Yellow Mama Archives II

Henry Simpson

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Kim Philby

by Henry Simpson

 

Superior Court Judge Patrick William O’Neill jogged down Painted Cave Road with his beloved German Shepherd Kim Philby trotting along beside. The narrow road serpentined, challenging drivers and terrifying their hapless passengers with its quick, tight turns and steep drop-offs. Great granite slabs thrust up its edges and hung down slopes toward Santa Barbara. Manzanita, Sagebrush, Sage, Chamise, Bay Laurel, and the occasional Yucca and Prickly Pear cactus dotted the arid landscape.

O’Neill stopped a mile down at his usual turnaround spot, jogged in place, and sat on a boulder. Kim Philby was panting but eager as always, his eyes alert, prick ears up. O’Neill reached down, scratched his head, and a fingertip sensed the irregularity of a fresh hard tick in his coarse, brown coat. He grasped it between index finger and thumb, twisted it out, set it on a rock, and crushed it with his foot, leaving behind a dime-sized red splotch.

 Kim Philby gazed worshipfully at O’Neill, a lean and fit man of sixty, clean-shaven with silvery white hair and clear blue eyes.

The view was fine, O’Neill thought. Friends, coworkers, and relatives had all told him it was nuts to live up here, what with wildfires, mountain lions, rattlesnakes, and coyotes, but they were wrong. All of Santa Barbara lay below, as far south as Ventura and, beyond the curving coastline, the pellucid blue Pacific Ocean and upstart Channel Islands. It was an awesome place to live despite the hazards.

He checked his watch. They would be along soon now, and it was time to head back up the hill.

He stood and stretched.

Kim Philby’s ears perked and his eyes blazed.

O’Neill took a few deep breaths and then continued his jog, slowly at first, and then quickening his rhythmic pace, heading toward the house on the summit where he lived with his wife and Kim Philby. A house with, among other things, a tripod-mounted Celestron 1000-millimeter telescope good for observing wildlife and surveying the neighborhood. From his hilltop aerie, he had spotted incipient fires, burglaries in progress, and, most recently, a possible clandestine drug laboratory; the next hour would reveal the nature of his latest prey.

 Sun rising above his right shoulder, O’Neill jogged steadily uphill, retracing his earlier downhill course. Kim Philby floated effortlessly beside him, perfectly in tune, breathing with clocklike cadence. The road pitch leveled out as they approached O’Neill’s midpoint landmark, a row of four rural mailboxes atop a stone wall at roadside surrounded by a patch of white-flowering Toyon.

Powerful diesels whined in the distance as they climbed their way up the curlicue road, steadily getting closer. That would be them, O’Neill thought. Right on time.

He jogged past the mailboxes, stopped a hundred feet beyond, turned for a look back, and waited.

And waited. It was like marking time before the first pitch in a championship baseball game. He felt a tinge of pleasure, as if placing a bet, for he had something riding on the outcome of this particular game. His bet was that the Sheriff’s party would find some incriminating prize inside that little house beside the road. If they did, he’d win; if not, he’d lose face.

Flashing lights appeared a quarter mile away as they rounded a bend and came out onto the straights. The lights grew brighter and their conveyances larger, and soon he could make out raiding party elements.

Two sheriff’s cruisers led the way, followed by two white vans and two trailing cruisers. The caravan grew louder and larger, sunlight glinting off windshields and polished chrome, and then gradually slowed until all its vehicles came to a stop on the road alongside the little house. Loud, idling diesels and crackling sheriff’s radios pestered the otherwise sweet and silent mountaintop air.

A few seconds passed, and then six helmeted men in black uniforms carrying M4 carbines disembarked from the front van. A second group left the rear van. Four men in the assault team slung a steel battering ram between them, double-timed to the porch, and swung the ram into the front door, which collapsed inward in two strokes.

Soon O’Neill would know the answer to his question.

 

 

Originally published by the author in Poydras Review, 5-7-18.

 

The Candidate

 

by Henry Simpson

 

Monday at 0700 hours Lt. Kral, sitting at a battered metal desk in HQ Company’s hut, stared into Pvt. Benes’ folder. “Six months at Novost College, academic probation.”

“That’s wrong, sir,” Benes said, standing at attention. “I successfully completed a year of Social Engineering. I am return-eligible.”

Kral glared at Benes. “Did I ask?”

Benes clicked his heels. “No.”

“No, sir, donkek.”

“Yes, sir . . . no, sir.”

“Barely qualified with Kalash. Does shooting frighten you, Private?”

