When Johnny Comes Marching Home Ch 04
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When Johnny Comes Marching Home Ch. 03 free porn video
Continued from Chapter 2:
‘Thank you for your service,’ rang empty whenever someone mindlessly said that to him when seeing his dog tags hanging from his neck. To him, that phrase sounded too much like, ‘Thank you and have a nice day.’
He’d give them a stern look that made them afraid.
‘Thank you for my service?’ Just as angry as he was violent, that’s all he needed to hear to react. ‘Are you my CO? You’re not my CO. What the fuck do you know about my service? You have no idea the Hell I’ve been through. Fuck you! Fuck off! Get the fuck outta here with you thanking me for my service. Asshole!’
Usually those who thanked him for his service never served a day in the military. With most people having never been in a tough jam, they didn’t know how to do without or how to fight with their backs against the wall. They didn’t know how to survive without food, water, and/or shelter. They didn’t know how to make do without their lattes, their donuts, their double cheeseburgers with fries, their cell phones, and their big screen TV’s.
They didn’t know anything about kill or be killed. If they faced an armed assassin, unable to disarm their would be killer, with them all just victims, calves to the slaughter, they’d die. They didn’t know how to confront force with force. They’d rather die than to fight and kill someone. Armed with just a spoon, a fork, or a pen, he didn’t have to think about killing someone, he just killed them. Those who didn’t know how to survive would rather die of starvation than to eat a bug, especially a big, nasty, dirty, germ infested cockroach. He had eaten worse than that in the desert and in the jungle.
With all of the tight squeezes he had been in, most times he didn’t have the luxury of time to think, to assess, and/or to plan his next move. Relying on his training to keep him safe and to keep him alive, he just reacted. Trained to kill, he did what was he was trained to do and what came naturally. Unable to keep count, he lost count years ago of how many men, women, and children he had killed. When in the Gulf War, Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia, and Pakistan, with him a trained killing machine and watching their back, his mission was to defend his country and keep his brothers in arms safe from harm.
Now, with his physical strength gone and his brain a clouded mess, all he had left was his internal strength and his never ending fortitude to fight. Never surrendering and never giving up hope, his biggest battle was trying to remember. The first time feeling so helpless with him helplessly locked inside of his own mind, he couldn’t remember shit. He knew he was trained. He knew he could fight. He knew he was special. Other than his name, social security number, and blood type, he just couldn’t remember who in the Hell he was.
‘Hooyah!’
Hooyah haunted him as if it was something he had said a thousand times before. Based on his dog tag, he was in the Navy. Based on his fighting skills, his ability to hide and to become invisible, and based on his fighting skills, maybe he was an ex-Navy Seal. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember.
Too much of an insurance liability for any employer to hire him, with him a shell of the dangerous man he once was, he only had one arm, his right arm, one leg, his right leg, and one eye, his right eye. Unable to hear out of his left ear, judging by the scar that ran down the left side of his face from his forehead to his jaw, something horrific happened to him only he didn’t know what. He couldn’t remember. He had a hard time remembering yesterday. All he knew was what was stamped on his dog tag, his name, social security number followed by USN, blood type, and his religious preference. If he didn’t have that piece of thin aluminum, he wouldn’t even know his name.
Chapter 3:
His name Johnny E. Mercer, Chief Petty Officer, Johnny E. Mercer of the United States Navy attached to the Navy Seals. That much he knew from what he learned about his Veteran Administration hospital stay before they showed him the door and escorted him out in a wheel chair with security by his side. Even with only one arm, he could have wrestled the gun away from the military police but what for? He wasn’t crazy just angry. Besides, he didn’t remember who the Hell he was. He didn’t remember much about anything else that happened in his past. His short term memory was okay but his long-term memory was gone.
*** MadMadMadMaxine ***
Sometimes during the night, when he dreamed, he remembered or dreamt of having an older brother, Michael. Not quite sure if he had a brother or if he imagined he did, he enjoyed thinking that he had a brother. Unless he was remembering one of his brothers in arms, he thought he had a biological brother. With his memory blurred and fuzzy, he couldn’t clearly see his brother well enough to remember him. Sometimes he could hear his voice teasing him and egging him on to do things. If he had a brother, he suspected that he was an older brother.
