Carl Levitian
member
He ran with the fear churning his stomach, as he fled the group of young men from the bar. The young soldier had just wanted to buy a beer and relax, on one of his first weekends off post. Going through his AIT at Ft. Leonard Wood Missouri, he'd worked hard, and his platoon sargent had given him an off post pass.
He'd wandered into the wrong bar in the small town of Waynesville, just outside of post, and trouble had started before he finished his first and only beer. A big redneck type had come up and into his face, asking if he thought he was something special. Insults followed, and the young soldier tried to walk away. A fist almost conected, but for the quick reactions of the sober young troop, and he hit back hard. The bar tough went down, and the rest of his bunch crowded forward.
"Get him!" somebody yelled.
" Stomp his army ass!" yelled another voice.
The soldier didn't waste any time in dumping a table over in the way of his attackers, and hit the door running. After 8 weeks of boot camp, and another 4 of AIT, he was in the best shape of his almost 20 years of life. He covered the length of the street before most of the bar room bullies had made it to the door. They yelled and the soldier heard car motors starting up and comming his way. Turning down a side street, he saw a wooded hill side and made for it. Loud V8 engines sounded close, and the he saw the glare of headlights comming up behind him, but he made the woods just ahead of his pursuers. Pushing into the thick underbrush, he made his way into the woods. Behind him he could hear voices. Yellow beams of flashlights probed the woods.
"Ya see anything Bobby?" a voice called.
"Over this way, theres some branches moving!"
The young soldier knew he was on unfamiliar ground, and then he started getting mad. All he wanted was a beer and maybe a game of pool. How was he supposed to know they didn't like GI's in that place. Outnumberd, and not knowing where he was, he knew he had to take some action.
The soldier was a city boy, from the Big Apple, New York city. He thought he'd show these country bumkins what a Central Park bushwack was. Feeling around in the dark, he took out his Case pocket knife and started notching away at the base of a small sapling that felt the right diameter. He had no way of knowing it was a young hickory tree, being a city boy and not knowing what tree was which. Not that it mattered in the dark. The voices grew closer as he worked.
"Come on GI, maybe we won't f--k you up too bad. Maybe we can just fine ya. " laughter followed.
"Yeah, how much money ya got soldier boy?" another called.
He was through the base of the sappling and then he trimed off the top. What he now had, while crouching in the dark was a length of hickory about an inch in diameter and as long as his forarm, elbow to finger tips. Just what he wanted. He had grown up in a not to good part of town, and defending himself was nothing new. His uncle, a street wise city worker, had shown him what a 2 foot section of mop or broom handle could do.
The flashlights were very close now, and he waited on the other side of a large tree. Now one of them was walking by, looking where his flashlight lit up a cone of yellow light. He never saw the shadow step from behind the tree, only felt a painfull impact on his hand holding the lite. The heavy green hickory broke some of the small bones of the hand, letting the soldier feel a satisfying crunch.
The fat bar bum screamed in pain for a second, but the sound was cut off as the stick landed alongside his head. The soldier quickly went through the jacket pockets, and found what he was looking for in a few seconds.
"What the hell was that!" somebody yelled
"Jimmy? Jimmy! He must have got Jimmy! Kill the puke!" another yelled.
"You're dead meat soldier boy" came another voice.
The soldier slinked off in the dark, and when another flashlight came his way, he struck just as quickly. This time he used the end of the stick, driving into the stomach of the his enemy and knocking the wind out of him, and then striking the side of his head as he doubled over. He ran off in the dark, making his way back toward the road.
The flashlights were still probing the woods when he made it to the Chevy Super Sport Nova parked with the lights shinning into the woods. Taking a quick gamble, he jumped in and found the car keys he had taken from the fat bully were GM pattern keys. They fit the ignition perfectly.
The 327 fired right up with a nice throaty bellow, and he backed up to give himself room to turn around, sped off laughing at the idiots chasing him in the woods. It was a nice car, and he drove it back to just a hundred yards short of the Ft. Leonard Wood gates. Parking it on the shoulder of the road, he got out and tossed the keys off in the brush, and walked back onto home ground. Catching a post bus back to his barracks in the engineer training area, he went up to the day room.
"Back so soon?" asked a friend. Frankie Neoletti was from New Jersey, and the two had become buddies.
"Yeah, Waynesville wasn't all that great. What are ya playin, 8 ball?" the soldier asked his friend standing by the pool table
"Yeah, you in?" asked Frankie, laying down a dollar bill on the table edge.
"Yeah, you're on." and the soldier layed a dollar out and chalked a que.
"Okay, you're dead meat now." joked Frankie, who was one of the top 8 ball players in the platoon.
