CHAPTER 1
ANGELIC
"OTHER SIDE, BLOODY-TURD LEG," THE BLACK-HAT airborne instructor yells at the Lieutenant, "Take charge, nobody else does."
"Take charge, Schultz," the Lieutenant says to himself. Sumn done day-in, day-out, no matter the place or mess.
"Take charge! Make sure you keep on a side and get rid ... eye infect ..," he blinks at his clock with the on-going worry, that his troops gathered already, "5:16, you've gone more ... Days with nix sleep, leg."
she whispers into his ear while he drowses.
"Don't leg, all you do is make yourself worse. Get your cute leg ass down, and go after Beijing!," the settled consciousness vanishes, and gives room to a drum roll of horrid spirits, "So you think you got it bad, huh leg. You got it easy since you're a stick leader, and a high-class infantry offsir. I even seen you with a shotgun Hemingway book at the chow hall, before a few pushups. If you think he ends sad, you hadn't worked yet, come here Sergeant."
"Sergeant ... Sergeant?! Come look here," the black-hat instructor screams in delight, as he gets others to gather.
"See them? Kiss some more earth, leg," loudly drawls the black-hat, inches from the Lieutenant's face, once Schultz recovers from pushups.
"Wait ain't those air assault wings on your garb, Schultz?," the black-hat screams while he notes in humor, the hard earned badge on the Lieutenant's chest.
"And ain't it so cute, Sarnt? ... Precious on him. I noted that pop-top, on sweet's garb back in ground week," yet one more black-hat chimes in, to scream at the week old wing sight.
she erotically exclaims, to signal fruition.
"So because you're a offsir, who slides down ropes out of choppers, you're better, huh leg. All I can say is you ain't seen a damn thing yet, leg on a rope."
"You're sorry? All of us could have told you that, non-airborne turd," the black-hat states in eloquence, "It looks like you want to be down here, all damn day, huh dope on a rope."
"I didn't say you could get up yet," the black-hat screams, ready to make Schultz roll over to begin a leg-lift routine, "'Member that car wreck, hung out to dry leg?"
"Hurts doen't it? Good, if not you would swim somewhere too," the black-hat tries to show crux of sumn, other than a Parachute Landing Fall and pushups.
"I sure in hell won't be here six damn months, but I'll try more to put you in nuther li'l coma ... And I'll lean down to tell you this in your real cute speak. Damn, you gotta perty mouth."
"We'll be back just for your dear li'l roped dope ass," the black-hat whines.
"Wake-up, we're almost there," Carl leans over, as he keeps his eyes on the road to smell her fragrance.
she angelically murmurs in response to Carl's statement.
"Is this a trick question?," Carl responds in jest.
more awake than Carl realizes, she tests his faculty on this rural drive.
"Sh ... scuse me, I had to say that. I think the dern espresso crashes," Carl admits to be tired, since he just got back from his field duty, a few hours before.
she says, after the mere glance through the windshield.
"Prob ... heck, I'll stop here and knock it out," Carl answers, with the satirical delve into semantics.
she says sensuously, as she giggles a tone that challenges.
"Well, that depends on you, I guess," Carl says, as he thinks wholly that most depends on her, at this point.
she asks with a subject change, while she keeps a smile.
"We've got a few minutes before we pass the Tennessee line, about a hundred k. s, then forty or so after that," Carl says just as he realizes, that things should be in miles rather than kilometers.
she questions, as she puts him in a trance rather than proclaiming, that he is early.
"Je croit que c'est la guerre froide, but once you see and smell a sunrise on the mountains, I think you'll understand," he thinks that he talks of the cold war properly, in French.
she says, that causes him to stare at the pure magnificence.
Looking up with a smile, she peeks thru the shattered windshield again, which is now in the direction of road side, as a wailing German Polizei auto-sedan blips around the curve. While the rain fades, the police and hearse finally see remnants of a car and corpse in the woods. She flutters away, and leaves him to flounder in his chagrin.
CHAPTER 2BITTER GRUNT
IT'S NOT PLAIN, 'CAUSE I DO BUT DON'T WAKE IN TRACES and spots. All real weird, since all's changed. It might be slow, since it's a dream and not real. The drawl the nurses don't got's odd.
Where did these Deutsche types get all this English? I feel drunk, I could run, and why can't I speak? This pretty lady pushes my hand across a board. Oh, how I would like parlay with her.
Then past starts its form in blips. And with it now not passed, it brings hurts of loss. It's bad, 'cause only feelings of pain blip-in at times. Clicking and clinking on a rusty chain with sulfur stinks, chocolate tastes or coffee smells, and Mozart music. Still this pain won't leave all the way.
Recalls do and don't come back, but I still love my work, platoon, and satisfy of their work, twang steel smooth. Though I recall alot, I can't do it with no help. Both the hide and here pains keep their flash like they want sumn, but easy struggle to tie-up more. It hurts, since you think you got good recalls, but they won't come back without help. After the battle in my long sleep, I wake to a bigger battle, that might keep-on for the rest of my life.
Thus I rehab, and maybe liveth, while laid-upeth with the angel Gabriel job, of the watch for evil ones. But what's thus more real's this rain, and no sleep, smiteth they.
Once all the leaders foot look-sees are thru, the wet Lieutenant along with his group come back, so that Lieutenant can give his warrior god plan, or wherever below Hell it comes from. All I for sure catches, one of them foot operates. We'll see I guess.
Meaning my wet Squad Leader, and power hung team leader, are still gone from my hole right now. This a mite bad, 'cause I put crown stuff, that keeps hot steel and cold wet, from its fall in my fight hole. And his butt wants to move. It irks me, 'cause kill by foot's not what I got in the Army for. That man stuff's for them hide crap jumpers.
If we ease out on more foot patrols 'yond this, I'll upchuck. Mechanized was in my mind, when I came to the lord's aid. Heck, it's tons better to roll on fields with tanks, not the fret of Sirgay Newgwin's grenade hump, so nasty grin rail-up out of a mud hole. But it's...