Not quite sure but he thought his father’s name was Robert. For sure, perhaps because he played a bigger role in his life, he remembered his big brother more than he remembered his father. Only, with both memories foggy, and with him having been nothing more than a shadow and a trained assassin living out of country for too long, he didn’t trust himself to remember anything from his past. His past was too fragmented and fraught with horrific experiences of war and of violence that few people experienced in ten lifetimes.
Besides, as if a severed celluloid film strip and with the projector still rolling he saw nothing and only heard but, ‘click, click, click,’ whenever he tried to remember anything from his past. All of those memories ended when he suffered a severe head injury. All of those memories became jumbled electrical connections and broken brain impulses when an IED blew him to pieces and banged his brain to bits.
He remembered rolling down a big hill and hitting rocks before stopping when he crashed in a tree. As if happening in slow motion, he saw his arm rolling down in one direction and his leg rolling down in another direction. Yet, even though he saw that he lost an arm and a leg, he didn’t believe that he really had lost an arm and a leg. Falling unconscious as if someone pulled out his electrical plug, that was the last thing he remembered.
He found out later, with him having saved all of his buddies lives, thanks to his buddies, he never would have survived had they not immediately evacuated him out of Afghanistan by helicopter. As if it was meant to be it was a lucky fluke that he happened to be on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan that day while observing the actions of Al-Qaeda terrorists. Not usually out in the field alone, his job was to stay close to the hotel bar, to get friendly with the locals, to keep an ear open to the chatter while he pretended to be a UPI reporter.
It helped that he knew the languages. It helped that those he listened to and monitored didn’t know that he knew what they were saying and planning. It helped that he wore a hidden earpiece that not only amplified the conversations of those around him but also recorded it too. As if his head was an antenna, with his back turned to them, he only needed to turn his head in their direction to hear better what they were plotting.
*** MadMadMadMaxine ***
Sometimes when dreaming, the sound of an old M2, .50 caliber machine gun awakened him from his sleep. The enemy had confiscated lots of munitions left behind by the Russians and the Americans. After a while as if he was really there, he was unable to hear the 132 decibel cartridge blasting out of the gun. With him not taking the time to insert his ear plugs, whether he needed to rely on his hearing or not, his hearing was temporarily gone anyway.
With his sense of hearing removed, he had to rely more on his eyesight and on his instincts where the enemy were hiding. Knowing all o
f the spots they’d go, as if shooting rats hiding behind rocks and trees, he had a good sense of where they’d be hiding on the hill. With him behind their positions in his hidden machine gun nest, he had the bird’s eye view of his Seals further down the hill in front of him and the backs of the Al-Qaeda terrorists above and just below him.
‘Bratatatat! Bratatatat! Bratatatat! Bratatatat!’
He remembered taking over the M2 from the enemy when his M249 machine gun was out of ammo. Not sure if he was remembering it or imagining it but as if he was Sylvester Stallone in Rambo, he remembered lying on the ground and shooting the M2 machine gun from the mount and killing dozens of the enemy. He remembered shooting that gun until the gun was smoking.
‘Bratatatat! Bratatatat! Bratatatat! Bratatatat!’
As if he had eyes behind his head, he knew he was being surrounded. He knew he was running out of time. He knew he’d soon be dead.
With him so tall, so big, and so strong, he was a big target to remain hidden in one place. All it would take is a sniper’s bullet to end him or a tossed grenade. He had to get up and move now.
Running on pure adrenaline, it was either him or his reconnaissance party of Navy Seals. Then, when the enemy started surrounding him, not wanting his partial circle of fire to be limited to 90 degrees, he remembered or dreamt that he lifted the hot, 85-pound machine gun off the mount. Good thing he was wearing gloves. With all of the thorns and spiders, he always wore gloves when in the field. As if the machine gun was a deadly toy, a superhuman feat, he dragged a 40-pound cartridge belt along the ground with him while firing 500 rounds a minute from the hot, heavy machine gun.
Keeping the gun steady while aiming low to take the recoil in account, he remembered walking with the big gun down the hill while turning from the left to the right. He remembered pulling back that big lever of the gun as if he was pulling heavy casket lids closed of all the terrorists he killed that day. He remembered the acrid smell of the continual puff of smoke that emerged from the barrel of the gun. He remembered the stench of burning flesh every time one of those big bullets smoked them and tore through cloth, bone, and skin and burst someone open.
