Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 28

Déjà VOODOO

 Always alone in the orphanage, Richard Blaine discovers there is a worse fate than being alone.

It is being the lone survivor of a band of friends who depended on you to keep them safe.

Déjà VOODOO

“There's an opposite to déjà vu.They call it 'jamais vu.' It's when you meet the same people or visit places,again and again, but each time is the first. Everybody is always a stranger.Nothing is ever familiar.”

- Chuck Palahniuk

 

I awakened in the Rocinante’scommand chair up high from the deck where the other Spartans slept in cots madeof what Sentient called “memory foam” whatever the hell that was.

They would miss them once we gotinto Europe.

If we survived Omaha Beach.

I was shivering but not clammywith cold sweat. I quirked a smile. There was, at least, that going for thisnot-dream.

Rabbi Stein, ever the mother hen,rose from his cot, obviously alerted by my movement. He looked up, concernetched deep on his earnest face.

I grew chill. It would hurt likehell if he was killed … worse if it was in front of me … worst if it was becauseof me.

This was an odd feeling … to havea friend … friends.

“Another Vision Quest?”

“Yes.”

“A bad one?”

“It wasn’t good.”

“Would it help to tell me aboutit?”

“The last person I told a VisionQuest to died the next day.”

“Ah, feel free to be reticent.”

“I always am.”

“So, I’ve noticed. Doesn’t it getlonely?”

“I have Sentient ever in myhead.”

“Ah, yes, your Dark Passenger.How are you two getting along lately?”

“Like oil and water. Sometimesone of us lights the oil on fire. And other times ….”

I held up my less throbbingbandaged hands. “She does me a kindness.”

‘I do more of them than yourealize, Champion.’

‘Then, thank you … I think.’

‘How like you to give … then,take back.’

I said to the rabbi, “Amos, shegave two-thirds of the pain from these to General Eisenhower and to GeneralMarshall.”

He grunted, “In this VisionQuest?”

I nodded, and he asked, “So, it wasbad?”

“Well, everything is funnier inretrospect, funnier and happier. You can laugh at anything from far enoughaway.”

I quirked another smile. “Let’sjust say I’m going to have to be on the moon for me to laugh at this one.”

Sgt. Savalas groaned and swunghis legs off his cot. “You know, Amos, priests at least have the decency tolisten to confessions in a nice thick, sound-proof confessional.”

Cloverfield, still in his uniform… (I suddenly realized all my Spartans were still in their uniforms) … snorted,“The way our Major shies away from letting his hair down, you’d think he wasthe reincarnation of Samson.”

Pvt, “Chuck” Dickens stretched onthe side of his cot. “No, not Samson. I concur with Lady Churchill and wouldsay our illustrious leader is the new host for the spirit of David.”

Dee Steven smiled, “You know oneday, you’re gonna surprise all of us with a short simple sentence.”

Dickens tossed a pillow atStevens. “Says the man whose lofty goal is to scribble panels for pulp comicbooks.”

Cpl. Sam Wilson defended hisfriend. “Hey! There’s some mighty fine artwork in Prince Valiant and FlashGordon.”

Reese tousled the hair ofPorkins. “Old Franklin, here, is a fan of Betsy, oh, I meant Betty Boop.”

Pvt. Eric Evans grinned evilly.“You’re never gonna let that lay, are you?”

“Doc” Tennyson sighed, “No, we’renot going to be that lucky.”

I looked down on my nineteenSpartans and fought the tears from forming. They would not understand.

Hell, Sentient had piloted me allthrough Boot Camp. I did not know how to be a soldier, much less an officer ... even a poor one.

The Spartans thought I knew them.But I did not. While we had fought all across and through Sicily, Sentient hadbeen in control.

Oh, I knew the facts of them. Butnot their hearts, for Sentient did not see into hearts.

‘You would be surprised, my Champion.’

‘I always am with you.’

‘Why, a compliment. I must putyou into death’s way more often.’

‘Let’s not and say you did.’

They thought I was more than Iwas. They trusted me to come up with miracles to save them over and over again.

But I had seen the hell thatawaited us on Omaha Beach. Merde, I had been “killed” by that hell repeatedlyand painfully but, thankfully, not permanently.

This charge on Omaha Beach, deathand maiming would be permanent.

How was I going to get them inone piece across the hell that was Omaha Beach when I could hardly keep LadyChurchill, one person, alive there?

‘The answer is simple: you willnot.’

‘Thanks for the vote ofconfidence.’

‘WE will, my Champion. I, as theAngel of Death, will go before you, sowing fear, madness, and legend in ourwake.’

I felt the hair brushed back frommy eyes. ‘Now, have your Spartans gird their loins for battle. It is time.’

 

MEETING OF THE MINDS

 

For the cursed Major Richard Blaine there is no surcease in sleep.

MEETINGOF THE MINDS

“Yourvision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looksoutside, dreams; who looks inside, awakens.”

- CarlJung

 

I never remember my dreams. I onlyknow that when I awaken, I am shivering and clammy with sweat.

But I remember my Vision Quests …each and every terrible one.

I didn’t even know what they werecalled until Mr. Morton in his eerie New Orleans mansion told me what I hadbeen having. 

He even offered to tell me what Indian tribe was in my ancestry …which was varied he mocked.

I politely declined his offer.Mr. Morton never gave anything away for free.

He reminded me of what I had readof the Fae whose offers always took more than they gave. That went double forMr. Morton.

With the thought of him, myVision Quest took form. As always, I could not quite picture what transpiredbefore I closed my eyes.

Only that I was smiling when I closedthem, and an image of a startled boy in a gleaming Spartan helmet filled mymind.

I was in what appeared to be a medievalfantasy Inn. Many tables, few candles, and no occupants.

No. I take that back.

Mr. Morton slowly, slowly tookhis mocking, handsome shape in front of me in a shimmer of ice rain.

He smiled and spoke in the voiceof Orson Welles. “Miss me?”

“No.”

“You wound me.”

“If only I could.”

He smiled only with his lips. Hiseyes remained sharp chips of diamonds. 

“If God is omnipotent, why does He notstop my little gambits?”

He chuckled and the sound did notreach down into his broad chest. 

“Can He not see them? Then, He is not omniscient,is He?”

He ran his longer than human fingersthrough his thick hair that was no longer blond as it had been in New Orleans butdeepest black.

“But if He is both, then He is hardlykind much less the paragon of benevolence that His tattered collection ofparchment fairy tales makes Him out to be."

His laugh was the sound of breaking bones. 

"But if he is benevolent, omnipotent, and omniscient, why do I still exist?  What do you think?”

“I believe the healthy mandoes not torture others - generally it is the tortured who turn into torturers.”

He sighed, and frosted clouds oficy breath billowed from thin lips. “Whoever said I was a man?”

And he was gone, but the shivershe gave me stayed.

For a moment, nothing was infront of me. Then, the nothing became a man.

In Mr. Morton’s place was an obliviousEisenhower in his West Point cadet uniform. He fiercely cut the juicy steak on theplate in front of him as if it were an enemy.

