Peter Grist - Flashback

Although the Thule Society is real this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Jeepers creepers, she was fast…… so fast! This was the fastest she had ever been. She just absolutely loved her new bicycle. The coloured tassels sprouting from the handgrips stood horizontal from the speed, so did her hair. Her long, lithe ebony legs pushed the black rubber pedals round and around. This was faster than the school bus even. Wow, this was the best birthday present ever! Grace Benjamin pedalled her cherry red Schwinn Hollywood along the sidewalk for block after block, getting closer to town. It was early Saturday morning so traffic was almost none existent. For an 11 year old, she looked more like 16. She was tall, like her Dad, tallest girl in her year, and her body had started to transform from a gangly girl into a young woman’s. She had noticed how the older boys in her school looked at her; even some of the white men folk had started looking at her differently. There was a hungry look in their eyes, she didn’t understand why, but she had noticed. But right now she didn’t care, all she wanted was to go faster and faster. She was coming up to the first big intersection in town, but she had a green light so she put her head down further over the handlebars and pedalled even faster leaving the sidewalk to cross the road, a huge grin on her face.

The old Dodge pick-up truck rumbled on, weaving occasionally in its lane as the young driver fought to keep the vague steering in once place, constantly jigging the big old steering wheel left and right. He was running late and the boss was going to give him a hard time again about his time keeping if he couldn’t sneak in the back door. His head hurt just a little from last night but he and the guys had had a good time. Maybe it hadn’t been such a great idea to drink so much bourbon when he had to be in work early the next morning but after a couple of mugs of coffee he would be fine, just fine.

The radio was on low but he was losing the signal for the country station he preferred. He glanced down at the radio he had installed, taken from a wrecked ’55 Buick a few months back. His right hand reached out to the big chrome knob and started to tune the station back in, Patsy Cline’s beautiful voice became clear again. He didn’t see anything; he just felt the slight impact and heard the scraping sound of metal against metal. Instinctively he hit the brakes but it seemed to take forever for the old truck to come to a halt. He looked out the back window and saw her laying on the ground, a negro girl in a red dress about a hundred yards back. The stupid bitch must have cycled right out in front of him. He glanced up at the traffic lights. He felt physically sick when he saw his lights were red. Well, the bitch should still have looked before she went. His right hand went up to the gear shifter on the steering column and threw the lever into reverse; the old manual transmission whined as he quickly backed the truck up to the girl. He climbed out and strode up to her. She was conscious but dazed. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he looked her over. He could see she was in pain, her left leg was pretty cut up, but she was trying not to cry, she was toughing it out. He took a quick look around, see if anyone had seen the incident. It was way too early for the good folk of this town to be up yet. Doors stayed closed, no curtains twitched, the roads were deserted. He smiled to himself then down at her, ‘Here, let me get you in the truck, I’ll take you home so we can get you fixed up okay?’ She winced at the pain as he bent down and helped her to her feet, but she let herself be led to the cab, the driver putting an arm tightly around her waist to take her weight. She felt firm underneath the thin cotton dress. She limped heavily on her left leg but she still didn’t cry, just a couple of sniffs from her nose. When she was inside he went back and picked up the bicycle with its buckled front wheel and bent handlebars and threw it over the tailgate into the bed. He looked around the intersection; still, no one had arrived or come out of any buildings to see what had happened. He jumped back in the cab. ‘Okay, young miss, let’s get you home, where do you live?’ The transmission crunched as he shoved the gear selector into 1st and drove off.

The young soldier lifts his head slightly and the gentle sound of crickets and the louder buzz of Cicadas is drowned by the distinctive rattle of an AK47, instantly quelling his curiosity, he ducks quickly back down. Soft ‘fut-fut’ to his right as the bullets rip shreds of green from the leaves above then get swallowed up by the boggy ground. He doesn’t flinch, not any more.

The high-pitched scream of the jet engine of an A4F4 Phantom was getting closer, coming in at right angles from his position of cover; it was fast and low. Unlike the unseen adversaries secreted around the hooches in the village, he knows what is about to happen. He squirms lower into the mud, nose touching the dampness and closes his eyes; he can smell the moss and the earth. The WHOOSH of rockets, dangerously close, a moments silence, and then the roar of a thousand angry lions. The heat of the napalm caresses the gap between his helmet and the sweat-soaked collar of his combat jacket, the hairs on his unprotected neck quivering with the heat. The jet roars passed and disappears away to another target, bamboo trees swaying violently in its wake. He raises his head – no gunfire this time, just a deathly silence broken by the occasional crackle of burning wood. Seconds later the sound of the country returns, the Cicadas are incessant. He stands fully upright, there are no shots fired at him so with a brief upward wave of his hand the others around follow his lead. As one, they move purposefully forward.

As his platoon walks from the lush greenery of the jungle into the chard and blackened clearing, he can see that most of the village has been raised to the ground but four Pampoo houses on the far side remain standing, one smoking a little and the other three look untouched. They are plain rectangular buildings with a roof of tightly thatched leaves and windows made from a patchwork of reed and bamboo. A few small pots stand forlornly outside. They slowly walk towards them, constantly scanning left and right with the barrels of their assault rifles, stepping over a few dead VC bodies, kicking any weapons out of reach. The wicker flap that acts as a door on one of the huts moves on the dwelling on the far left. He squeezes a long burst of automatic fire through the little building, fire spitting from the barrel of the M16. As two comrades cover his approach, the young soldier runs towards the hut, tears down the wicker door and steps inside, crouching low, finger at first pressure on the trigger.

It takes just a few seconds for the soldier’s eyes to adjust to the dimness inside, the bullet holes in the bamboo and mud walls cause thin shards of sunlight to criss-cross the single room abode, piercing the gloom and creating small pools of light on the dusty floor and walls, specks of dust twirl lazily within the beams of sunshine. No furniture, just some rugs, scattered in a rush, and a large overturned cooking pot in the centre.

She is lying a short distance from the doorway, her back to him, curled in an almost foetal position. He steps slowly sideways, his rifle never leaving the still figure.