‘Bratatatat! Bratatatat! Bratatatat! Bratatatat!’
With a continual cloud of smoke blocking his view, he didn’t see the carnage of dead bodies until after he stopped shooting. He didn’t see the damage he had done until he ran out of cartridges. With his right side and hands badly burned from the gun powder and from the heat of the gun, he didn’t feel the burns until after he was blown to pieces and laying in a hospital bed.
‘Bratatatat! Bratatatat! Bratatatat! Bratatatat!’
As if there’s an echo in his head that he can’t turn off, besides the constant and continual ringing in his ears, all that he heard now is machine gunfire. God, that gun was so frigging loud.
*** MadMadMadMaxine ***
Unless he imagined it, which he didn’t know if he did or didn’t, it may have been all just a dream and a figment of his active imagination from all of the drugs they pumped in his body. Thankfully because of the morphine and OxyContin, he didn’t feel any pain. Yet, because of the morphine and OxyContin, he had horrible dreams and he couldn’t tell if they were real or imagined.
He remembered his living room was decorated with military paraphernalia. Coming back to him in blurred black and white images instead of in crisp, detailed color, he remembered pictures of his father, his brother, and of him in uniform on the living room wall. Not sure if what he remembered was real or if what he was remembering was remnants of a dream, he didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. A Green Beret, his father had fought in Vietnam. He remembered that, at least he thought he remembered that. He remembered wearing his father’s beret when he was a child.
If it wasn’t for his dog tags that dangled from his neck, he wouldn’t even know his name. The only thing he remembered more clearly was he had a dog, his most loyal companion, a big, ferocious but trained, German Shepard named Saddam. The dog obeyed only him. He wondered what happened to him. He wondered if one of his buddies took ownership of his furry friend.
‘God, I loved that dog,’ he thought while still not knowing if what he missed was imagined or real.
The one thing that he remembered and never forgot was that he wanted to be a Navy Seal. Honor, courage, and commitment, Non Sibi Sed Patriae, Not For Self, But Country. Weird that when he couldn’t remember anything at all, not even his name, the Seals motto was fresh in his mind. Weird that he’d remember some Latin phrase as if he was a priest with amnesia. Non Sibi Sed Patriae, Not For Self, But Country were words he lived by until the day he died.
Oh, yeah, he died on that hill that day when they blew him to bits. A mercy killing, they should have done him a favor and put a bullet in his chest and another one in his head. For some reason, he remembered an old movie with Jane Fonda and Red Buttons. Jane as Gloria, had entered a dance contest that seemingly lasted days, the last dancer standing won. The movie was called, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? Maybe he remembered the movie because he didn’t know why one of his buddies didn’t take pity on him and shoot him as they’d put down an injured horse.
Love of God, country, a sexy woman, and a good dog were the four things most important to him. Had he had children, he would have inserted children and a loving wife after a sexy woman and a good dog. Literally on his last leg, his heart was still pounding, his lungs were still breathing, and his brain was still thinking albeit in the present instead of remembering any of his past. Maybe him not remembering was his body’s way of slowly giving his brain the information necessary to process what happened. Maybe his heart couldn’t take it if his body gave his brain all of that information at one time.
With him not remembering much of anything, he remembered an old joke that was seemingly applicable to his body not allowing his brain to receive all of the information.
A man who lived at home with his mother and pet cat went on a business trip to Europe. Before he left, he told his friend to call him and tell him of any emergencies. A few days into his trip, his cat slipped while climbing the roof, fell off the roof, and died. His friend texted him the message.
‘Your cat died!’
A few hours later, in grief, he returned home after having cut short his trip. He loved that cat. He yelled at his friend when he saw him.
‘Instead of shocking me that my cat was dead, why didn’t you break the news of my cat falling off the roof and dying to me slowly? You know how close I was to my cat. You could have sent me a message, your cat climbed up on the roof today. Then, the next day, you could have written, your cat fell off the roof. Then, the third day, you could have let me down gradually by writing that my cat died of his injuries.’
After a quick memorial service for his cat and burying his cat in the pet cemetery, the man left again to continue his business trip. A few days later, he received a text from his friend.