He glared at the people who nowsat at all the tables, eating, drinking, and tittering empty laughter.

“They think they know but they aresimpletons. Blind morons! Cows like the one I am eating.”

He put the bit of steak at theend of his fork into his mouth. His face screwed up as if it were covered inbrine. 

He spat it out on the plate and threw down the fork which clinkedagainst the other silverware.

“Flavorless! Like all of life. Likeall of my life!”

He looked up into the misty blackbillows of fog above us.

“God! Why did you let me be shuntedinto the sidelines all during the Great War, all through the ignominy of theyears that followed?”

He buried his face in his hands. “Andwhen I finally had it all in my hands, why did You take it all away?”

“Why?!”

I wanted to tell him that he didit to himself. But being told that myself never had helped … only hurt.

And after Mr. Morton’s visit, I decidednot to be a torturer.

Eisenhower suddenly saw mesitting in front of him. “You! It’s all your fault!”

I sighed. “Yes, but not in theway you think.”

His eyes became deader than usual… which was very. “Lady Churchill called me King Saul and you David!King Saul!”

He blew his breath out of histhin lips.

“I have you know I may not behobbled to any denomination, but I am a very religious man! Very!”

“If you have to keep telling thatto someone, then, you aren’t.”

Harsh, brittle laughter to my left. I turned. Oh, why the hell not?

General George Marshall … but inthe uniform of a colonel he wore in France in 1919. I didn’t know whose facewas more dour, his or Eisenhower’s.

I would have hated to have to liveoff the difference.

“Looks like you’ve been demoted,General.”

He flicked dead eyes to hissleeves and harumphed, “This is the oddest dream I have ever had.”

“No dream, George,” said Eisenhower,nodding to me. “He is a spawn of Satan!”

Marshall studied me as if I weresome knotty strategic problem he had to solve.

“I have read Cloverfield’s reporton you. He regards you as a sorcerer of sorts.”

“That’s a better term for me thanEisenhower’s.”

“I do not believe in magic … oryou. Whatever you may be.”

Eisenhower glared at me. 

“Youwere raised from a baby in an orphanage, weren’t you? Well, I guess that makes youa bastard, right?  A bastard!”

As “Colonel” Marshall studied usboth, I nodded sadly. 

“Yes, I suppose it does. What I am, sir, is an accidentof birth. But you, General, are a self-made man.”

Eisenhower lunged at me over thetable, knocking his plate off the table in a loud clatter. Marshall grabbed theman’s right arm.

“Ike. Ike! Get a hold ofyourself, man. This demotion is not forever. As soon as the psychiatrists deemyou fit for duty, you will be again the Supreme Commander of the Allied ExpeditionaryForces.”

Eisenhower glared at Marshall. “Andwhen do you think that will be? You’ve lusted for my position this whole time.”

Marshall nodded.

“Yes, I have, and I intend to dowhat I can with it while it is mine. But I know Roosevelt. He won’t be able tobear me not being across the hall from him to reassure his doubts and insecurities.I won’t be Supreme Commander for long.”

I shivered, for a chill breeze caressedme, feeling as if it had come from my grave yet to be ... waiting impatiently for my body.

A tall willowy woman sat next tome. wrapped in living shadows.  They lightlytouched all along her supple body as if they were her lovers. 

She held up along forefinger to where her lips would have been had I been able to see herface.

But I knew who she was.

Sentient.

Here in my Vision Quest, Sentientcould apparently manifest herself.

Her voice was as if a tuningfork of ice had been given eerie life. “Gentlemen … and I use the term for you twovery, very lightly.”

She waved her hand, and frostlayered their faces.

As they squirmed and squealed, Sentientmurmured, 

“You have both insulted my champion. That must cease … or you willcease … to exist.”

She sighed, and her breath smelledof pineapple and cedar.

“My Blaine is more than you couldpossibly comprehend. He gave up his hands to save his motley crew and thesurvivors of that wretched doomed Operation  Tiger, whom I would have gladly sacrificed tospare my champion.”

She softly touched my right hand. 

“Each heartbeat he suffers such pain in those artificial hands the like ofwhich you do not know ….”

Sentient cocked her shadowedhead. 

“Until now. Each of you will now bear a full third of that pain, so thatmy champion may find some small measure of peace.”’

Eisenhower and Marshall suddenlystiffened and began to howl in agony. I looked hard at them. The pain had been bad,but not that bad.

But my hands did feel a lotbetter.

Sentient murmured in my mind. ‘Unlikeyou, they were not raised in the hell of St. Marok’s.’

Marshall groaned, "How long will this agony go on?"

Sentient shrugged. "Oh, eventually, you will age and die. So, until then."

They howled louder at that.

She turned as an ice queen tothem. “Hush! Or I will give you a full half of his pain.”

I was hoping they would keep on,but they shut up. Very, very quickly.

Sentient shook her head. 

“As far as I can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light inthe darkness of mere being.”

Though I could not see her eyesfor the shadows masking them, I could tell she was appraising the generals.

“Perhaps, I was mistaken. Nomatter. I will prevail.”

With that, I awoke. Unlike adream, this vision would stay with me.

For my whole life.

In the words of Nurse Reynolds, “Brilliant.”

THE LITTLEST SPARTAN

 

Mark Twain wrote that no good deed goes unpunished. Major Blaine finds it is still true.

THE LITTLEST SPARTAN

“One child, one teacher, one lookcan change the world."

— Major Richard Blaine

 

Men stumble over pebbles, neverover mountains. The shingles on Omaha Beach taught me that.

Looking at the twitching, unconsciousbodies of generals and colonels strewn all over the floor of this large auditorium,I thought that this one time I might stumble over this mountain … or becrushed by it.

I bent by General Eisenhower whoappeared to be coming out of his grand mal seizure … from the French phrasemeaning “great illness.”

I took his neck pulse. It wassteady. Recovery from such a seizure took about 30 minutes. He would have adevil of a headache and would be weak and disoriented.

Sentient mocked, ‘You care?’

‘He is a fellow human being.’

Churchill said in his sonorousvoice. “He will hate you for this when he awakens.”

“He hated me before this, Prime Minister.”

Lady Churchill sighed, “For as muchreason as King Saul hated the young David.”

‘I don’t know how I am going toget out of this one, Sentient.’

‘I have taken care of everything.’

My stomach knotted as sheexplained “everything.”

Bradley grunted, rubbing a foreheadthat obviously throbbed. “Ike and I entered West Point in 1911 and graduated in1915. I know him well, Blaine. He will never forget or forgive this.”

“He won’t remember this, sir.None of those still unconscious will.”

“I won’t lie for you, soldier,”grunted Patton.

“Not asking you to, sir. AgentCloverfield is, at this moment, leading a medical team here to treat the poisongiven to you gentlemen, courtesy of a dastardly Nazi plot to eliminate the veryheart of the leadership for the Allied Expeditionary Forces.”

I smiled dourly. “Luckily, I heardof it from my contacts in the French Resistance and managed to keep the worstof the poisons from being put into your lunches today.”

