The Old Man.
The old man watched as the young men, looking war like in their cammo’s left to join their militia
units. He had been too old to fight in the last war and did not even bother trying to join for this
one. He envied the young, with their strong bodies, their enthusiasm and energy.
Slowly he walked back to his small house. He lived alone now. His wife had died several years’ back and
his children were too busy making money to bother to visit more than once or twice a year. The old man took off his “city” clothes and neatly folded them. The he took out some well-worn pants
and shirt that were more suitable for the woods and indeed had spent many days and nights there.
Last he put on his old field boots and was pleased with how they felt after not being worn for so
long. On his belt he placed his hunting knife and canteen. Going to the closet he took out his rifle
with loving hands. He removed the bolt and inspected the bore, knowing that it would be
perfectly clean and shiny. Replacing the bolt he gathered the rounds from several boxes of his
hand loaded ammunition and put them in his pockets. He checked the scope mounts to be sure
they were tight and put his hat on his head. In a small rucksack he put several sandwiches, that he had previously made. Now he was ready.
He left the house by the back door and walked across a
neighbor’s field. He simply could not stand having the people of the town make jokes about him.
They would yell out and ask if he was going off to the war, then they would laugh. He left by the
back door.
After walking for three hours at a steady, but not stressful pace, the old man found what he was
looking for. The road crossed a narrow bridge about 500 yards from the forest at that point. It
was this road that the militia had taken to engage the enemy and it was this road they planned to
march back in triumph. In time the old man found a large oak tree that he could, with difficulty climb. Tying his rifle to a long rope, he worked his was up the tree, until he found a decent place to sit. He could see the bridge clearly from his seat in the tree. He carefully drew his rifle into the tree and used a short section of rope to secure it to the tree, while he used another section to tie himself to the main trunk of the tree. He would hate to fall asleep and fall out of the tree.
He slowly nibbled his lunch and took sips of his water. Once or twice he dosed off, but the rope held both him and his beloved rifle safely in the tree. The sound of far off gunfire jarred him awake.
A few men in cammo’s came walking across the bridge. They did not march, but walked at a fast pace, occasionally glancing over their shoulders as they moved. The old man took out his knarled
pipe and filled it. He took a match from his waterproof holder and struck it with his thumbnail and lit his pipe. As he smoked he watched the direction the smoke drifted and how fast it moved.
Soon the knowledge of wind direction would be important. He also liked smoking his pipe.
As he waited his mind wandered. He found himself thinking more of the past these days. He thought of his wife and the things they had done together. At times the memories seemed more real than the present. They had their little sayings that meant a great deal to them, but would mean little to others. Both having grown up watching “The Wonderful World of Disney”, they had often used words or phrases from their child hood. One such phrase was from the Davy Crockett Series. As Crockett’s friend was dying at the Alamo, he said to Davy Crockett “ Give them what for Davy”.
From her deathbed, his wife had looked him in the eye and said “ Give them what for Davy”.
That was why an old man was sitting in a tree on a warm summer afternoon, instead of puttering in his garden and waiting to die, like a civilized gentleman.
Now more men were coming across the bridge. Some were wounded, many had no weapons. It would not be too long now the old man thought. He untied his rifle from the tree and retied it so that if he dropped it, the rope would prevent it’s falling to the ground. The old man doubted that he had the strength to climb down and back up again.
Now several vehicles were crossing the bridge. Many times they seemed to take little notice of the men struggling along on foot and the men had to either get out of the way or be run down. The old man loaded the magazine of his rifle. He emptied the ashes from his pipe, refilled it, but waited to light it. Now the sounds of fighting were much closer. A large number of men came down the road. Many did not even try to ross the congested bridge, but swam or waded across the stream to the other side. Several officers were trying to organize some resistance along the stream, with limited success.Some of the patriots were digging fighting holes near the stream, while others were dragging logs, rocks and anything else they could find to make barricades. The route of men became a
trickle and then stopped. There was a time of quite while the road remained empty. Then came
the vehicles of the enemy, supported by large numbers on men on foot. The old man sighed. The young always expect things to he easy and glorious. To them war is a wonderful game. The old
knew better. That is why they choose the young to be soldiers instead of the old, but choose the older to be generals.