“No, sir.”

“Got shot in Basic Infantry Skills training, then a week in hospital. Disgusting!”

“Sir, a recruit did that, with a blank.”

“Too bad not a live round! No officer recommendations. Not even an NCO’s. One called you loner. another untrustworthy. Who thought you were officer material, Private?”

“The test did, sir. I got quite a high score.”

“Hah! So you believe Aserna should send you to Officer Training?”

“I’ll go wherever Aserna sends me, sir.”

“What say, Tirana?”

“That would be fine, sir.”

“Varna?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Transylvania?”

“I’d have to learn the languages first, sir.”

Kral laughed. “Not a chance. Anyway, I’m responsible for you until the higher-ups decide your fate. Until then, you’re assigned to Barrack 35. Go there, stand by, and await orders.”

“Yes, sir. When . . .”

“Impossible to know.”

Benes clicked his heels, saluted, did an about-face, and left.

Barrack 35 was a large gray hut in a long row of such huts, running down to a road. As Benes approached, he could hear the sounds of voices and a radio playing popular music through its open door. A young man in shorts and undershirt was standing outside, smoking a cigarette, and blowing smoke rings as Benes approached. “Lt. Kral just sent me over here to stand by and wait. Would you mind telling me what happens in this place?”

The smoker shook his head. “What you do to get punished?”

“I applied for an education.”

“You may die waiting. We go to mess hall three times per day and do work details. Best day Friday, payday. Weekends, maybe go to town, matinee, swim ocean, night get drunk, if lucky meet girl, party. Me? Average day I smoke cigarettes, practice rings. Else, sleep dream radio cards gamble checkers, exercise if crazy, read propaganda. No chess. No TV. Evenings, drink beer get drunk.

“Work?” Benes asked.

“Shit jobs—guard duty, hard labor, clean latrines, weapon repair, mess duty, go to war, anything the bigwigs, they dream up. They got us here, slave labor, prisoners forever. I’m Marek. What’s your name?”

“Private Benes.”

“Listen, comrade. Here, no Privates, not here, never. No Corporals, Sergeants. We all same here. You want to be officer?”

“Better than enlisted, I think.”

“Everyone here in B35 enlisted. You think we losers?”

“Being an officer’s better. Get an education, do something with life beside I take orders from know-nothings till I die, never earn enough to live on, buy a house, get married, raise a family, the good life. Otherwise, I got no choice, just nothing. Always someone else, they decide what you are, what you get, and what do you finish with? Huh? Nothing, Marek. Nothing! That’s me now, trapped. I want more.”

“You got it figured out, eh? You met any good officer yet?”

“It’s not being an officer matters. It’s the education to become one. Once I get that, I’ll find a way to live my dream.”

Marek laughed. “Live your dream? Good plan, Benes.” He inhaled and blew another smoke ring. “That’s my dream.”

Benes laughed. “What’s in this hut, Marek?”

“Door’s open. Go inside and meet your new friends for life, for as long as you last.”

Benes peeked through the open doorway. Inside, two rows of bunk beds with men sleeping or reclining, others at tables, playing cards or games, or in groups, talking, or staring into space.

Marek shoved Benes gently through the doorway, then whistled and slapped his hands together, alerting a few men. “This is Benes, the new guy.”

Most of the men ignored him. One laughed. Another said to speak softly, he had a hangover.

“Why are they in here during work hours?” Benes said.

Marek motioned him to follow to a game table with men at cards. “Ask them.”

“Why are you here?” Benes said to the men.

A small, bearded man raised his hand. “It is God’s will.”

“How do you know God’s in charge?”

“He talks to me,” the man answered. “We have long conversations about free will and the afterlife.”

“He’s crazy,” said a gray-haired man. “He believes God won’t let him fire weapons. Why is the new guy here?”

“Benes wants an education,” Marek said.

“That won’t help,” the gray-haired man said. “Revolution is the answer to all questions.”

Marek leaned close to Benes. “That’s Kovac. They sent him here for safe-keeping.”

Others volunteered the reasons for their presence: lost records, awaiting discharge or court martials for AWOL, disrespecting superior, disorderly conduct, alcohol abuse.

A grandfatherly man said he was a civilian, misidentified as a soldier charged with desertion. “They call me Kovac so many times I get confused. Now I answer to it because I must collect my pay to eat at mess hall.”

“Do you have amnesia?” Benes said.

“Me, or Kovac?”

“You’re both the same, aren’t you?”