Montgomery sneered, “For which Iguess you expect the George Cross, of course.”

I smiled broader. “At the veryleast. My pillow is looking empty of late.”

King George shook his head at mewith a dour smile of his own.

“And since I had it created, and Iknow how very little medals mean to you, I will nominate you for one myself.”

Patton stuck out his lower lip. “Andif I tell the medical staff the truth?”

I sighed, “General George Marshallhas been looking for a reason to sideline you ever since that slapping incidentin August of 1943, sir. Do you really want to give it to him?”

And that was how my pillow receivedits George Cross.

 

General George Marshall, the newSupreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Forces --

(Eisenhower’s suicide note wasfound in his left blouse pocket when the medical team arrived to pump all  those high-ranking stomachs.

Sadly, President Roosevelt had toaccept uneasy sleep by not having General Marshall in Washington, and thegeneral received the position for which he long coveted.)

Oh, as I was saying … GeneralMarshall had set D-Day for June 5. Loading for the assault began on May 31,running from west to east—

Those coming from a distance rodeto the quays by bus or truck. Those whose sausages were close to the harborsformed up into their squads, platoons, and companies and marched.

Which was why I and my Spartan3oo were unhappily marching down village streets. We had done our fair share ofmarching in Sicily.

I didn’t remember it.

But the others did.

Two rows behind me, Pvt. JohnnyKnight groaned, “Major, have I ever told you how much I hate marching?”

Beside him, Ted “Kit” Carsonsnorted, “If he’s like me, he stopped counting after the hundredth time.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Kit,what with those clodhoppers of yours. But I gots me some delicate feet. Maalways said I should have taken up dancing.”

Pvt. Dee Stevens smiled big, and Cpt.Sam Wilson fought a snort and lost.

Sgt. Savalas, marching beside ourranks, sniped, “How about the two of you taking up a vow of silence for therest of this march?”

Everything was on the move,jeeps, trucks, big artillery pieces, tanks, half-tracks, motorcycles, andbicycles.

Crowds gathered on the streets towatch our apparently never-ending procession. The adults were cheering and givingus the V-for-Victory sign.

As Rabbi Stein and I passed a motherand her ten-year-old boy, he called out to me, “You won’t come back.”

Cpl. Reese drawled, “Cute littlebugger, isn’t he? Major, can I kill him?”

“No,” I smiled. “I don’t thinkour new Supreme Commander would approve.”

Marching beside Reese, Pvt.Porkins laughed, “And it might prove embarrassing if he killed you.”

The two of them had gotten closerever since it seemed like Porkins had been killed during Operation Tiger.

You never know how much someonemeant to you until the moment when you think you’ve lost them.

I turned to see the boy’s mothergive a gasp, pick up the boy, and run to the front of the column.

As I passed her, the boy sobbedthrough his tears, “You will come back! You will!”

Instinctively. I raised my righthand which tingled oddly. “Halt!”

The whole procession froze as ifit had become a still photograph. The only humans who still breathed were mySpartan 300 and the mother and her boy --- whose eyes had become as round ashitching rings.

I bent to one knee and smiled. “It’sa kind of magic, Richard.”

“Like with Merlin,” he saidweakly.

“Yes, a bit. You know my name isRichard, too. Do the other boys call you ‘Rick’?”

His face clouded. “No, Butch callsme ….”

I almost tousled his hair, but I stopped.Why do adults do that to boys? It always made me feel condescended to when I washis age.

I took his shoulder gently withmy artificial fingers. “It does not matter what they call you. It’s what youanswer to that counts.”

My left blouse pocket swelledwith an object suddenly forming in it. Sentient told me what it was. I took itout and showed it to … Richard.

A gleaming gold Spartan Helmetpin.

His eyes grew larger as he tookin my Spartan 3oo patch on my left sleeve. “Y-You’re Major Blaine!”

I nodded. “And you’re my newestrecruit.”

His mother and he both turnedvery pale. “Your first assignment ….”

He swallowed hard.

“Is to never make a statementuntil you have all the facts. Back there, you didn’t have enough facts to knowwe weren’t coming back. And now, you didn’t know for sure that we werecoming back.”

Rabbi Stein kneeled next to meand smiled, “Son, hard times will be here for awhile yet. Your mother needs toknow that your word can be taken to the bank, it’s so good.”

The boy smiled at that, and I said,“That pin will glow as long as the Spartan 300 unit lives.”

“Wh-What if one of you … is killed?”

Porkins kneeled on the other sideof the Rabbi. “One or none, Richard. That is the Spartan 3oo way, right, Reese?”

“Damn, ah, darn straight, Franklin.”

Reese looked towards the mother. “Helikes to be called Franklin not Frank. He has a degree in electronics if you’dbelieve it.”

That shocked me. Not that I didnot know that, but that Reese did.

“Why, Franklin even told mewhere Pvt. Evans missed a circuit.”

Eric Evans grumbled, “Next time,Porkins. You tell me.”

The cold glint in Evans’ eyestold me that Porkins would be very wise not ever to take Eric up on the offer.

The mother must have seen thatglint, too, for she shyly offered her hand to Porkins who rose to take it as ifit were fine glass.

“My name is Betsy, Private Porkins.Betsy Widmark.”

“Franklin, ma’am. Call me Franklin.”

She hastily dug into her apron pocketand pulled out a scrap of paper and a stub of a pencil. “I don’t mean to beforward … Franklin. But we are hardly likely ever to meet again, so here is my address.Write to me and Richard … if you should want to.”

“I will, ma’am.”

Reese nudged him hard in theribs. “Betsy, doofus. Betsy.”

To take the attention off Porkins’blushing face, I squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “You know, Richard, I never knewmy mother. I was placed as a baby in a blue blanket on the steps of an orphanage.”

His face beamed. “Just like babyJesus.”

“Ah, I don’t have those jobqualifications. Besides, I believe the position has already been taken.”

The boy smiled at that, and Isaid, “Watch over your mother as best you can.”

I felt a huge bag form in myright pant’s pocket. I twisted and pulled it out. I shook my head. It washuge. How had Sentient put in my pocket in the first place?

I listened to her for a heartbeat.

‘Look at them, Blaine. They arestarved.’

“This bag is filled with Americansilver dollars minted on the year of my birth. It will never become empty … andyou and your mother will never again be hungry.”

Like the average ten-year-old, helost out to his curiosity and pulled one out. 

He frowned. “You were born thisyear? You look older than that.”

Betsy tapped the boy’s nose,causing his face to match Porkins’. “War ages you, Richard. It ages you.”

I sighed. War and Sentient.

I raised my right hand, and theworld breathed a sigh of relief as it stirred around us again.

My Spartan 3oo began marching. I thinkwith lighter steps.

I turned around for a last lookand was startled to see a small Spartan Helmet shining atop the boy’s stunned head.

 

OURS NOT TO QUESTION WHY

 

Sentient has lost patience with smug generals, certain of their safety no matter how badly their D-Day plans go.

Never anger an ancient entity from another plane of existence.

OURS NOT TO QUESTION WHY

“Two kinds of people are stayingon this beach—the dead and those who are going to die.”