The old man now lit his pipe and took up his rifle. The fighting was fierce and brutal along the stream, but in the end the patriots, under cover of a rear guard, had to give ground. As the first of he enemy’s vehicles drove onto the bridge the old man’s rifle spoke and a hole appeared in the
driver’s forehead. The vehicle swerved into the bridge railing and came up on two wheels before topping. For now the bridge was blocked. Some men came up to try to move the vehicle, but as
they reached the doors they died. The bullets that killed them came from a weapon that had been outdated for three wars. Other drivers died in their vehicles, until none would sit behind the steering wheels. It was of course only a matter of time before they enemy figured out where the old man was and once they did a hail of bullets cut leaves around him. Still he smoked his pipe, reloaded and fired his rifle.
Suddenly a bullet hit the old man low in the abdomen. The pain and shock was so great that he almost dropped his rifle. He let the pipe fall from his mouth and clenched his teeth. “Give them what for Davy”. He muttered under his breath and drew the rifle
to his shoulder again. Two more accurate rounds he fired that day and two more of the enemy died.
Then the old man found that he was very tired and the rifle slipped from his hands to hang within reach on the rope.
The old man found himself standing in a green field and his wife was there with him. They were no longer old, but stood in the splendor of their youth. He took her in his arms and she said “ Good job Davy” and they walked away together.
The militia regrouped and with the aid of some of the National Guard was able to drive back the enemy advance. No one would ever know who the patriot that had held the bridge with such
accurate sniper fire was. The town’s people assumed the old man had wandered off in the woods as was his habit, and died there. The local sheriff, himself an ex-marine, seeing the
Spotless dress uniforms hanging the closet and the empty ammo boxes was not so sure.
It did not matter. What mattered was that the old man had been in the right place and at the right time and done what he knew he had to do. He would not be lacking for brothers among the unsung heroes in heaven.
This was written 2 years ago for another forum's group story, based on the US having been invaded by UN troops. This is a true story. It actually happened five years in the future.
The Battle of Jackson Creek
Spring had come and with the warmer weather the trees had leafed out. Dogwoods added their beauty to the Northern Arkansas landscape. Despite the worsening conditions in the country many had still came to the Missouri boarder for their spring civil war re-enactment. True, this time they had to ask permission from the authorities, but after several delays it had been granted.
It was the usual three-day event, with many arriving on Friday and planning to stay until Sunday afternoon. There was much talk about the situation in the country and several people were noticeably absent, perhaps having joined the local militias, but most of the people were history buffs and thought that the currant problems would pass. They had been often reassured of this by the media and the President herself had promised that as soon as the terrorists were rounded up marital law would be ended and life would return to normal. Because people tend to believe what they want to hear, they had believed.
The reenactment seemed almost normal, except for the absence of many of the families and children that usually made up the spectators at the event. Early Saturday the local TV news had shown up to cover the event, but had left after getting their story. While there were fewer dealers in Civil war gear than usual, there were still several present. Shortly after noon they were preparing for their first skirmish when a truck came driving up, much too fast, and skidded to a stop. Tom Claybern jumped out of his truck and began yelling for attention. “The local Militia is in big trouble!” he shouted. “ The UN troops have them cornered about five miles from here and are trying to wipe them out.” Silence gripped the assembly and then everybody tried to speak at once. They all wanted to know what was happening, where and why. “I don’t have all the particulars. All I know is that the UN has run them to Jackson creek and unless they get some help damn quick they will be killed.” Tom answered. “What are we supposed to do about it.” Ask Steve Myrick. “It is not our problem. If they had not joined up with the terrorists they would not be in that mess.”. Many of the men nodded in agreement. Others felt differently and argument soon broke out. Tom was only able to get their attention by firing his .45 into the air. “I don’t care what you have been told, the militia are fighting for America and they are our friends and neighbors. “. Steve Myrick cut him off before he could say more. “I am not going to get my tail shot off because of a few hot heads.” He screamed. “We aren’t involved in this and I for one am going to keep it that way.” Steve shut up when Lionel Smith moved closer to him and put his hand on his belt knife. “You better shut you big trap Steve and let Tom say his piece.”