BP/ACRA: Bob and Charlie #3

Tim Munn drtimphd at gmail.com
Mon Jun 4 13:08:45 PDT 2007

Boring Publication Presents...

Bob and Charlie #3

By Tim Munn

	For the most part, flying over enemy territory was easy, too easy.
The War Gods are taking a nap to rest their weary bodies.  Let them do
so, as Bob thought on how upcoming events would unfold.  Those
thoughts were horribly interrupted as they began to converge on
friendly territory.  A first wave of automatic weapons fire filled the
air, then a second.  Evasive maneuvers were taken, which threw those
unbuckled around the helicopter.  Starkey quickly called for his
gunners into their positions.  They pulled themselves forward with the
help of those strapped in.  Bob noticed the gunner on his starboard
side had a huge, bloody gash on his forehead.  That blood flowed
eagerly into his squinted-shut right eye.  Despite the nasty gash, he
still pulled himself forward so he could perform his deadly duty.  He
pulled himself up to his gun, checked it quickly and fell.
	Bob looked for any other wounds, but saw none.  He unhooked himself
and slid towards the fallen soldier.  He checked for a pulse; good--
he gave a thumbs up.  That didn't matter much if the bleeding wasn't
stopped or in the case of brain injury.  Bob looked to the medic on
board, pointed his finger and wagged it over the soldier.  He looked
to Starkey who gave a quick nod.  Bob smiled.
	Bob let loose a fury of gunfire.  He prayed to his War Gods that
every single bullet would find their mark; that the enemy would die
slowly and painfully; and that, if they in their Grand War Council had
decided to take his fallen comrade, he be given the Grandest Honor
upon his arrival.  To Bob's dismay, enemy fire increased in the wake
of his molten rain.  He kept firing, as heavier enemy fire flared up
around them.  They were taking some anti-aircraft fire now, with
several helicopters taking hits and flaring up.  They were almost
home, they had to make it!!
	He swiveled the weapon to his left when they took a round in the
side.  Bob was flung into the medic working on his patient.  Had he
not been there, Bob would likely have been blown clear out the other
side.  Or so that's what he was told several hours later by Starkey.
His sitrep said that the gunner, a man by the name of Jenkins would be
fine but scarred for life.  During the last blast, the co-pilot was
the only person in their helicopter to be taken by the War Gods.  Bob
himself had been knocked unconscious for nearly four hours, yet there
was barely a scratch on his body.
	Bob shook his head.  The co-pilot looked like a young kid, probably
just drafted in and out of basic training.  Jenkins, he'd get sent
home early; given medals and live happily ever after with a reminder
of where he'd been and what he sacrificed the size of the Grand Canyon
on his forehead.
	"Jenkins has my respect.  He's a true warrior,' Bob said, jogging his
mind.  "The man that fired off that anti-aircraft round," he said,
looking rather blankly towards Starkey.  He'd raised an eyebrow in
anticipation of Bob's remarks, something cruel and vicious likely.  "I
have respect for that man, too."  Bob started to speak again several
times but found it hard to continue.  Starkey nodded his head in
	"If it is any solace Bob, I had no hand in your recall," he said,
placing a plump manila envelope on a nearby chair.  "I'll send Jenkins
your words.  I'm going to tag some VC for you, Bob.  For all of the
Wrecking Crew."  He turned, saluted Bob and began to exit.  He turned
again to face Bob.  "Take my advice this time, Bob.  Leave Vietnam.
You're not bound here, we're a voluntary force, you me and the
Wrecking Crew.  I don't know what's in store for you, and this just
may be your last chance."
	Crazy indeed.

	"It's sink or swim time now, Bobby," his dad said.  Little Bobby
shook his head violently.  He looked to his mom who shooshed him on.
He began to cry, the only thing he could think of since his legs were
glued in place.  His dad scooped him up around the waist, repeated his
line and threw him off the boat.
	He screamed for help, but water entered his mouth.  His father looked
on briefly and jumped in, grabbing Little Bobby into his arms.  He
tossed the peanut butter and jelly his mom made for him earlier in two
great heaves.  He turned to his father-- oh no! a Vietnamese Vampire!!

	Bob quietly turned to look at the clock that hung at the far end of
the ward.  Only five minutes had elapsed since he'd fallen asleep.
Tonight was going to be a long night.  He turned over, closed his eyes
and waited for the real nightmares.

Copyright 4/18/2007 Tim Munn

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