— Colonel George A. Taylor,

commanding the Sixteenth InfantryRegiment, First Infantry Division, on Omaha Beach.

 

Everyone deep down thought thatthere was no Sentient. She was just some bizarre aspect of my insane, psychicmind.

If only.

I at least had some semblance ofmercy. Sentient mocked mercy as a form of self-destructive timidity.

‘How gallant of you to think so.Again, you reveal how much you do not know.’

All in the chamber cried out asthe world blossomed around us like some flower from Hell.

No, I take that back.

We were inHell. First class ticket, courtesy of Sentient.

‘You are welcome.’

‘I didn’t thank you.’

‘How characteristic of you.’

I was in someone else’s body. Howdid I know? My wrists and hands no longer hurt. It was a burden lifted thatnear brought me to tears.

And I could feel the cold, wetdeck of the Higgins boat beneath my fingers as I kneeled on it.

I could feel with my fingers!

The salty spray from the channelstung my lips, my eyes as it splashed over my face. The stench of vomit wasthick. I tightened my face. I would be damned if I died on my knees.

I instinctively hunched over asthe last of the naval shells soared so low overhead that they sucked the airfrom my lungs and lifted the Higgins boat inches from the water.

Soldiers all around me wereretching, sobbing, and fingering their rosary beads.

One wiry soldier staggered overto me, grabbing me by the right arm. I stiffened as a woman’s voice whisperedin my ear.

Lucile Churchill’s.

“Oh, Richard! Are we to die?”

“Ah, that’s Major Blaine, ma’am.”

“Shush! It’s Lucy now. We are inHell, sir, so I believe first names are allowed.”

“Maybe yes. Maybe no. We willjust make the most of where Sentient sends us.”

We suddenly hit a sandbar with alurch. The coxswain who hit the sandbar shouted, “I’m unloading and getting thehell out of here!”

Lucy, in the soldier’s body,instinctively started towards the dropping ramp. I quickly pulled her back andheaded her to the rear of the Higgins boat.

A group of soldiers rushed pastus and started jumping out into water up to their necks. I saw their leader, a Lieutenant,get killed by an exploding shell.

Blood and bits of the braveofficer splattered all over Lucy and me. The sound of it deafened me, but notso much that I did not hear Lucy scream.

Then, the flamethrower got blownup. Lucy and I staggered back from the force of the blow-back. I gently liftedthe soldier who housed her spirit and jumped out.

The water went up to our chins.Lucy swore some very unladylike words when some of the dirty channel watersplashed into her open mouth.

The radioman ahead of us had hishead blown off three yards from us. Lucy started shivering violently. The waterwas covered with floating bodies, men with no legs, no arms.

“Oh, my dear Lord,” sobbed the soldierin Lucy’s voice. “This is horrendous. Horrendous!”

I raised my head to the darkskies and cried, “Sentient, she had nothing to do with this fiasco. Take herback!”

‘No.’

But I guess in her way, Sentienthad her kind of mercy on her … and me.

I saw the zippering of the waterahead of us just before the hail of machine gun bullets ripped into our bodies.

They say you never feel thebullets that kill you.

They lied.

I jerked awake as if from anightmare. For a heartbeat, I was back in St. Paul’s auditorium, observing allthe dignitaries twitching in their seats as if being riddled with a hundredbullets.

Then, I was back in anotherHiggins boat being tossed about by the water and the shells exploding aroundthe craft, my head ringing from all the blasts.

“Ow!” I cried as a bit ofshrapnel bounced off my helmet.

“Thank the dear Lord!” cameLucy’s voice from a lanky soldier who stumbled to my side.

“I thought I had lost you.”

I smiled drily. “Me. too.”

A heavy-set Lieutenant stumbledup to the two of us. “Would you bloody well explain this madness to me? I waslistening to your drivel at St. Paul’s, and now I am here!”

“Lucy” turned to him and roaredover the explosions. “Col. Dawson, follow Major Blaine’s lead and you justmight make it off this boat.”

“This boat? I want to go back toSt. Paul’s not onto that bloody beach!”

Boats on either side were gettinghit by artillery. Some were burning, others sinking. Dying men were screaming. Some for lovers, others for their mothers. 

They were all so damn young.

We hit the beach with a dozenother Higgins boats. “Col. Dawson” raced down the ramp as soon as it went down.Then, he went down, his head seeming to explode from some massive shell.

“Are you cowards?” snapped acaptain as he rushed past us down the ramp.

“Southeast Champion,” I whisperedas I jumped, sweeping “Lucy” behind me as we hit the shallow water.

As the captain jumped from theramp into the water, he took a bullet through his throat. 

He staggered to thesand, flopped down near me and “Lucy”, and raised himself up to gasp, “Advancewith the wire cutters!”

At that instant, machine-gunbullets ripped the brave captain from crown to pelvis, drenching the two of uswith his blood and brains.

“NO!” screamed Lucy. “Nomore!”

“I am coming, my Lucy,”cried the voice of Winston Churchill.

We both turned to see thestocky soldier who housed the spirit of the Prime Minister wading his way asfast as he could through the thigh deep water.

He should have kept thatbig mouth of his shut. He drew the fire of a dozen Nazi machine guns. He reeledover into the water, cut nearly in two.

“Winnie!”

“Lucy” kept on screaming, and Ishook her to keep her from drawing an equally lethal rain of machine gun fire.“Your Winston is still alive.”

“Can you promise me that in thisHell?”

“Yes. Sentient is not mercifulenough to end his life and the nightmares that will follow him enduring this.”

A grizzled coxswain jumped at me,grabbing me by my blouse front with both gnarled hands and growled in GeneralPatton’s gruff voice.

“Damn you to Hell, Blaine! ThatSentient must have known I was burned on my face in WWI. I’ve been blown apartby not one, but two exploding flame ….

“Lucy” slapped the man hard. Veryhard. His head rocked back.

“You are not a child. Stop actinglike one!”

He looked like he wanted to slapback, but instead yelled to no one in particular,  ‘”Where is the damned Air Corps?’ ”

“Come on, boys and girl. We’ll bekilled if we keep standing still. Let’s head to the shingles.”

“The what?” frowned Lucy.

“Those small round stones upyonder that make lousy cover, but they are better than nothing at all.”

I floundered in the water with myhand up in the air, trying to get my balance, when I was first shot through thepalm of my hand. Then, I got one through the knuckle.

The hand that had blissfully notbeen hurting started to hurt like hell.

“This is so not fair!” I grumbled.“I can’t keep an unhurt hand for the life of me.”

A private waded to me, his paleface frantic. “Sergeant, they’re leaving us here to die like rats. Just to dielike rats.”

And then, we were back at St.Paul’s auditorium.

Winston Churchill raced to Lucyat my side. “My love! You are all right.”

She patted his cheek withtrembling fingers. “It may take me a sherry or two to be all right, Winnie. ButI am safe.”

His face was once again aninflamed catcher’s mitt. “I hate you, sir!”

"It's a big club, Prime Minister. Take a number."