. Although Steve was known to be something of a local bully, something in Lionel’s voice made him shut up. Lionel spoke in a clear voice for all to hear. “I say we listen to what Tom has to say”. “There is help on the way from Missouri, but they can’t get here in time. I am here to ask for volunteers to help hold off the UN troops until the Missouri Militias arrive.” Tom said. More arguments broke out, led by Steve Myrick and others that wanted nothing to do with any of this business. Two men, one actually only a boy of sixteen, quietly left the group and returned with both the Confederate battle flag and the union flag. They drove the staffs into the ground in front of the assembled men. They both stepped back and with their hands over their hearts began to Speak in a loud voice. “ I pledge allegiance to the flag, and to the republic for which it stands….” Others began to recite the pledge of allegiance and soon all other voices were drowned out. Silence gripped the assembly as they finished. A voice came from the back of the crowd “ Alright Tom. What is it you want anyway?” “There is very little time. If those men don’t get help soon it will all be over.” Tom said. Steve Myrick walked toward his car. “I am not having any more to do with this damn foolishness. Any of you with the sense God gave a goose will leave too.” His sentiments were echoed by many that began to gather their belongings and leave. “Many of you must have guns stashed. How fast can you go get them?” Tom asked. While many did indeed still have firearms, few lived close enough to get them and be back in time to help. “We can’t do anything without guns”, more than one man cried. As a sense of despair and hopelessness gripped the remaining men, the Chaplain stepped forwards. He lifted a musket over his head and cried, “ What do you call these?” “You can’t be serious.” Tom said. “We need men with weapons, not toys.” “Seems to me that three hundred thousand dead Yankees founds these to be more than Toys.” Lionel answered. The men looked at one another, not sure that they were really hearing this. “Do you mean you want us to take on UN troops, armed with automatic weapons, and us with muskets? Are you crazy?” Someone cried. “Tom says if some help doesn’t come real soon, our friends and neighbors won’t have a chance. You all have seen what these old guns can do on the range. Anybody got any better ideas, then let’s hear them.” Lionel answered. “We got our two cannons!” shouted one of the men. Many admitted that they wanted to help, but felt the situation was hopeless. “Not so!” Said lionel. “I have hunted coon all over these woods. I know the area around Jackson creek like the back of my hand. There is a steep hill on this side of That creek, with lots of big rock outcroppings for good cover. We would be able to give covering fire from there and if things went bad, we could retreat back to our vehicles and get away from there.” Tom considered the options and found none. “What about ammunition? Firing blanks is not going to do any good.” He said. “How about it? How many have minni balls with you?” lionel asked. Most admitted that they did, but were still not at all committed. Captain Johnson stepped forwarded to join the chaplain and Lionel in front of the assembly “ I am going. This is my country and those are my neighbors.” He said. A few more came forward to stand with them. Tom took a deep breath. This was not at all what he had hoped for, but it had been a long shot at the best. “OK. I am again asking for volunteers. We will have to make do with what we have. We don’t have to beat the UN troops. Just buy time for reinforcements to arrive.” He said. Many of the men were not willing to go and none could blame them. Many claimed that they would come back with their rifles as soon as they could and prepared to leave. “Wait! If you have any bullets, give them to those who are willing to go.” Lionel said. The dealers were soon stripped of powder, caps and all the minni balls they had in stock. Men began loading the cannons on their trailers and those that lived close enough left to get weapons. Captain Johnson assembled the men. Out of close to five hundred, only one hundred and eight nine were willing to fight. “I have a couple of stops to make in town. Got to get feed for these cannons.” Ken Warner said. Lionel drew him a quick map of the shortest way to where the militia was fighting. “We will tie some white rags to mark the turns, so you don’t get lost.” He said. With that men piled into cars and pick up trucks and headed off. Lionel took them the most direct route, which ended up being several little used dirt roads and finally across a grown over field. They stopped when they came a barbed wire fence. “ Jackson creek is right ahead” he said. They could hear the sound of gunshots as they unloaded from the vehicles. The fence was cut in two sections so that they could move quickly through. “We will have to work our way to the right, along the top of the bluffs, so we are above the fighting.” Lionel told them.
Ken Warner, True to his word, stopped first at the hardware store and bought several pounds of inch and larger nuts, and some tin snips. Then he stopped at the grocery store and bought two cases of cans of fruit, after first measuring the can size against the size of the cannon barrel. He remembered to buy a can opener at the last second. “Are we going to shoot peaches the them?” one of his friends asked. “You will see.” Ken told him. “Start opening these cans and dumping them out as we drive.”
