Peter Grist - Flashback

So long ago but it seemed like only yesterday. The clearing and the fire-fight, the call for air support, the suppressing fire as they waited for the jet plane to run in towards them. His order for orange smoke so the pilot would know their position, the feel of hot air on the back of his neck as the napalm roared through the jungle and clearing, but most of all, the walk through the burning village, mopping up any resistance. The crackle of burning wood and the near constant trill of the crickets the only noises save for the scuff of army boots on dry, charred earth. He could smell that unique cooked aroma of toasted flesh along with the scent of burnt buildings as the stench assaulted his nostrils, the smoke tickling his throat. The movement caught out of the corner of his eye from one of the native pampoo huts and his finger pulling the trigger on his M16, just a short burst, five or six rounds. And then his discovery of the girl, the pain in his own chest as he holds her and watches helplessly as her lifeblood trickles through his hands. He remembers laying her down, closing her beautiful big brown eyes and crossing her arms, then picking up the wooden doll and putting it inside his jacket. The thought of so many lives pointlessly lost threatened to overwhelm him, much like it had done many years ago. His head had slowly lowered and was touching the moss covered earth, his eyes squeezed tight. He had drifted back to the Seventies, travelling back through time down a well-trodden path of his mind, but without the help of the crickets or headaches. He could smell the burning village, even the metallic irony scent of her blood, feel her soft skin. A low moan was just parting his lips when the snap of a twig underfoot brought him straight back to the here and now. His eyes snapped open and his head came up, he was staring at the clearing in the forest in Ohio.

In the centre stood a tight bunch of men, at least seven that he could see. Two carried long-handled spades, the rest carried rifles. Rosen turned on his flashlight, panning around the clearing but he saw no one. He then turned the beam of light on to the ground, searching for a spot he recognised. Peeking out from his position behind the log, Ed could see the light come to rest fairly close to where he and Linda had discovered the child. The night carried the men’s voices clearly, even though they spoke only just above a whisper.

“Here”, pointed the sheriff, “you two, start over here.”

“It don’t look touched to me, you sure this is the place Johnny?” asked one of the two younger fellas holding a spade.

“Course I’m sure now git your ass over there and start diggin’.” Two more flashlights popped on and scanned the ground while the two diggers began their grim task. The men grunted with exertion while the others formed a rough circle around the ever-deepening hole. Another two men joined them a few minutes later, out of breath and panting. It was Ash from the junkyard along with the manager of the local hardware store. Ash sidled up next to Rosen. “The bitch weren’t there but her car’s still outside the house.” Rosen just grunted and nodded his head. Silence fell on the area except for the regular noise of spades cutting into the earth. Ed waited patiently until he heard one of the diggers say “Hey, I got something here!” At that Ed said out loud, “Hold it right there. You’re surrounded. Put your weapons down!”

Everyone standing in the group swung towards the direction of the voice from the dark, rifle barrels coming up in unison.

“Put the weapons down…… NOW!” Ed repeated. The beams of many flashlights tore across the clearing in the direction of where Ed’s voice had come from, trying to locate its source.

Mayor Willets spoke first. “Over there, behind that log. Shot the son of a bitch!” he roared as he opened fire with a pistol. Although some of the group had seemed reluctant to fire, it seemed that a frenzy had come over them, spurred on by the first couple of shots from Willets. The fallen tree trunk that hid Ed Saunders erupted into a shower of splinters as chunks of bark and woody flesh tore away from the limb. Buster’s friends didn’t need telling, they could all see that the log wouldn’t give protection for much longer. John opened fire first, taking a bead on one of the gunmen with his hunting rifle. The sound of his shots was lost in the cacophony of noise from the other firers but when one of the group in the centre yelled out and pitched backwards, the rest noticed. The two men in the open grave ducked down as the rest of Buster’s friends followed John’s lead and opened fire. The attackers now became the attacked. They twitched around in every direction, startled, looking for where the attack was coming from, firing off wild shots into the darkness. Sam Ryan screamed as his left leg was hit, felling him like a giant redwood. Another of the group dropped his rifle as he was hit in the hand. The rest stopped firing and either crouched or threw their weapons on the ground and held up their hands in surrender, all, that is except Willets and Rosen. In the few seconds that the fire-fight had lasted and the confusion it had brought with it, they had both walked backwards towards the line of trees, and as the last few shots were ringing out they turned and ran back the way they had come. Still in cover, Ed shouted at the group in the centre to drop their weapons and to stand up. Powerful flashlight beams from around the area started to pop on and point at the group, reinforcing the perception that they were outnumbered and completely surrounded. Except for the injured ones, they all rose to their feet and raised their hands. They were joined by the two diggers who climbed cautiously out of the grave. The group huddled together for protection.

Ed was the first to come out of cover, swiftly followed by the others. They encircled the group, the ones with weapons kept them aimed at the men in the centre. George went forward and picked the weapons off the ground and threw them behind him, keeping his shotgun trained on the group throughout. Through the light fog of gunpowder and with the smell of cordite hanging in the air Ed swept the beam of his light across the faces of the men. They all looked down at the ground in resignation except for Bill Emmett, the barman that Ed had met on his first day in Ludlow. The thin old man stood proud and defiant. He looked straight back down the beam of light to Ed. “I told you not to git involved mister. Now you gone and got yourself a whole world of trouble, you all have, mark my words, you all gonna regre…” Buster had silently stepped forwards and taken a mighty roundhouse swing at the barman. As his huge fist made contact with Emmett’s face, the barman’s words were abruptly cut off as he was physically lifted from the ground by the force of the impact. He landed heavily in a heap at the foot of remaining men, completely unconscious. Buster stared at the rest of the group. “Anyone else got somethin’ to say?” There was only silence but for the whimpers of the injured. Buster grunted at their submission.

“Man, that felt good!” Buster turned toward Ed. “You said you saw some people trying to give me a hard time a ways back? Well, he was a lot older than the rest and shoulda known better, but he was one o’ the worse.”

It was Linda’s voice that came out of the darkness next. “Where are Rosen and Willetts, they’ve gone?!”

The group looked around the clearing, illuminating dark corners with the beams of their lights.

“Damn them, they’ve got away!” admitted George.

“Not yet they ain’t!” roared Buster, frustration and sadness clear in his voice. For his size, he was quite fast on his feet. The group watched as he lumbered on his thick legs in the direction of the cars.

“I’ll go with him.” said George and ran after the Goliath.