Blame It On The Colonel's Wife

A weary Colonel Strada returned to the bunker, his face caked with mud and his camos stained by blood; not all of it his own. Despite deathlike fatigue, the Colonel allowed himself a moment of quiet celebration. Tonight, he and three of his men, emerging from the city’s sewers like a pack of murderous amphibians, managed to kill no fewer than ten enemy soldiers, and in the process, recover seven assault rifles and a significant amount of ammunition.
“It’s a shame about Rokeach,” he mused. “He was one of my best men; but casualties are a necessary cost of war.”
Strada had been the leader of the little rebel army in their fight against the evil conquerers from the north since the General had been captured six months ago. Intelligence informed the rebels that the General had been tortured mercilessly but that he had steadfastly refused to give up any secrets. His body had not been recovered and Strada refused to be addressed as “General” until the death had been positively confirmed.
The invaders, insisting that “the superior citizens of our great but overpopulated nation are entitled by Providence to seize any land on this continent for their free development and therefore it is our manifest destiny to annex and civilize our neighboring lands,” had stormed the country five years ago, assassinating the King and effortlessly disbanding the army. Within weeks, the country had a new leader, appointed by the Supreme Ruler of the Motherland. He was a mean, ugly little man who insisted on being addressed as “el Presidente” and was protected by a large and powerful army. Two Nazi-style police forces did his bidding: el Policia Criminal coldly enforced the dictator’s draconian laws, arresting and/or beating the hapless citizens for even the most minor infractions; las Fuerzas de Seguridad struck mostly at night, detaining the rich and powerful, murdering many and “deporting” the rest. Before long, the remaining countrymen had become little more than slaves. Whatever wealth they had possessed had been seized by the invaders and they were forced to work for meager rations and cruel punishments. Most had been evicted from their homes (which had been taken over by the “pioneers” from the Motherland) and were now living in a run-down ghetto whose streets were littered with half-starved, homeless wretches as well as the occasional corpse. A strict curfew was instituted and any citizen discovered breaking it was subject to vicious beatings and detention.
Paralyzed by fear, most of the surviving citizens had sheepishly accepted their fate, dutifully reporting for work each dawn, busting their humps until late at night and obediently saluting their oppressors at every turn.
But Strada and a handful of other brave men and women refused to be cowed. Weeks after the occupation began, they formed a secret army which carefully planned and enacted a ruthless guerilla war. Strada quickly gained a reputation as a brave but brutal terrorist leading a campaign of bloody mayhem, assassinating top military and government officials and performing impressive feats of sabotage. Critics complained that he lacked even a spark of humanity and conscience but his people worshiped the ground he walked on. Early in the campaign he moved to the top of the invader’s “most wanted” list after he had masterminded the blowing up, with powerful home-made bombs, of the newly-built Police Academy. The mangled limbs of the scores of cadets and instructors who were killed in the blast could be found hundreds of yards from the site. The rebels suffered no casualties.
*****
Strada collapsed onto the pallet on the bunker’s floor and fell asleep instantaneously; but shortly, his eyes popped open and, in a panic, he unsuccessfully attempted to grab his gun as two muscular arms rolled him over.
“Relax baby,” a familiar voice whispered. “It’s only me.” The panic-stricken Colonel did relax as he coupled soundlessly with Lisa, his beautiful cinnamon-skinned woman.
She was a heroine of the insurrection. At the age of 15, she attached herself to the colonel’s unit and quickly proved to be an invaluable member of the rebel force. Fighting alongside Strada and the others, she showed herself to be a fearsome warrior, often finding herself embroiled in hand-to-hand combat and always coming out the victor. However, her greatest value was in her ability to use her wiles and good looks to insinuate herself into high places and coax information from the enemy. She was rumored to have poisoned el Presidente’s top general, a playboy type who was hopelessly bewitched by her charm and beauty, by pouring into his wine, from a specially-made hollow ring, a powerful venom.
Perhaps it was because of their camaraderie on the battlefield or because of their mutual respect for each other as warriors, or maybe it was just good, old-fashioned sexual attraction; but whatever the reason, it was inevitable that the colonel and the teenager would fall in love. It took nearly two years of repressed urges before they would surrender to their desire but finally the older man and the girl became lovers.
In normal times Lisa’s parents probably would not have approved of their young child sharing the bed of a grizzled guerilla fighter but attitudes were different in these desperate hours. Not knowing how many days were allotted to any of them, how could they deny to their daughter love’s full joy? The two parents bestowed upon the lovers their sincere blessings.
Obviously, in their situation it was not possible to acquire a government-sanctioned marriage, but after a quiet private ceremony and an exuberant party, Lisa proudly took Colonel Strada’s name and the couple became acknowledged as husband and wife.