Before the civil war re-enactors now turned patriots moved out, Tom addressed the assembled men. ‘”Lionel reports that we need to go about 400 yards to the right before we start down the hill. Our job is simply to give the militias coming down from Missouri time to get here. Move down the hill until you find good cover and stop there. Don’t open fire until everybody is behind cover. Then just do your best. Stay behind cover. Take a fast shot, but aim if you have time.” He said. Now that he had brought these men, some of them still very young, here Tom was having second thoughts. What could they really expect to accomplish, armed as they were? By asking them to volunteer, was he simply adding to the number that would die this day? It was too late to turn back now at any rate. A man and a young boy came forward with the flags. They had furled them and brought them in one of the trucks. Now they wanted to know if they should display them. Tom was speechless. This was not a parade, not some re-enactment! People would die here! “Damn it. This whole operation was screwy from the start. Why not.” Tom thought. Besides it might keep up moral. “Ok. We will fly both flags. Lets let the S.O.B’s know who they are fighting!” Tom exclaimed. “You two wait with me until everybody is behind cover. We will find a place with cover where you can post the flags. Keep them furled until I tell you to display them. Everybody, hold your fire until you see the flags unfurled. That will be the signal that everybody is behind cover, and you can begin firing” Tom said. Lionel, having returned from a quick scouting mission, led the way along the top of the hill. When they were above the sounds of fighting he showed them several ways that had good cover down the hill.
Below, Major Starken watched from what he presumed was a safe distance to the rear of the fighting. One of his aids saw the movement on the hilltop and brought it to the Major’s attention. “Sir. There are men moving down the hilltop. Shall we fire on them?” he asked. Starken studied the hilltop through his field glasses. “You fool! Some of those men are wearing blue beanies . Give the order not to fire.” He said. “That’s all I need, to fire on other UN troops.” He thought. The major was a careful man and had only made one small mistake, in taking the blue caps the union re-enactors wore for UN beanies. A very small and logical mistake, but a mistake none the less. The Major did not recognize the uniforms the men on the hill were wearing, but this whole UN mission had been one big snafu after another. “With all the mismanagement, it is not surprising that we don’t all have matching uniforms.” He thought. “Maybe they are some special unit, that I was not informed about.” It did not matter. Soon they would be in place and they would have the terrorists trapped in a deadly crossfire and could wrap this whole thing up quickly. The major was looking forwards to getting back to barracks quickly. He had a new captured American female being held there, awaiting his attentions. It was too bad that so few of them survived even one night, he thought.
Ken Warner and his gun crew had reached the end of the field where the vehicles had been left. Of course nobody had thought of their needing to unload the cannons and vehicles blocked the direct route to the cut fence. While the first cannon was being taken off it’s trailer, Ken went ahead to check the route. What he saw did not please him. There was room enough along the top of the hill, but the path was blocked with many small trees. They would have to cut a road to get the cannons to the spot above the fighting. Ken hurried back and told his crew to not bother offloading the second gun. They searched the vehicles for tools and came up with a hatchet and, Thank God, an axe. They began cutting trees and, by working together, dragging one cannon towards the sound of fighting. “Damn!” thought Ken as he strained to move the heavy cannon forwards another few feet. “Just plain Damn”.
Tom watched as the men moved down the hill, trying to stay out of sight, but having to cross open areas to reach the rock outcroppings. The process seemed to take forever. “They are bound to see us sooner or later,” he thought, not knowing that God watches over fools and heroes. The two often being the same. Finally all the men were behind solid cover and Tom moved forwards with young Jeremy and the other man, who he realized he did not even know his name. They found a suitable spot. Slightly further down the hill from most of the men and he gave the order to display the flags. The Stars and Bars flew along side “old Glory” and the first shot was fired. The volunteers had joined the battle of Jackson creek.
Being busy with their own battle, the patriots had not seen the men working their way part way down the hill behind them. At first they thought they had been caught in a trap, with enemies both in front and behind them. There was a moment of panic, before some of them spotted the flags flying on the hill. Mistaking the re-enactors for the reinforcements they had been expecting a cheer went up along the Patriot line.
