red remember?”

“Sexist,” she sneered.

“Really? I’m talking about homicide and you’re worried about what? Sounds like an excuse…”

“Hey,” the Cameraman chirped. “Mind if I ask what’s going on?”

“I’m talking to my Holy Mother…Spiritual matter,” I reply. “Buzz off…”

Mortician just stared at him.

“Uh…You’re supposed to be an asexual male…You’re aroused and nude in public…The Devil wants to know why…”

“It’s cold…” I sneered and now regret being nude or at least not have my 30-06 handy.

“Faggot…” Mortician said and then threatened to put a negative spell on him.

“I appreciate her beauty,” I shrugged. “Furthermore, pagans don’t dress for services on occasion. It’s a religious thing…Now get away from me.”

At this point Mortician aims the pointy end of her staff at him and says something in Norse-Gael.

He left very afraid. She tells me she didn’t do anything but play with his head and she’d never put a hex on somebody. I doubt her sincerity. Well, after a few more words The Devil yells to me to get dressed as he sits in a Hummer putting on his Wellington overboots. Typically, he showed up in his black suit and trade mark sunglasses. He then yells negotiations were failing. He walked over to me after retrieving a H&K sub-machinegun from the Hummer.

“So, what were you talking to Mortician about Cerberus?” The Devil asked high-handedly as I tied my boots and then fitted my flak vest.

“Spiritual issues,” I replied.

“Such as?”

“Why you call me Cerberus, they call me Grace and why Slut calls me Steinlitz…” I joke.

“Really?” he mockingly grinned.

“It’s like confession for Catholics….” I answered not looking into his mirror teardrops.

“Hmmm, I thought you were an atheist…” The Devil observed.

“No atheists in a foxhole, besides I keep my religion to myself…” I answered and watched the MI team with a camera crew walk out of the enclosed courtyard. They didn’t look happy.

“Cerberus? I thought you liked that…”

“Only as a PR ploy…It keeps the rednecks away from me,” I note and watch Slut take up a position in a ditch next to an MP with a M-60, across from the courtyard entrance. “As far as Grace goes? Really maybe Dana Webb got the grey asexual part wrong…Which by the way came up with my regulars at the gentleman’s club…The girls heard about it and thought it hysterical…”

“Well everyone needs a hobby, sex is yours,” he shrugged. “What’s with Steinlitz?”

“Slut thinks I look like Steinlitz….”

“No, you don’t,” The Devil answered after a pause.

“There’s hope for you yet…” I giggled. “Now what?”

“Wait…” he exhaled. “Mr. They is mulling it over…It doesn’t look good…”

With that I take up a position next to Slut and wait. It begins to rain and I watch our guys walk in and out of the courtyard. None of them look happy and a few look sick. After another cigarette the MP comments he thought snipers had nerves of steel. I say I’m not a sniper, I just like bolt-action rifles. Well I lose my cool and figure the hell with it. I drop my equipment and tell Slut I’m going to negotiate, she acts like a girl and begins telling me not too I’ll get killed and brings Mortician into it.

Me I don’t care. I figure if I get killed my worldly troubles are over. The MP asks if I think I can get the job done. My reply, I’ll find out. Frankly, after Poland (Reference; ‘I hate Writing War Stories, I truly Do’) I plain don’t give a damn about anything. Slut kept screaming that I wasn’t that tough and I was faking it as I marched off.

The inside of the courtyard is Hell with the lid off. Everything evil, wrong and psychotic is there. The KGB, four of them are talking with The Madman. Give you a glimpse of Hell, The Madman had four full size crosses off to the end with the remains of three crucified inverted corpses nailed to them. The Madman was babbling about God’s kingdom on earth and a bunch of nonsense.

I didn’t see Satan’s Whore. It just reinforced the notion we should’ve stormed the place and killed everything that wasn’t us.

“Who are you?” one of the KGB types asked, he had their wind-up mechanical camera in his hand. The others didn’t seem to be armed.

I walk over to them, light up a cigarette and claim to be the new negotiator.

They laugh.

I run my lip better than F. Lee Bailey and get them to back off as I delve into talking to The Madman. After a few minutes, I remembered reading someplace in a criminal investigator’s memoir that lunatics had glass jaws. As for The Madman, he was farther away from human than I was. I can say he probably stopped being a human years before I arrived.

The Madman is a huge.

Any normal person would’ve avoided being there. Furthermore, if my sister wasn’t there someplace, I wouldn’t have shown up for this travesty of profane blasphemy. None the less there I was so afraid for my sister, I forgot to be afraid for myself. Running out of bullshit on my end I resorted to total fear.

I smacked him in the jaw and staggered him back.

Beating on this guy was like beating on a side a of beef. I have beat on a side of beef in the freezer at Wiesbaden’s main chow hall. Managed to break a few cow ribs ala Rocky Balboa…That’s why decades later I have an arthritic elbow and joints problems in my hands and wrists, so don’t do that either.

The Russians on the other hand placed bets while filming it.

After I don’t know how long I realize I’m running out of steam, he’s probably going to kill me and furthermore…He’s not slowing down. As an observation, if he knew what he was doing he would’ve killed me…No that’s wrong. From what he said during our conversation, if he was the man, I believe he once was…We wouldn’t have had a problem.

Insanity is ugly.

I back up from him and figure he’s going to do what he always does, run at me. So, I’m going to trip him and throw him into this half concrete half stone alter and hopefully that kills him. The stone alter is dripping bloody slop.

He runs, I back up and trip. I grabbed for the bloody alter and come up with a knife.

A split second later Slut is standing about a hundred paces away at the courtyard entrance with the MP’s M-60. She yells ‘Get off my brother!’ and shoots at everything. Misses everything too. The Russians dropped their camera and ran away screaming like girls.

The Madman stops turns his head and looks dumbfounded at her.

The Ginsu knife, it slices, dices and Julien fries as seen on TV.

The Madman grabs his thighs, drops to the ground and thanks me for killing him. He then tipped over and died.

I stand there lost in this numb lurch, I can’t believe The Madman thanked me. At that time in life that admission rattled me it really left me cold when viewed by itself. Now decades later after being around awhile, I grasp that much better. As a side note, Slut stopped shooting when the machinegun’s recoil knocked her flat on her back.


End Part One.