Yeah, people keep telling me that." said the young soldier, "Rack em up!"
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The above is a work of fiction. Any resembalence to persons living or dead is coincidence. Really!
He'd wandered into the wrong bar in the small town of Waynesville, just outside of post, and trouble had started before he finished his first and only beer. A big redneck type had come up and into his face, asking if he thought he was something special. Insults followed, and the young soldier tried to walk away. A fist almost conected, but for the quick reactions of the sober young troop, and he hit back hard. The bar tough went down, and the rest of his bunch crowded forward.
"Get him!" somebody yelled.
" Stomp his army ass!" yelled another voice.
The soldier didn't waste any time in dumping a table over in the way of his attackers, and hit the door running. After 8 weeks of boot camp, and another 4 of AIT, he was in the best shape of his almost 20 years of life. He covered the length of the street before most of the bar room bullies had made it to the door. They yelled and the soldier heard car motors starting up and comming his way. Turning down a side street, he saw a wooded hill side and made for it. Loud V8 engines sounded close, and the he saw the glare of headlights comming up behind him, but he made the woods just ahead of his pursuers. Pushing into the thick underbrush, he made his way into the woods. Behind him he could hear voices. Yellow beams of flashlights probed the woods.
"Ya see anything Bobby?" a voice called.
"Over this way, theres some branches moving!"
The young soldier knew he was on unfamiliar ground, and then he started getting mad. All he wanted was a beer and maybe a game of pool. How was he supposed to know they didn't like GI's in that place. Outnumberd, and not knowing where he was, he knew he had to take some action.
The soldier was a city boy, from the Big Apple, New York city. He thought he'd show these country bumkins what a Central Park bushwack was. Feeling around in the dark, he took out his Case pocket knife and started notching away at the base of a small sapling that felt the right diameter. He had no way of knowing it was a young hickory tree, being a city boy and not knowing what tree was which. Not that it mattered in the dark. The voices grew closer as he worked.
"Come on GI, maybe we won't f--k you up too bad. Maybe we can just fine ya. " laughter followed.
"Yeah, how much money ya got soldier boy?" another called.
He was through the base of the sappling and then he trimed off the top. What he now had, while crouching in the dark was a length of hickory about an inch in diameter and as long as his forarm, elbow to finger tips. Just what he wanted. He had grown up in a not to good part of town, and defending himself was nothing new. His uncle, a street wise city worker, had shown him what a 2 foot section of mop or broom handle could do.
The flashlights were very close now, and he waited on the other side of a large tree. Now one of them was walking by, looking where his flashlight lit up a cone of yellow light. He never saw the shadow step from behind the tree, only felt a painfull impact on his hand holding the lite. The heavy green hickory broke some of the small bones of the hand, letting the soldier feel a satisfying crunch.
The fat bar bum screamed in pain for a second, but the sound was cut off as the stick landed alongside his head. The soldier quickly went through the jacket pockets, and found what he was looking for in a few seconds.
"What the hell was that!" somebody yelled
"Jimmy? Jimmy! He must have got Jimmy! Kill the puke!" another yelled.
"You're dead meat soldier boy" came another voice.
The soldier slinked off in the dark, and when another flashlight came his way, he struck just as quickly. This time he used the end of the stick, driving into the stomach of the his enemy and knocking the wind out of him, and then striking the side of his head as he doubled over. He ran off in the dark, making his way back toward the road.
The flashlights were still probing the woods when he made it to the Chevy Super Sport Nova parked with the lights shinning into the woods. Taking a quick gamble, he jumped in and found the car keys he had taken from the fat bully were GM pattern keys. They fit the ignition perfectly.
The 327 fired right up with a nice throaty bellow, and he backed up to give himself room to turn around, sped off laughing at the idiots chasing him in the woods. It was a nice car, and he drove it back to just a hundred yards short of the Ft. Leonard Wood gates. Parking it on the shoulder of the road, he got out and tossed the keys off in the brush, and walked back onto home ground. Catching a post bus back to his barracks in the engineer training area, he went up to the day room.
"Back so soon?" asked a friend. Frankie Neoletti was from New Jersey, and the two had become buddies.
"Yeah, Waynesville wasn't all that great. What are ya playin, 8 ball?" the soldier asked his friend standing by the pool table
"Yeah, you in?" asked Frankie, laying down a dollar bill on the table edge.
"Yeah, you're on." and the soldier layed a dollar out and chalked a que.
"Okay, you're dead meat now." joked Frankie, who was one of the top 8 ball players in the platoon.
Yeah, people keep telling me that." said the young soldier, "Rack em up!"
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The above is a work of fiction. Any resembalence to persons living or dead is coincidence. Really!