To some of the UN troops the flashes from the black powder guns looked like flowers of fire suddenly blooming on the hillside. First a few, then more until the sound of gunfire became one continuous roar. It was not until rounds began hitting around them that the UN troops realized they were under fire from the hillside. The hillside grew quite as men reloaded. Having practiced loading their muskets, and using pre-measured powder charges and the Minni ball that required no patching, most of the men could reload and fire an aimed shot every twenty seconds. Some could do it in half that time. While no match for modern weapons, the muskets were extremely accurate weapons for their time. It was said that the original muskets could knock a man off a horse out to six hundred yards, and the distance they were now shooting was half that.
The major watched in amazement as the men on the hillside began shooting at HIS OWN MEN! They had been unable to make radio contact with what he believed was more UN troops and now he understood why. “Give the order to fire on the hillside! You idiot!” he roared to his aid. Now the mystery troops seemed to be laying down a gray smoke screen that covered the hillside, but the major could not conceive why they would be doing that, unless it were to cover an advance. Automatic weapon fire raked the hillside. Bullets glanced off rocks and kicked up dry leaves. Leaves rained down on the men from above as bullets cut through the trees. In the gray haze, caused by the firing of the black powder rifles, screams were heard as men who had came only to re-enact a war found themselves dying in a real one. The men huddled behind their cover, fearful to expose themselves to the terrible fire. And then it started. Somewhere along that line of terrified men, a sound started and it swelled. The sound seemed to be torn from the throats of the men. It rose and fell, with an eerie sound that some had said was like a mountain panther’s scream. Others said it was the sound of a banshee wail, the sound of death itself. The sound echoed down the valley and was taken up by the patriots below. What ever it was, The UN troops felt a cold chill down their spines when they heard it above the sounds of battle. For the first time they heard that awful Rebel yell. The hillside again erupted with rifle fire as men found their courage again. Courage to face the hot rain of lead that was being poured upon them. “What are those Guns?” the major wondered as wounded UN troops, some with hideous wounds made their way to the rear. What could tear a leg almost off like that? He wondered. If the Major had been more of a student of history, he might have known. The badly outdated rifles in the hands of the re-enactors fired a sixty eight caliber bullet, that weighed an average of five hundred grains of soft lead. Each bullet has a hollow base that expanded to form a tight gas seal when fired. Pushed by sixty grains of black powder, these heavy bullets approached one thousand feet per second. Even the ballistic armor the UN officers wore was little protection from these rounds. It was a lot like being hit by a thrown bowling ball.
The patriot forces had also been doing their part, but the captain in charge was having serious doubts that the men on the hill behind them were the Missouri militia. He recognized the sound of the black powder muskets and could only wonder who and what kind of men must be on the hill above his position.
Having no idea of the number they now faced the UN troops began to give ground. As they fell back the patriots, badly outnumbered, many with wounds, pressed them hard.
Jim Townsend was an seventh grade history teacher and a gentle man. Other than the musket he owned for the re-enactments, he had no other guns. He had always wondered what made the soldiers, often dying on their feet, keep going forwards into the enemy guns. He was mildly surprised to find himself on the hillside with the others. Although he had done well enough at the targets with his musket, when he had sighted on another human, he had jerked the sights off at the last second as he fired. He was not like the others he thought. It was not in him to kill. Jim had then stayed behind his cover; feeling how dry his throat was and yet how damp his palms were at the same time. A scream from his left caught his attention. Jeremy, the sixteen year old boy, who had brought the flag, had been hit in the side. The bullet had exited from his abdomen, leaving a ragged hole. Jeremy dropped his rifle and began to work his way back up the hill. Jim Townsend could not draw his eyes off the boy’s painful progress up the hill. Just before the top, driven by pain, or perhaps thinking that he was far enough, Jeremy left cover and began to stagger for the top. Jim Townsend saw the line of bullets stitch their way up the boy’s back and watched him fall limp and bloody to the ground. As he turned back to the battle there was a look in Jim’s eyes that would have shocked and horrified his fellow teachers. Jim saw the UN officer that had stepped from cover long enough to shoot the wounded boy. Jim let the front sight settle on the man’s chest. Hammer cocked, finger on the trigger, steady pressure. The rifle bucked against Jim's shoulder and he knew that he had not missed. It took a few seconds for the smoke to clear well enough for Jim to see the officer writhing on the ground. Jim heard that horrible sound starting again and was shocked to learn that it came from his own throat. The sound grew as others took it up, and Jim was aware that he was up and advancing down the hill with only one thought in his mind. Kill the enemy! As he came to the flags, Jim made a quick choice. He could only take one. He chose Old Glory. With the rebel yell still echoing down the valley, other men, Despite Tom Claybern’s screams for them to stop, began to follow the flag, perhaps carried by a mad man, down the hillside, getting behind cover when there was some, but still advancing. That day Jim Townsend, the schoolteacher, finally came to understand what caused men to keep going forwards in battle. Wounded several times, Jim took the flag forwards until his heart ran out of blood to pump. Before he fell he drove the flagstaff deep into the soil.