“Winnie! He took two bullets forme.”

I flexed my artificial hand whichstill seemed to feel the bullets going through it.

General Patton gingerly touchedhis face as if feeling a bit of ghost pain the same as I was.

I looked round about me. Most ofthe dignitaries were twitching unconscious on the floor. I looked to theunconscious Eisenhower.

He looked like he was having agrand mal seizure. I felt nothing.

Sentient mocked, ‘At least youare not feeling satisfaction.’

‘No, that would be you.’

‘But of course.’

A laggard thought hit me, and Irushed to the King. “Your Majesty, are you alright?”

He smiled wanly. “Like LadyChurchill, it may take me a whisky sour or two before I can truthfully answer 'Yes' to that.”

His haunted eyes met mine. “MajorBlaine, I have often wondered what Hell would be like. I no longer have towonder.”

DENYING REALITY

 

Major Richard Blaine fights an uphill battle trying to convince smug generals they are mistaken in ways that will cost thousands of lives.

DENYING REALITY

“How often it is that the angry man rages denialof what his inner self is already telling him.”

– Mark Twain

 

Looking at the flustered faces ofthe high-ranking officers in the bench seats in front of me, I thought, not forthe first time, that Military Command was the art and science of running thecircus from the monkey cage.

The Army held a pathetic beliefin the collective wisdom of individual ignorance. That belief would killthousands in three weeks’ time.

The tragedy was that these ineptstrategists felt themselves to be at the very apex of brilliance andhumanitarianism.

But I knew that the urge to savehumanity was almost always a false front for the urge to rule.

Consider the modern Brutus,General Eisenhower. He had everyone fooled by his “earnest” pose. Might haveeven fooled me but for Sentient “reading” the diary of his thoughts.

Behind me, General Pattonsnapped, “Well, you going to hurl us pell-mell onto Omaha Beach or what?”

I turned to him. “I’m going totry to reason with you all so that Sentient does not do that.”

I turned slowly round and roundto talk to all the generals.

“The Germans know that their bestchance to stop this Allied Invasion is Omaha Beach – which you have to take otherwisethe gap between Utah and the British beaches will be too great.”

I shook my head. “No tacticiancould have devised a better defensive situation. A narrow, enclosedbattlefield, with no possibility of outflanking it.”

I sighed, “Many natural obstaclesfor the attacker to overcome; an ideal place to build fixed fortifications anda trench system on the slope of the bluff and on the high ground looking downon a wide, open killing field for any infantry trying to cross no-man’s-land.”

Bradley grunted, “We’veconsidered all that, Major.”

I nodded my head. “Yes. Four misconceptionsgave you the notion that you could successfully assault thisall-but-impregnable position.”

I held up the first throbbingfinger. “Allied intelligence said that the fortifications and trenches weremanned by the 716th Infantry Division, a low-quality unit made up of Poles andRussians with poor morale.”

I barked a bitter laugh.  “At Omaha, intelligence reckoned that therewas only one battalion of about 800 troops to man the defenses.”

I held up the second achingfinger. “The B-17s assigned to the air bombardment will hit the beach witheverything they have, destroying or at least neutralizing the bunkers andcreating craters on the beach and bluff that would be usable as foxholes forthe infantry.

Up went my third artificialfinger.

“The naval bombardment,culminating with the LCTs’ rockets, will finish off anything left alive andmoving after the B-17s finish. The infantry from the 29th and 1st divisionsgoing into Omaha are being told that their problems would begin when theygot to the top of the bluff and started to move inland toward their D-Dayobjectives.”

A fourth finger joined itsthrobbing brothers. “40,000 men with 3,500 motorized vehicles are scheduled toland at Omaha on D-Day.”

I hung my head and almost sobbed.“None of that will prove to be true.”

I raised my head and met theireyes. “The intelligence was wrong; instead of the contemptible 716th Division,the quite capable 352nd Division will be in its place.”

I rubbed my face with throbbingfingers.” Instead of one German battalion to cover the beach, there will be three.”

 I saw hardened denying eyes.

“The cloud cover and late arrivalwill cause the B-17s to delay their release until they will be as much as fivekilometers inland; not a single bomb will fall on the beach or bluff.The naval bombardment will be too brief and generally inaccurate, and in anycase, it will concentrate on the big fortifications above the bluff.”

Their rock faces told me theyrefused to believe me. “Finally, most of the rockets will fall short, most ofthem landing in the surf, killing thousands of fish but no Germans.”

General Bradley’s bullet eyes metmine. “We have hard intelligence while you have this fanciful Sentient ofyours. Regardless of what you say, Major, we’re going.”

Above us, Sentient’s voicelaughed, “YES, TRIBAL CHIEFTAN, YOU ARE ALL GOING!”

WORSE

 

Major Blaine finds an unexpected allyin Lady Churchillwho proves dangerous

WORSE

“There is no sickness worse forme than words that to be kind must lie.”

- Aeschylus

 

Before the Army and Sentientshanghaied me, I thought Military Science was a true science like astronomy. 

Now, after being in the Army for two years (some of which I even remembered),it seemed more like astrology … but less dependable.

Patton gave me a hangman’s stare.“So, soldier, you obviously believe we have mismanaged the paratroopers, too.How?”

Lucy Churchill walked to his side.“Major. His name is Major Blaine. He lost his hands defending his menand those poor survivors. What have you ever lost in this war besides sleep?”

“Lucy!" cried her husband. "He is a general!”

She harumphed. “A generalnuisance if what I overhear at Whitehall is any indication.”

The Prime Minister’s face wentfrom angry bulldog to inflamed catcher’s mitt, and I spoke quickly to spare heran angry retort.

“Madame Churchill, the wholeparatrooper affair has been handled with all the foresight of a hastily throwntogether boarding school play but with less common sense.”

“I say, Major,” snapped Montgomery.”

“Entirely too much,” snapped backLucy. “And usually about yourself. Listen to the man before you criticize him.”

She turned gracefully to me. “Yoowere saying, Major Blaine.”

“General Eisenhower wants theinvasion to begin June 5th ….”

The general in question squirmedand Lucy sighed, “Obviously, all here know that date, sir.”

“The weather will not permit that,but he will still launch the paratroopers at midnight, though there will beheavy cloud cover.”

Patton snorted, “We can’t baseour plans on your tea leaves reading.”

Sentient took control of my righthand which swirled in an intricate loop. A billowing image of planes flying intoa thick cover appeared in front of us.

“The pathfinders will go infirst. They will precede the main body of troops by an hour or so. Theirmission is to mark the drop zones with automatic direction-finder radios andthe useless Eureka sets.”

Bradley started to speak but Lucyshushed him, and I continued, 

“Because of Eisenhower’s orders for radiosilence, they will not warn the following paratrooper planes which would have savedthem from being scattered to hell and gone.”

I sighed, 

“Those pilots will beafraid. For most of the pilots of Troop Carrier Command, this will be their firstcombat mission. They have not been trained for night flying, or for flak orbad weather. Their C-47s were designed to carry cargo or passengers … not paratroopers.They are neither armed nor armored. Their gas tanks are neither protected norself-sealing.”