“That’s MPD, multiple personality disorder. I’m not crazy.”

Marek grabbed Benes’ arm. “Don’t waste your time on him, Benes. His mind’s a swamp.”

Marek pointed at a man asleep on a bunk. “That’s Chmiel. “He’s been here for years and never speaks. He sleeps, wakes to eat, shit, and collect his pay, and then sleeps. If no one interferes, he’ll continue till he dies.”

Marek found Benes an empty bunk. “This one’s available. Consider it your home in this paradise.” He laughed, lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring, and left.

Benes roamed B35, observing and befriending sociable men. Most were like him but less ambitious. Scattered among them were jingoists, misfits, morons, criminals, zealots, and sociopaths.

Eventually he settled on his bunk, ignored his surroundings, and reflected. What he regretted most was succumbing to the recruiter’s invitation to apply for officer training. His bad judgment had thrust him into a hellish quandary and uncertain future. His error had been to believe he could wangle an education and escape paying the bill. He knew no one who had ever done such a thing. Believing he was capable of such a miracle because he was adept at multiple-choice tests had been foolish—idiotic, actually.

Now he was caught in the web of Army bureaucracy and soulless military drones. Stuck in a barrack of misfits, losers, fuckups, wackos, and Marek, an insane philosopher and smoke-ring master who claimed to understand the place.

On that, his first day in B35, nothing of consequence happened. At 11:30 hours, a horn blew throughout the camp, signaling lunch hour. Benes followed the others as they adjusted their uniforms and filed out of B35 and walked in disorderly fashion to the mess hall, filled their stainless steel trays from the counter, ate, and returned afterward to B35, where they resumed their meaningless existence. The meal routine repeated at 16:00 hours that evening and, again in the morning, Benes assumed, at 06:30, 11:30, and 16:00 as before, ad infinitum.

On Tuesday morning, after breakfast, a Corporal ordered Benes and two other men to board a mess hall truck and handed them over to Sgt. Zarins, the mess hall NCO, to work for him through Friday. Zarins questioned the men and assigned each to such jobs as food prep, cooking, cleaning, operating a dishwasher, and make-work drudgery polishing brass, cleaning condiment jars, labeling boxes, and so forth.

Benes quickly befriended his co-workers, Koppel and Tamm. The work was mind-numbingly simple, with ready access to foods, and ended each night at 21:00 hours, too late for an outdoor movie. The Enlisted Club was open until 02:00 so they all got drunk there before returning to B35, near midnight.

On Saturday, Benes collected his pay at HQ and took a bus to the village, a backward place with peasants, shacks, domestic animal transport, and a few battered Ladas. He walked by the lake, looking for attractive girls, but had no luck. He explored the village, and returned to post early. That night, he went to the Enlisted Club as usual. A weekend, there were more women, but it lacked young, attractive single girls and was overstocked with older ones willing to drink and dance with sexually-obsessed young men who paid for their drinks and what came afterward. Benes wondered where in this region would he find a suitable girl to spend his free time with.

That night, instead of getting drunk, he went to a movie at the outdoor theatre. As lonely as he was, he had hoped for a romance, but the powers that be selected violent, action-oriented movies with more gunshots and explosions than dialogue, and, as usual, Benes was disappointed as soon as the opening credits exploded on the screen.

And, so, back to the Enlisted Club, another beer, not to get drunk, but to meet people, talk, make the best of his situation with mostly drunk men who were funny, bitter, losers, smart, empty-headed, interesting, or whatever they were. They were more or less like him, not deep thinkers, but survivors, doing as well as they could. They could still become his friends. Why not?

The morning after his drunken insight, Benes went to HQ and discovered a Corporal named Saar sitting at Lt. Kral’s desk. He didn’t ask the Corporal why he was there because the Corporal outranked him and it was risky. Instead, he asked Saar to tell Lt. Kral that Pvt. Benes was present and would like to meet with him.

Cpl. Saar appeared annoyed. “Lt. Kral no longer works in this office. He’s been transferred.”

“Who took his place?” Benes said.

“No one yet,” Saar said. “Did you have business with him?”

“Yes, Corporal. He was handling my Officer Candidacy. Who’s responsible now that Lt. Kral’s gone?”

“No one here at Company. Those are handled at Battalion.”

“Could you possibly find out what happened to mine?”

“No point in that. It would be a waste of time.”

“But, Corporal Saar, sir. My entire career depends upon that application. Can’t you do something to help me?”