*****

“Honey, we need to talk.”
“Uh-oh,” Strada thought. “No good can come of a conversation that begins with that sentence.”
“What is it, darling,” he responded, warily.
“I’m sick of this war. It’s time that we stopped,” she said.
“What?!!” He exploded like one of his homemade bombs. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“They are afraid of us now. I’m sure that if we declared a truce, we could negotiate a fair and lasting peace.”
“Peace,” he repeated. “Could we ever have peace between us after what the invaders have brought down upon us? The only possible peace can come from total victory.”
“Fool!” she cried. “Do you really believe that our hundreds can achieve victory over their hundreds of thousands? The only victory we can achieve is peace.”
“We will never give in,” he insisted. “No matter the odds, we will continue to fight for the welfare of our people.”
“The ‘welfare of our people!’ What nonsense. That is just the alibi of one who has come to love the bloodshed more than the principle. The only way our people can possibly benefit is if we put an end to this horrid war.”
The debate raged for days but Strada was stubborn as a stone, refusing even to listen to his wife’s arguments. Weeks passed and he remained unmoved even as she swore an oath to deny him her body until he petitioned for peace.
*****
“Colonel Strada,” his top Lieutenant beseeched, “you must call for a truce and negotiate a treaty with the invaders. I beg of you; all the men beg so.”
“What are you saying, Lieutenant? What’s come over you men? This is treason.”
“Forgive us, Colonel, but our women, having agreed to take part in your wife’s crazy scheme, have withheld sex from us for weeks and have vowed that the boycott will continue until we attempt to make a pact with the enemy. This is a torture we could never have imagined. Anyway, we have accomplished all that we can on the battlefield. Now is the time for peace.”
“I never would have believed it would come to this,” the Colonel muttered in disgust. “Who could predict that a revolution would be crushed by an army of crossed legs?”
*****
The party could not be described as anything but jubilant. Drunken soldiers and their affectionate women praised the Colonel and his wife for their wisdom in deciding on peace. Many acted as if they had actually won the war and driven the invaders from their land. The Colonel could not help but wonder if they were happier about the (in his opinion, bogus) prospect of peace or the opportunity to once again have sex. His doubts were reinforced by the frequent sight of amorous couples unable to contain themselves, lustily screwing in what they mistakenly believed were hidden corners.
“Let me have it, honey; make me scream with pleasure,” Lisa begged in their bunker later that night. But no matter what seductive tricks she tried, she was unable to arouse the Colonel who merely rolled over and closed his eyes.

*****
Strada approached the castle slowly, waving a white flag in the air. “This is totally against my better judgement,” he muttered. “It will not end well.”
He was met at the entrance by a hulking giant in a brown uniform.
“Come with me,” the giant ordered after subjecting him to a thorough frisking.

*****
“Ah, Colonel,” so we finally meet.” El Presidente sat arrogantly in a throne-like leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk. “What can we do for you, sir?”
Strada stared at the little man, amazed that such a Lilliputian could wreak havoc on his once proud country. “I have come to discuss a possible peace between our two great nations,” the Colonel replied, rapidly spitting out the words as if trying to avoid their poisonous taste.
“Two great nations,” the little man repeated sarcastically. “The only greatness in your country is the beautiful space that it affords my people. Peace between us would only curtail our necessary destiny. Frankly, Colonel Strada,” he continued, “I am quite shocked that you have come with this petition. I see it as surrender and will act accordingly.”
Before Strada could even question what those actions would be, the little man called for his guards and had him taken to a cell. “You pathetic fool,” he called after the prisoner. “How could you believe that I would dare entertain such an idea? There will be no need to compromise when, with you out of the way we have finally defeated your rebellion.”
Later in the day when the guards came to take him for interrogation, they found him dead in his cell thanks to a cleverly concealed cyanide tablet that he’d had the foresight to carry.

*****
As the dictator predicted, the uprising died with the death of its leader. The Colonel’s wife, struggling with feelings of guilt and loneliness became sloppy in her role as a femme fatale. Often drunk and no longer crafty when attempting her seductions, it was just a matter of time before her identity was discovered. El Presidente’s Minister of War, an influential member of the inner circle who, she thought, was a significant conquest, looked into her eyes and said, “thank you for a wonderful lay, my dear but I don’t believe that I will be giving you any secret information. You see, I know who you are and you are under arrest.”
The following Tuesday morning, just after sunrise, she was blindfolded and escorted to the gallows. She was not given the opportunity to speak before the noose was placed around her neck but that was fine with her as she had nothing to say. The executioner bellowed, “Now!” in a strong voice, and with no further warning, the trap door sprang open; in an instant the once-vibrant and beautiful revolutionary was transformed into a swinging bundle of clothes.
It would be generations before a new leader arose and the conquered citizens finally drove the invaders from their land.