“Oh, my dear Lord!” hushed Lucy Churchill,whose husband was beginning to look troubled himself.

“It gets worse,” I said.

“Worse?” grumbled the Prime Minister.

I nodded sadly. “The possibilityof a midair collision will be on every pilot’s mind. The pilots will be part ofa once in a lifetime gigantic air armada:

It will take 432 C-47s tocarry the 101st Airborne to Normandy, about the same number for the 82nd. Theywill be flying in a V-of-Vs formation, stretched out across the sky, 300 mileslong.”

Bradley shook his head. “Thatlong?”

“And it gets even worse.”

“Even worse?” Lucy groaned.

“The planes are 100 feet fromwingtip to wingtip in their groups of nine, 1,000 feet from one group toanother, with no lights except little blue dots on the tail of the plane ahead.That’s a tight formation for night flying in planes that are sixty-five feetlong and ninety-five feet from wingtip to wingtip.”

I took a deep breath. “Then, disasterwill hit.”

The fingers of Lucy’s slenderright hand went to her mouth as I said, 

“When they cross the coastline, they willhit a heavy cloud bank and lose their visibility altogether. The pilots will instinctivelyseparate. Some descending, some rising, all peeling off to the right or left toavoid a midair collision. When they emerge from the clouds, within seconds,they will be hopelessly separated.”

“Words,” scowled Admiral Ramsey. “Weof the Admiralty are not scared by mere words.”

“Really?” scoffed Lucy Churchill.“Sentient, do be a dear and put all of us in the center of the action, wouldyou?”

“No!” I shouted …  but too late.

It seemed I was sitting in a planeall cinched up in a parachute as outside the plane’s row of windows, all hellbroke loose. Searchlights, tracers, and explosions filled the sky.

My ears were deafened by them.

The plane sped up and rolled in auseless attempt to avoid the flak and bullets. 

But the rolling did make my eyes water and stomach churn.

The generals all through the auditoriummust have seen and felt the same thing. They screamed and cried in terror.

I, and they, felt the plane get hitby machine-gun fire, 20mm shells, and the heavier 88mm shells. They saw planesgoing down to their right and left, above and below them. They saw planesexplode.

I smelled charred flesh and burningpetrol. The plane's engine screamed and its death wail vibrated the metal beneath my boots.

The generals had no idea where they were.

I did. We were in deep merde.

If any of us got hit by a bullet,would we die?

Would Sentient care?

At least one plane outside thewindow was hit by an equipment bundle.

 It tore off almost three feet of wing.

Bullets were ripping through thewings and fuselage. They made a sound like corn popping as they passed through …or more like rocks shaken in a tin can.

The generals and colonels screamedlike frightened girls.

Our plane got hit by three 88mmshells. The first struck the left wing, taking about three feet off the tip. 

The second hit alongside the door and knocked out the light panel. 

The thirdcame up through the floor in an ear deafening explosion that I felt in my verybones.

It blew a hole about two feet across, hit the ceiling, and exploded,creating a hole four feet around, killing three men and wounding four others.

“Sentient!” screamed Lucy. “Oh,please stop. Stop!”

My ears popped, and my eyeswatered.

Suddenly, we were back in St.Paul’s Auditorium. Everybody but Lucy and I were sprawled on the floor. Most wereretching and heaving.

The smell of vomit was rank andfoul in the air. I felt Lucy tremble in my arms.

The assorted high dignitaries wereno longer prim and proper … and more than a little worse for wear.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “the Germanswill be waiting for the scattered paratroopers this night. It will be aslaughter … unless you take heed of this warning.”

“Never!” gasped Eisenhower.

Sentient mocked above us. “THEN,ON TO OMAHA BEACH!”

TELLING TRUTH TO THE DEAF

 

Major Richard Blaine attempts to reach the conscience of hardened generals to spare lives.

TELLING TRUTH TO THE DEAF

“Isn't it strange how people areselective about the truth they want to see or hear?”

– Helen Keller

 

The best and most beautifulthings in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with theheart.

Sadly, the faces in thisauditorium reflected callous hearts. How was I going to reach them?

Simple. I was not. But I nevergave up.

I probably would have made itacross the English Channel, too, even if that patrol boat hadn’t found me. Iwasn’t brave. Just stubborn.

It was how I survived St. Marok’sOrphanage before Sentient could finally speak to me.

Character cannot be developed inease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul bestrengthened, the heart inspired, and inner peace achieved.

Merde. One day I might even getEisenhower to listen to reason. No. Miracles had stopped in the 12thCentury.

But then, again, maybe it wastime for one now?

I glanced at the stony, grim faceof Eisenhower.

Then, again, maybe the 21stCentury would have a better shot at the coming again of miracles.

General Patton grunted, “Allright, soldier. You seem to have spotted flaws in our invasion plans. Spillthem!”

“Flaws?” I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

I gestured a thumb at Eisenhowerand flinched at the pain of doing so. “Generalissimo over there ….”

“General Eisenhower,soldier! Show some respect.”

Sentient boomed from above us:

“RESECT IS EARNED. ALL THATTRIBAL CHIEFTAN HAS EARNED FROM ME IS CONTEMPT.”

Patton’s left blouse pocketswelled, and I knew what it held. “Don’t read those pages, sir. I can prove mypoints without them.”

“Soldier, you have onlyguaranteed that I will read them.”

He ripped them out and began toread, glanced at Eisenhower, and then to me. “This was after you’d been beaten byRommel’s men, jumped out his 3rd story window, hit the ground,managed to stagger to the coast, and began swimming the English Channel?”

“Yes, sir. But I had the goodfortune to land on a guard below the window and then, later being picked up bya patrol boat.”

“Halfway across thechannel, soldier.”

He fixed me with hard eyes. “Doyou think you would have made it all the way?”

I shrugged. “Sir, when you haveno choice but to do something, you sometimes surprise yourself.”

He glared at Eisenhower. “Irecognize your handwriting.”

“F-Forged,” forced out thegeneral from stiff lips.

Patton growled, “Like that knifewound on the back of your right hand?”

“But that doesn’t matter, sir.”

He gaped at me in astonishment.“That this man tried to have you killed in your hospital bed while he watched?”

“No, sir. It’s what was in thefile I stole from Rommel’s desk. Pointe-du-Hoc is a needless death trap.”

While Eisenhower franticallyshook his head “No,” I continued, “The big gun emplacements atop Pointedu Hoc are empty!”

I sighed, “The 2nd RangerBattalion, commanded by Lt. Col. James Earl Rudder, will make a terrible ascentof a sheer 100-foot precipice while being picked off by grenades and sniperfire. Sentient says they will lose fully half their number … HALF! ... only to find thoseguns have been replaced with telephone poles!”

“Lies!” Eisenhower managed toforce out of his frozen lips.

I shook my head. ‘Sentient ismany things. But a liar she is not.”

‘Such flattery. It would go to myhead … if I had one.’

“Worse,” I said. “A second independentintelligence report that cost the lives of six French Resistance Fightersconfirms the same thing.”