“For heaven’s sake, Benes. Don’t go all teary-eyed on me. Here’s what I’ll try to do in the next week or so. I’ll ask around and see if anyone remembers your application. If so, I’ll try to determine its status. Now, please stay away from here and don’t come back for a while.”

“A while?”

“That’s a long, long time.”

“Thank you very much, Cpl. Saar. I appreciate your help.”

“Of course, you do, Benes. Of course.”

Benes returned to B35. Everything was the same as a week ago, it seemed at first. The radio tuned to popular music, men asleep or loafing around, and nothing new happening as far as he could tell. He did notice that the posted roll call list contained four fewer names, now down from 28 to 24, and that two previously occupied bunks were now vacant, but that seemed reasonable, as men came and went over time.

The labor detail that week worked from 08:00 to 16:00 with a one-hour lunch break starting at noon. The men spent their time digging up earth, removing native plants and weeds, and planting ivy around the Company’s twelve huts. It was tedious, boring work, much of it done kneeling down on hands and knees. They took long breaks from time to time to relax. The Sergeant in charge spent all of his time in his Gaz-69, sleeping or drinking local potato vodka. After lunch, as he slept, the crews loafed. At 16:00 they went to the mess hall and then to B35. Benes hung around with friends, and later attended a violent outdoor action movie and then the Enlisted Club and got drunk.

The daily routine repeated more or less the same each day except on Fridays, when the men got paid. As a Reservist, Benes’s weekly allowance was 45 Leks, but he always received ten percent less from the disbursing officer, an ancient, corpulent Captain. When Benes complained, a friend said it was customary graft, that disbursing officers usually charged more, and ten percent was a bargain.

As his third week began, Benes considered checking in with Cpl. Saar. What would be the point, anyway? The past two weeks had made him aware how much he hated the Army. The prospect of becoming an officer had become less attractive. He still desired an education, but why surrender his life to the Army that disrespected and abused him at every opportunity?

He had changed, obviously, and now enjoyed the companionship of the other hapless slugs in B35. He’d grown accustomed to the mindless routine, every week some new shit task, no thinking required, was fed and paid, and otherwise left alone. Not altogether good or bad, but tolerable, and one could almost do it while sleeping, which some of the hapless slugs did. Benes smiled.

The following week, more news and less popular music came from the radio. Aserna’s Assembly House was bombed on Monday, killing several members and causing irreparable damage. An assassination attempt was made on President Gorka. The assailants—agents of neighboring country Hudarli—were quickly captured and executed. Hudarli was a small, neighboring country whose citizens had a similar culture and spoke the same language as citizens of Aserna. How logical was it for Hudarli to start a war with Aserna? It made more sense for Aserna to attack and annex Hudarli.

Following the news, rumors filled B35 and work areas. Some thought the bombing and unsuccessful assassination were false flag operations conducted by Aserna’s Security Service. Other possibilities were political enemies, militarists, and major powers.

The labor detail that week refurbished AKs and Mosin Nagant 7.6s, test fired them, and boxed them up for shipment. Workers cleaned up an ancient Maxim machine gun from the post’s museum and test fired it. Other workers collected lost and buried brass cartridge shells from a rifle range. Two men used mine detection equipment to locate and flag buried unexploded munitions on artillery practice target areas. Weekend leaves were cancelled and men worked extra hours all week. On Sunday afternoon, Benes noticed several empty bunks in B35 and roster count dropped from 24 to 20 men.

At the beginning of Benes’ fourth week, the men were ordered to the supply depot to receive new all-weather camouflage uniforms and refurbished AK rifles. As they stood in line, waiting to be issued clothing and weapons, they speculated among themselves why Aserna, their peaceful enclave, was acting generously for a change. No one had a plausible answer, the result being uncertainty and concern.

Meanwhile, the radio had stopped playing popular music. Now it was blasting marches, patriotic choruses, news of threats to Aserna, declaration of martial law, and rousing Gorka speeches.

Aserna’s Military was placed on alert, active-duty personnel were restricted to their posts until the state of emergency was lifted. Rumors circulated that war was imminent and everyone in B35 would be sent to the front lines. When Reserves were activated, Benes realized his six-month Reserve enlistment was moot, and extended indefinitely. He began to consider going AWOL or finding a quick and painless way to commit suicide.

The labor details continued refurbishing, testing, and shipping weapons and locating unexploded munitions from artillery ranges. No leaves and long working hours were the new rule. Benes noticed more empty bunks. Now down to fifteen men, five more apparently lost; AWOLs? Arrested? Were men being sent away? Running away? Where were they disappearing to?

