Mr. Jeffries’ Retirement Part 2: Coffee Break

Trying to take a piss around armour and padding is a pain in the ass, I reminded myself. Again. 

I zipped up, and then started buckling up. Two of the guys were replacing a flat on the truck. Ironically we got the flat on the road, and not back in town when the locals opened up on us. Mr. Jeffries sat in the truck glaring angrily at us and everything else. You could feel the heat radiating off him. The Seargent ambled over looking all about as he walked. The terrain was bald ass flat, so we felt secure enough for a quick tire change and a break. Our bush radars were in agreement, nothing was going to creep up on us; there were no threats within striking distance. “Cigar, Seargent?” I offered. He nodded gratefully and I set him up and gave him a light. I twisted my own arm and lit one up too. I sighed…and then frowned. I really, REALLY didn’t want to. But… “Wanna cigar, Manky?” I called up to the man in the turret. It spun around with the big .50 pointed safely up. “Anyone that sucks on those things probably sucks cock as well,” he said. I tried not to smile. The privates on the tire took the last two stogies. I passed them over with my lighter and told them to finish with the tire change first. They were both too young to smoke and appreciate gaggers like these… but I had no choice. Ya lead from the front, everybody pulls their weight, nobody shirks. Most times, getting the best from your people is only a matter of treating them right.

The Seargent was unhappy with the day’s proceedings.. “Goddamn, sir… gawd, I HATE this..” I smoked in silence, trying to just savour my stoagie. I knew he was going to say it. He was Going To Go There. “The last guys that did shit like this wore swastikas on their arms…”

“Really? Are you really going to go there, Seargent?” Stuff like that just pissed me right off. “First - you KNOW where Mr. Jeffries is going. You and your boys spent the last week setting up the arena for him and the displaced seniors. He’s going to get a shower - and the smelly old bastard seriously needs one - he’s going to get poked and prodded by the doctors, and then turned out with his friends and other people his age. He can drink coffee and play cards with the other geezers, he can play shuffleboard or do lawn bowling out front. He’ll have nurses and attendants to keep an eye on him. If he gets sick they’ll treat him…without him having to wait his turn in some choked ER ward behind black welfare slobs and freeloading illegals!” I knew I was beginning to rant but continued on anyways. “The blacks chose this. They want their own govt, their own territories and now they have them. There’ll be no more race baiting, no more reparations, no more endless welfare, no more black predation or attacks on whites. This segregation is THEIR idea!” I bit down on the rest. I’d be ranting and foaming if I let my mouth run away with me. The Seargent carefully avoided  looking at me, no doubt biting his own tongue. “I really don’t feel like goose stepping today, Seargent. Could you have the boys break out the thermoses? Think we have time for a coffee too?”  He nodded curtly and turned away.

“I’m sorry, Seargent… but I fear I don’t like this business either…”

****

I almost spilled my coffee when the truck radio barked. “Splash Two?” The volume was high and the voice was canned and reverberated jarring ly around the truck. “Hot Foot this is Splash Two Actual, go ahead,” I grimaced as I turned down the volume. “Splash Two, authenticate ID, advise exfil status and ETA!”

Somebody’s got a bee up their arse, I thought. “There was no password given when we left! How about this, Hot Foot: the chair is against the wall! The bear is a catholic! The pope shits in the woods -“

“That’s ENOUGH, Splash Two! Captain, do you know who this is?” A new voice came on and I’d recognize the General’s voice anywhere. I charged ahead with my report, hoping it might distract him from tearing me a new one for insubordination. “Splash Two is three or four mikes out of town. We’re changing a flat on the truck. ETA 30 to 45. We have the package we came for-“

“Listen to me carefully Splash Two. There’s no time. Get yourself under cover! NOW! Find a hole, get in, and pull it in after you. Do it NOW!” The men were already running for the ditch and trying to look around without exposing themselves. “Heads down, fellas!, Roger that Hot Foot!” I said. I piled into the ditch too… But all was silent.

But then…it started as a small hiss. Growing rapidly in volume. Impossibly loud. A roar so loud, you felt it reverberate in your chest. Jet engines possibly on afterburners, heading right for us. Impossible to tell from which direction; the sound seemed to come from all around us. Then, they flashed overhead. Cruise missiles, not more that 50 feet off the deck. Almost instantaneously they were gone.  The impact came less than a minute later. From the city we just left. We could see the shockwave coming and were flat on the ground when it rolled over us. Debris, gravel and dust scoured us, propelled on a hot man-made gale. The noise was deafening. Several more missiles slammed into the city, and some of the bigger buildings went over and collapsed.

“Here it comes again! Everyone DOWN!” the Seargent shouted. The dust was choking and dimmed the sun. Again the shockwaves rolled over us. “Holy shit! Mr. Jeffries! Gawddammit!” I cursed. I got up, staggered back to the truck…and dragged the old man out. I brutally ripped the duct tape off his mouth and he began to cough and wheeze…

“Everybody alright?” the Seargent asked. He got a variety of groans and curses by way of reply as the men started to get up. I pushed a canteen into Mr. Jeffries’ hand, but he had the thousand yard stare on at the former city 10,000 yards away. “My home…” he croaked. “My life, my memories, my stuff… all…gone..”

“Have some water, Mr. Jeffries,” I said. The Seargent was looking over the boys and then announced, “Let’s pack it up and move, ladies! Let’s get back home and have some chow! HUSTLE!!!” Then he comically picked up the mushed stub of his cigar, regarding it sadly. I laughed as he pitched it away in disgust. “Well, Cap…we just blew up a small city full of niggers. I think we’ll all be doing some goose stepping today after all…”

“Good lord,” I thought. “What will happen to us now?” What kind of people do stuff like this? And how had I become one of them?