I rubbed my face with throbbingfingers.

“If Generalissimo had juststudied the aerial reconnaissance photos with a magnifying glass, he would haveseen the drag marks leading to an orchard some miles away.”

“Lies!” gutturally forced outEisenhower.

“Not to worry,” I said. “I willdeal with them and make a trench up that cliff to protect those Rangers. I knowGeneralissimo will send up them up anyway out of his hate for me.”

“How?” asked Bradley.

“If I tell you, Generalissimoover there would just throw up roadblocks. Besides, it gets worse.”

“Worse?” gasped Lucy.

{ Alliedforces used two gliders in the invasion: the Waco CG-4A and the Airspeed Horsa.These were not the modern sail planes of today, but cargo and troop carriers.The CG-4 carried a pilot and co-pilot, 13 soldiers and their equipment, or ajeep and two or three soldiers.}

I glared at the assembled luminaries.“Who was the moron who approved the Gliders?”

All eyes turned to Eisenhower.“Figures. Well, did it occur to anyone here that the hedgerows here in England….”

I made jumping motions with theflat of my throbbing right hand.

“ … that your British elite jumpyour horses over in pursuit of terrified foxes might just be a little SMALLERthan the ones in Normandy’s countryside over which you intend to land yourequipment and soldier filled Gliders?”

“Did you?!” I roared, enraged at this lapse of simple common sense.

I clenched my fists and squirmedin agony as Montgomery sneered, “Laying it on a bit thick, are you not, lad?”

He suddenly began to scream,holding up his hands.

I smiled crooked. “Thank you.Sentient decided to halve my pain by giving the other half to you.”

While Patton did his own sneeringat Montgomery, I added, “You had those brave Resistance Fighters over there.You could have safely sent a few to do a rough estimate of their hedgerows’heights from a distance.”

I mocked a terrible French accent… which having been born in New Orleans was no easy thing to accomplish.

“Mon Dieu! Zey iz az tall az unman! Zee gliders zey will crash un kill everyone in zem!”

Lucy giggled, then stopped as shemust have realized she was laughing at the needless death of hundreds of bravemen who trusted their commanders to be intelligent.

I sighed, “Then, there is thefiasco of the paratroopers and worse  …Omaha Beach.

POWER can cause DRAIN BAMAGE!

 

Leaders lose mental capacities -most notably the ability
to read other people
the skill responsible for their rise to powerin the first place.

POWER can intoxicate, corrupt, even made Henry Kissinger believe he was sexually magnetic.

Science now says it can cause 
brain damage! 
 
The historian Henry Adams was being metaphorical, not medical, 
when he described power as “a sort of tumor that ends by killing the victim’s sympathies.”  Once we have power, we lose some of the capacities we needed to gain it in the first place. 
WORSE:
 Subordinates provide few reliable cues to the powerful. 

  Laughing when others laugh or tensing when others tense does more than ingratiate.
 It helps trigger the same feelings those others are experiencing 
and provides a window into where they are coming from. 
Powerful people stop simulating the experience of others leading to an “empathy deficit.”


Leaders need to stay grounded and to do that they need someone to hold up a mirror occasionally.
 For Winston Churchill, the person who filled that role was his wife, Clementine, who had the courage to write:


“My Darling Winston. I must confess that I have noticed a deterioration in your manner; 
you are not as kind as you used to be.”  

Written on the day Hitler entered Paris, torn up, then sent anyway, 
the letter was not a complaint but an alert: 
Someone had confided to her, she wrote, 
that Churchill had been acting “so contemptuous” toward subordinates in meetings that 
“no ideas, good or bad, will be forthcoming”—with the attendant danger that “you won’t get the best results.” 

HUBRIS SYNDROME

A disorder of the possession of power, particularly power which has been associated with overwhelming success, 
held for a period of years and with minimal constraint on the leader.
Its 14 clinical features include: 
Manifest contempt for others, loss of contact with reality, restless or reckless actions, and displays of incompetence. 

Do you see any of those symptoms in the current leaders on the world stage? 
WHAT ARE YOUR THOUGHTS?

THE ONLY USE FOR CANNON FODDER

 

The ball is in Major Richard Blaine's court, and he fears talking to men who believe they know everything

will end up with them learning nothing.

THE ONLY USE FOR CANNON FODDER

“A different world cannot bebuilt by indifferent people.”

- Peter Marshall

 

When I long for life withoutdifficulties, I remind myself that oaks grow strong in contrary winds, anddiamonds are made under pressure.

I reminded myself of that now.

It didn’t help.

Good advice never seems to do anygood when the bottom drops out from under you.

The world grew into almostblinding clarity.

I blinked my eyes at the sight ofskeletons within gauze-like bodies, dust motes of energy swirling within skullswhere the brains churned prosaic thoughts …

The pulsing energies caressingeach body in front of me.

Then, of all people, Eisenhowercame to my rescue as he shot up from his gleaming leather chair.

“You! You were not invited!”

“Of course, I was. Uncle Sam didwhen he drafted me.”

Churchill chuckled low asEisenhower’s lips compressed tight as a paper cut. “I will have you shot forthis! Gua ….”

He didn’t get the rest of theword out as Sentient’s eerie voice vibrated above us and into the very marrowof our bones.

“SILENCE! SIT! STAY!”

All of the audience, Eisenhowerincluded, did what Sentient ordered. Immediately … as puppets with theirstrings cut.

‘Sentient, when did you developthis ability?’

‘With the advent of your birth.You know only an iceberg’s tip of me.’

‘Sentient, they are not dogs foryou to command them so.’

‘No, they do not have that excusefor their lack of insight.’

‘If you can do this, why not endthis damnable war?”

‘This one chamber is easy. Todominate the whole world is beyond even me.’

The King gasped, “Y-You w-willpay f-for th-this!”

‘Sentient, you did not stopperhis mouth?’

‘No, I found I could not. Naturehas done enough to his speech without me adding to it. Your inanesentimentality is obviously contagious.’

‘Could you allow me to ….’

She mind-sighed, ‘To heal him?Oh, why not? In for a penny, in for a pound.’

I walked towards the King as hesquirmed uselessly. “D-Do n-not t-touch me!”

Churchill bellowed, “Do not darelay hands on the King!”

‘You let him speak, too?’

‘You have allowed this to becomea Greek Tragedy. I thought you deserved a Greek Chorus of sorts.’

I did what Sentientmind-suggested. With my right hand, I grasped the King’s temples with splayedfingers despite the pain it cost me … which was considerable.

It was no picnic for His Majestyeither. He squirmed as if his whole body had been plunged into boiling pitch.

Apparently, General Patton waspart of my “Greek Chorus,” too.

“Damn you! I’ll have youexecuted. I’ll shoot you myself! See if I don’t!”

I flicked weary eyes to him.“Hence, you still being paralyzed.”

I pulled my throbbing fingersfrom the King’s temples who would have made the ghost of Mark Twain smile whenhe snarled, “I would have you drawn and quartered if such were still done. ButI ….”