At the start of Benes’s fifth week, Cpl. Saar called him to HQ. What a surprise! He rushed there, wondering if his Officer Training application had come back to life. He wished now he had never submitted it. Officer material? He laughed now at his stupidity.

Cpl. Saar handed Benes an envelope and said he had been promoted to Corporal. Dumbfounded, Benes opened the envelope, read the official letter, making promotion official. “What now?”

“You’ll soon see, Cpl. Benes.” Saar stood, clicked his heels, and extended his hand. Benes shook it, soft and cold.

He returned to B35. The radio was playing its usual recent stuff—marches, patriotic choruses, Gorka speeches, news of threats, emergencies, martial law, military alertness, military callups and restrictions. No popular music.

Fearing possible reactions, Benes kept his promotion secret. It might be interpreted as collusion with the officers, the tyrants in power. One did not get promoted for good work, good deeds, wisdom, or positive attributes. What mattered was usefulness to those at the top, who loved and possessed power and always wanted more. 

Later that morning, an order came down to all men in B35 to pack up and board trucks to “The Front,” wherever that was. It specified that Cpl. Benes was to report to Lt. Kral upon arrival.

Benes packed up, boarded a truck, and traveled eight hours on poor roads. The destination was a military post on Aserna’s side of the border with Hudarli. Both sides looked identical.

Upon arrival, Benes went to the Division HQ building and asked the sergeant at the desk for directions. The sergeant inside informed him that Lt. Kral was no longer present and Captain Mauer had taken his place. Benes soon found himself sitting across another battered metal steel desk from another intimidating leader, a large man in his fifties with watery eyes who, based on the number of butts in his enormous ashtray and his reeking whiskey odor, was a chain-smoking alcoholic with not many years left on his meter.

“Corporal Benes, reporting as ordered, sir,” Benes said.

“Welcome aboard, Benes,” Mauer said in the voice of a strangling man. How’re you feeling on the verge of our historical mission?”

“I’m fine, sir. I have a few questions. Do you mind, sir?”

“Do I mind? Why would I mind? It’s not as if I don’t have time for a little chitchat before we all go to war with those evildoers across the border.” Mauer grabbed a canteen, refreshed his palate, and stared at Benes.

“I was supposed to report to Lt. Kral, sir. I wanted to thank him.”

“I’m sure he deserved it, Benes. Running off as he did, before the first shot was fired, was a big favor to all of us. Some might call it cowardice. Wiser men would say it was sound judgment. Anything else, Benes?”

“The mission, sir. We left camp in a big hurry, and no one there explained what the mission was, exactly. All we got beforehand were hints, you know, from listening to the radio about the Assembly bombing and the assassination attempt, and then cleaning up all those old Kalashnikovs that were in storage. And rumors, of course, but you can never trust rumors.”

“Rumors of war you can sometimes trust, Benes.”

“Sir . . . are you saying . . .”

“Our mission is to cross the border and occupy Hudarli.”

“Ah, sir. I see. That’s good to know. Very helpful indeed. It sounds simple. Just walk across and set up camp on the other side?”

Mauer laughed. “Very funny, Benes. No, not quite. Tomorrow morning, we will conduct a surprise attack. First, the artillery to soften up the enemy. Then the infantry, of which you are a part, will cross the border, meet with and overcome the enemy, overwhelming them with our superior numbers and fighting skills. We will take no prisoners! Absolutely none. We will treat any Hudarli in the designated attack zones as enemy combatants and treat them accordingly. In short, we will overcome, defeat, and occupy Hudarli, and make their land ours.” Mauer paused. “Why are you staring at me that way, Benes?”

“It’s a lot to comprehend, sir.”

 “I’ll give you several reasons. Duty. Patriotism. To serve your country, for Aserna’s benefit, to defeat evil, protect our way of life, to bring peace to the troubled, misruled nation of Hudarli. Are those reasons enough?”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that. Very encouraging. You’ll have to keep those things in mind tomorrow morning after the artillery finishes shelling Hudarli and the horn blows to cross the border, and you, as their leader, a young Lieutenant, lead them across to charge, overwhelm, and conquer the enemy.”

“I’m a Corporal, sir.”

“We’re short of Lieutenants, Benes. Consider yourself promoted. Make the most of it in the hours you have left.”





Henry Simpson is the author of several novels, short stories, and works of nonfiction on technical subjects. He studied engineering, did graduate work in English and Psychology, and holds a PhD from UC Santa Barbara. He lives in Monterey, California.

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