‘Your mother climbed up on the roof today.’
*** MadMadMadMaxine ***
‘Ready to lead, ready to follow, never quit,’ as if saying silent prayer or a mantra, for some unknown reason, maybe out of habit but he sometimes chanted that to himself too when he was alone, cold, hungry, and thirsty.
He didn’t know why he remembered that phrase but, as if reciting the alphabet or the Lord’s Prayer, he just did. Maybe when he was running cadence, he recited that phrase over and again. He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember. It doesn’t seem right that for a man who gave so much to his country then, had so little now.
With the alcohol that he bought with pocket change from passersby pickling his brain,
destroying more of his brain cells, and making his memory even worse, he didn’t remember if he became a Navy Seal or just imagined that he was. Struggling to remember, unable to remember his last name without referring to his dog tags, he couldn’t even remember if he served in the military. With his memory sometimes so clear and then going so blurry, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how he lost his leg, his arm, his eye, and the hearing in his left ear. Unable to remember, he couldn’t even remember spending time in a hospital but he must have otherwise he’d be dead from his severe injuries.
All he knew was that even with only one arm and one leg he had ingrained fighting skills. He knew how to fight. He could disable a man with just his right thumb, his knuckle, and/or a flick of his finger. Where did he learn that?
Able to keep his balance on one leg while throwing a punch, he surprised more than one dirty bastard trying to take advantage of a cripple. He was even more deadly when he was holding a crutch that he sometimes used as a weapon. Able to put his weight on the crutch, he could kick out with his one leg while still maintaining his balance enough to not fall to the ground. He was as deadly with his feet as he was with his hands.
*** MadMadMadMaxine ***
It was late, after 1 am by his Casio G-shock watch. He didn’t remember buying it but with the band and bezel a puke green, the watch looked government issued. He heard them coming as soon as they entered the alley. Too far away for him to hear what they were saying, with them breaking bottles and kicking trash bags, he didn’t have to know what they were saying to know that they’d be trouble. He didn’t remember what the sticky situations were but he knew he had been in enough sticky situations to feel the warning of mortal danger in his gut and the alarm to flee or fight going off in his head.
Always a bad time, especially late Saturday evenings and Sunday mornings when the bars closed and all the drunks were thrown out, he hunkered down hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice him. Covered by a tarp he found with holes cut out for his eyes, he laid low while waiting for them to walk by. As if they were a small detachment of terrorists or the Pakistani military, he didn’t want any trouble. He was tired. He was hungry and he was weak from not having eaten anything all day.
Dumpster diving, they were going from dumpster to dumpster to see what they could find. Positioned in a good neighborhood, the dumpster pickings were much better here than they were in other low income neighborhoods. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before they checked his two dumpsters and stumbled over him. Pressing himself against the brick wall, he made himself as small as he could but he wanted to be ready to spring up on his one leg should they attack him. Then, when one of the men stepped on his ankle, he moved without a sound but the man felt the movement beneath his foot.
‘Fuck! A rat,’ said the man pulling a gun and ready to shoot it at what he thought was a rodent. Only, what he thought was a rat was him.
As if he was playing field hockey and their heads were the hard ball, raising his one arm above the dumpster, he swung his crutch hard left and then quickly swung his crutch right. He hit two men hard on the temples, first one and then the other. Had his crutch arm not been padded, they would have been dead with that hard of a blow to the side of the head. Watching them fall like the sacks of shit that they were, he grabbed for the gun as soon as it hit the pavement.
‘Take your friends and leave,’ he said removing the magazine and the cartridge that was in the chamber one handed. He tossed the empty gun down the sewer and watched the man left standing help his two friends to their feet and make it down the alley.
*** MadMadMadMaxine ***
Only, one night, they returned when he was soundly sleeping after drinking a pint of cheap rum. His luck washed out of his body with his blood that ran down the gutter. Waking him out of a deep, drunken sleep, three men stomped the shit out of him. Until he lost consciousness, all he could do with his one arm was to protect his head and face from their kicks. They didn’t even give him the chance to stand. Had he gotten up to his one leg, taken them out one by one and angry enough to do so, he would have killed all three with his one good hand and his one good foot. Using just one foot and one hand, he had fought many men and won while holding a beer in one hand and not spilling a drop.
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