His trembling fingers shot to hislips.

“Can talk without stammering,sir. Sentient is alien not heartless.”

‘Thank you … I think.’

The inner circle of those in power stared at me as if at a monster.

"What are you?" hushed Churchill, fear and dread mixed equally in his sonorous voice.

I read Eisenhower's lips: a spawn of Satan.

Patton studied my right bandagedhand whose trembling I could not stop no matter how hard I tried.

“That hurt you, soldier.”

“Quite a lot, sir.”

His eyes narrowed and hardened.“So, you did not lose your hands for which you received the DistinguishedService Cross?”

“Oh, I lost them, sir. I havehands like a bald man with a toupee has hair.”

“They’re artificial?”

“And my wrists to which they’reattached hurt like a son of a ….”

There came a sharp intake ofbreath from the now open doorway. I turned.

I froze.

For a heartbeat, I saw a palearistocratic lady, seeming as if she had stepped right out of the VictorianAge.

‘You are seeing her as Churchillfirst saw her in 1895.’

‘1895?’

‘You are not the only humantouched by strange destiny, young one.’

‘How?’

‘You must have me confused withCronkite. Her story is hers to tell. Hers alone.’

The illusion of her Victorianappearance disappeared, leaving a tall woman still attractive … despite themake-up that was cunningly applied to make her look … older?

“Lucy!” cried Churchill. “Gobefore that abominable Sentient ….’

“Too late, my Winny. She isalready talking to me mind to mind.”

“How?” he asked, echoing myquestion.

“My love, you have always known Iam … Other.”

“Do not ….”

Lucy Churchill laughed bitterly,“What will your enemies do? If they repeat what I have said, they will onlysound like madmen.”

The King spoke calmly. “If theyattack you, Madame. I will defend you. I defy them to gainsay me!”

Lady Wentworth studied me as iftrying to memorize my face. “Oh, Winny, do you not see the resemblance?”

“Yes, he looks amazingly likethat Jimmy Stewart chap.”

“No! He looks like he whom youarrested in 1895 Cairo for that damnable Lord Cromer. Remember how he healed thosebeggars and merchants along the way like the Major has now healed His Majesty!”

The King frowned, “Madame, helooks amazingly like a young Ronald Coleman to me.”

General Patton snorted, “Are youall blind? He looks like that new American actor, Gregory Peck.”

Churchill’s wife looked confused,and I sighed, “Lady Wentworth ….”

“You cannot call me that since Ihave married Winnie.”

I snorted a laugh. “Ma’am, I amfrom America. You know us Yanks get all twisted up with titles. Our nationsonce even fought a war over it, right?”

I walked up to her, wanted totouch her arm to comfort her, but I thought Churchill would spontaneouslycombust.

‘You think correctly for once.’

‘Yay for me.’

“Ma’am, each person who meets me,sees me with a different face … except for my own Lucy … Helen Mayfair.”

I felt a pain worse than that ofmy wrists. “Whom I will never see again.”

“She is dead, then?” murmuredLucy.

“No. But I have so many enemies….”

Patton growled, “You aren’t deadyet, soldier. You give up after you die.”

His eyes flicked to LadyWentworth. “And maybe not even then.”

He turned those dark eyes to me.“Would you die for your Helen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, live for her, soldier.Live for her.”

 *

For the story of how Lucy Wentworth met young Lt. Winston Churchill. read THE STARS BLEED AT MIDNIGHT:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00N758R96

THE DONKEYS BRAY

 

Major Richard Blaine finds himself an unwilling, invisible witness to the luminaries 

listening dispassionately to an invasion plan that will cost thousands of lives.

The American section in the graveyard at Normandy

A total of 4,414 Allied troopswere killed on D-Day itself, including 2,501 Americans. More than 5,000 werewounded. In the ensuing Battle of Normandy, 73,000 Allied forces were killedand 153,000 wounded. The battle — and especially Allied bombings of Frenchvillages and cities — killed around 20,000 French civilians.

THE DONKEYS BRAY

“Leadership: Lions led bydonkeys.”

- Erich Ludendorff

 

Eisenhower spoke for ten minutes,and his confidence and certitude seemed to sweep through his audience like a surgingwild fire … except for me.

I knew about the suicide note inhis left blouse pocket:

"Our landings in theCherbourg-Havre area have failed to gain a satisfactory foothold, and I havewithdrawn the troops.

My decision to attack at thistime and place was based upon the best information available. The troops, theair and the Navy did all that bravery and devotion to duty could do. If anyblame or fault attaches to this attempt, it is mine and mine alone. May God havemercy on my soul.”

He ended his speech with astirring conviction of victory that rang false what with my knowledge of that note:

“We can and will do this! 

I am absolutely confident in theoutcome!”

Field Marshal Bernard LawMontgomery then rose and briefed the major points of the overall effort withfocus on the ground plans. He was very much a monotone teacher to his attentivepupils.

The horrendous number of deaths thatwould follow in the wake of his plan seemed not to enter his mind at all.

Never raising his voice, pointingto the map and slicing the most complex maneuvers into the simplest designs forhis students at hand.

 It was a masterful, bloodless performanceabout what I knew would be a slaughter and put the glue to the pretty puzzleparts.

Myself?

I saw rivulets of blood runningand oozing all along the contours of Montgomery’s large three-dimensional modelon the floor.

To all in attendance this wasmerely a large-scale chess game with flesh and blood soldiers as the pieces onan abstract board which held no danger to them … and, therefore, no meaning tothem either.

Our flag does not fly because thewind moves it. It flies with the last breath of each soldier who diedprotecting it.

 It doesn't take a hero to order men intobattle. It takes a hero to be one of those men who goes into battle.

Or a fool … or maybe a little bitof both.

At the conclusion, there was amoment of silence as the stage was empty. The King rose and faced the audience.

He began to speak. and it wasclear he was fighting to retain lucidity from his innate stammer. His wordswere precise, measured, and utterly sincere.

I respected his bravery in facingthis audience with such a handicap. It meant more to me than if I had heard himdo an encore of Henry V’s speech:

“Once more unto the breach, dearfriends, once more!”

Last to speak, and drawing alleyes, was Churchill.

When America withheld their aidat the darkest of the early war, his deep voice and stirring words were thegreatest weapons Britain had.

With a somber expression, he tooka fighter’s stance, pulled at his black lapels, and began to speak.

The tone was melodic and thephrasing poetic.

All the strength and sinew of hiswords, the only tool the English had in the beginning, was sonorous and touchedeven my cynical heart … a little … until I remembered his voice reminded meunsettlingly of my enemy, Mr. Morten.

What had Shakespeare written. “Godhath given us one face, whilst villains’ words giveth themselves many others.”

“We will invade. We will defeatGermany!”

He paused dramatically. ““I amhardening to this enterprise.”

A Voice like a thunder ofvibrating tuning forks echoed above all our heads:

“ENOUGH SELF-AGGRANDIZINGPRATTLE! TIME TO HEAR FROM THE CANNON FODDER!”

I sighed. Where was the ghost ofShakespeare when you needed him?