Kurt Schlichter: Indian Country

“That’s what he said,” replied the ops officer. “I think he just resented how the Colonel thought he was a piece of shit.”

“ He ?” Turnbull said. “Who is he ?”

“Our new commander ,” the major sneered – never before had Turnbull heard the word “commander” been uttered with so much contempt. “As our Command Diversity Officer, he was next in the chain of command.”

“Even though he was incompetent? Should have left the Colonel in charge. Karma’s a bitch.”

“Yeah,” said the lieutenant colonel.

“And where is this new commander?”

The officer gestured with his head. “Him.”

There was a major zip-tied nearby, his eyes wide and fearful.

“Pick him up,” Turnbull instructed the guards. They dragged Major Little over to Turnbull.

“So you murdered Jeff Deloitte. You aren’t fit to lick his boots.”

“I’m a prisoner of war,” Little said.

“No, I don’t see any JAGs around to lawyersplain me the Geneva Convention, and you’re no soldier anyway.”

“You can’t hurt me!” Little babbled. “I’m a prisoner!”

Turnbull drew the .45 from his thigh holster. Little’s eyes grew wide with panic.

“Colonel Deloitte was my friend, but he was also my commander,” Turnbull said. “So when he said he wanted you to go to hell, I take that as an order.”

“But I

After 24 hours of fighting, th—”

e townspeople didn’t even flinch at the sound of the 1911A1.

A platoon of four US M1A3s, with the lead tank flying the stars and stripes from its whip antennae, rolled up Main Street toward battle positions to the north. The bumper numbers identified them as a brigade of the First Cavalry Division out of Fort Hood.

The tanks clanged and clanked past him, just another scruffy civilian with an M4 for all they knew. The combat engineers had cleared the wreckage, or rather, bulldozed it out of the street off to one side to make a path. The Walmart smoldered in the distance, the smoke adding to the unworldly haze.

It looked to Kelly Turnbull like one of the Third World hellholes he had spent much of his twenties fighting in, and not only because of his sleep deprived state.

Locals were moving around examining the damage, most armed. Some were wounded, but walking. Lee Rogers walked by with a handful of guerrillas, some bandaged, seeming dazed. But no one was panicking, no one was faltering.

“Hey!” Turnbull shouted at to a pair of young locals who were dragging a dead PRA soldier in a tanker’s jumpsuit toward the field mortuary. “Pick him up.”

They stared at Turnbull, confused. Turnbull’s eyes were fixated on the dead man’s right shoulder patch. It was from the Big Red One. Probably Afghanistan. Probably from when they were on the same side.”

“Pick him up and carry him,” Turnbull said. “Show some respect. He was a soldier.”

The young men hesitated and Turnbull stepped forward, angry. Message received. They carefully picked the PRA soldier’s body up off the street and carried it, this time gently.

Turnbull lay down his M4 and sat on a bench out in front of a barber shop. The .45 in its thigh holster rode up, but he was too tired to adjust it. Bullets had pulverized the barber’s pole. The shop itself had served as an aid station during the fighting and while the wounded had been evacuated, the floor was still littered with bandages and gore.

Turnbull shut his eyes. His ears were still ringing, but he could make out helicopters. A trickle of blood rolled off his scalp and ran down his cheek like a scarlet tear.

He opened his eyes again, but it took effort. The US infantry was spreading through the town, ready for contact that wasn’t going to come. The enemy was gone. Turnbull watched the soldiers advance, too tired to move. A clump of troops approached him, just some ragged, unshaven civilian in battle gear chillin’ on a bench in the middle of chaos.

He exhaled.

“Who’s in charge here?” asked a nervous US Army lieutenant, geared up and cradling his carbine. On his left shoulder, as with all of them, was the oversized First Cav patch – a triangular shield-shaped symbol with a black diagonal stripe from left to lower right, and a black horse head silhouetted in the upper right corner. His platoon sergeant and radio operator stood behind him, weapons ready. Turnbull just stared at them for a moment.

“Not me,” he replied. “Not anymore.” With the rumble of the armored cavalry coming up from the south, Turnbull had gone back to the command post and found Dale.

“It’s all yours,” Turnbull said. “You’re in command.” And then he left. Dale was too busy to follow him.

The young officer in front of him persisted.

“The locals said you’re their commander,” said the lieutenant.

“Not me, LT,” replied Turnbull. “You’re looking for an insurance salesman named Dale, right up the street in the command post. Can’t miss it.”

That ended that exchange. The platoon leader turned to his RTO, grabbed the handset and began speaking rapidly into it.

“Your guys put up a real fight,” said the sergeant first class as he waited for his young lieutenant to do his radio thing. Turnbull noted that the NCO had a Big Red One combat patch on the right shoulder of his uniform peeking out from under his body armor. They had probably walked the same dirt together somewhere along the line.

“Yeah,” Turnbull said. “They did.”

He’d spent the last few hours organizing the remaining defenders of the town in case there was a counter-attack, making sure there were guides to lead in the US forces, and to setting up teams to evac the wounded and pick up the dead. Plus carrying out his former commander’s last order.

None of the townspeople objected. Major Little’s own troops basically shrugged. A couple guards had started moving Little’s body to the field mortuary where the PRA bodies were being collected, but Turnbull stopped them.

“Not there. He doesn’t get to lie with soldiers.” They dragged Little off in the opposite direction to who knows where.

“Want a cigarette?” the sergeant asked as the lieutenant continued speaking into his mic.

“No,” said Turnbull. “Some ruby slippers maybe, Sergeant. There’s no place like home, you know? Assuming you have one.”

“Roger, sir,” replied the NCO, somehow sensing this was an officer even though he resembled a heavily armed hobo. The sergeant looked around at the wreckage of Jasper. “I’m guessing this is going to be my home for a while.”

“Probably a long while. Be careful. Listen to the locals – they know the terrain. They know how to defend it.

“The Joes are already calling it ‘Indian Country.’”

“So did the bad guys. Except I guess now the Indians are on your side, despite you being cavalry.”

“I hope they don’t hold grudges,” said the sergeant. The lieutenant signed off.

“Let’s move,” he told his men.

“Watch yourself,” Turnbull said. “Take care of your troops.”

“Always, sir.”

The trio of soldiers walked off. Turnbull shut his eyes again.

Turnbull collapsed back onto the bench. His eyes forced themselves shut despite his efforts.

Grrrrrrrrr .

Turnbull shook his head, but the growl didn’t go away.

Grrrrrrrrr .

He felt a weight on his lap.

He forced open his eyes.

That stupid dog was on his lap, growling at him, the dead frog hanging out of its mouth.

Grrrrrrrrr .

“You lived,” Turnbull said, a little surprised. “How about that?”

The dog dropped the flattened frog on the bench and came forward and licked his face.