Of course it was hopeless from the start. The UN numbers and superior firepower had made the outcome of the fight a forgone conclusion. Even though the UN troops had fallen back, their officers rallied them and they came back with a vengeance. By now they understood that they did not face overwhelming numbers of patriots.
A loud explosion rocked from the hill above and several UN soldiers screamed as leaves and dirt seemed to explode around them. Flesh was shredded and bones shattered on their bodies. Ken Warner and his crew finally had the cannon in action. Once the old artillery piece was in place, Ken had gone back with a couple of his gun crew for the empty cans and the nuts. The cans were then cut half way, length wise from the open end in several places. These were then filled with the large steel nuts to make “grape shot” canisters, thus turning the cannon into a huge shotgun. Now it was just a question of how fast they could reload and fire, which was something they had practiced a good deal. After the first shot the gun crew had to more the cannon back several yards, to be out of the line of fire from the automatic weapons that were now centering on their position. Once loaded they would move the gun back in place, fire, and drag it back. Even doing this, two of Ken’s gun crew were hit. With each shot the cannon barrel had to be lowered as the patriots were again forced back to the protection of the creek bank. Some of the re-enactors, Having reached the patriot force dropped their muskets and took up the rifles of the dead or wounded patriots, but there were not enough weapons to go around.
As major Starken watched to continuing battle, he again resented to stupid order that his troops were not to take prisoners. “Leave it to some desk bound General to give such a idiotic order” he thought. “Even a mouse will fight, if it has no choice”. He understood the reasons the brass has issued the order. The idea was to frighten the Americans so much that they would not fight back. Only it hadn’t worked. It never had worked, even when they had tried it in Europe. So now he was stuck in the field waiting for every last one of the terrorists to be killed, because they had no reason to surrender. He could not even call for armor, because the local bridges were too weak to support the weight. What a waste of a good day.
The fifth Missouri volunteers.
Major Starken looked at his watch. “Where was that damn air strike he had called for?” he wondered. He started to call for his aid and then decided to get on the radio himself. Starken had no trouble making contact. “The radios are something that work anyway” he mused. The Major was informed that the air strike had been diverted to intercept some unidentified, possible hostile, planes that were coming from the north. “As soon as our air force has destroyed the intruders, you will have your air strike” he was informed. Damn! Another delay! If he didn’t get this operation wrapped up before nightfall, a few of the rebels would likely escape.
Captain Renolds of the Arkansas Militia was also on the radio, wanting to know where the Missouri relief force was. “ We had a bit of a problem on the way, but help should be there soon. Just hold out a little longer.” He was told. “Hold out! How much longer could they hold?” Renolds wondered. Ammunition was running dangerously low and close to a third of his force was dead or wounded. The cannon had helped, but it had been firing less often as time went on. On the top of the hill Ken Warner was working with half of his gun crew out of action. It was taking longer to get the gun moved back and forth and the remaining men were exhausted. On top of that they were almost out of ammunition for the gun. They had plenty of powder, but only a few more of the shot canister rounds left.
On the hillside the men still with Tom Claybern were also running low on minni balls for their muskets. Soon he would have to pull his volunteers out. Almost half of the volunteers had gone down the hill, against Tom’s wishes. Now they were trapped on the creek bank with the Militia. While it would be possible for some of them to scale the hill under fire and escape, the wounded would have to be left behind. These same thoughts were running through Captain Renold’s mind as he evaluated the situation. It would be virtually impossible to get the wounded, many requiring stretchers, up the steep hillside while under enemy fire. To leave them meant their certain death and Renolds was not ready to make that decision yet. Some of the re-enactors, having run out of ammunition for the SKS’s had again taken up their muskets. Captain Renolds issued the order, “Fix bayonets”. Upon hearing this, some of the defenders had wept.
Semi-auto rifle fire erupted from the hillside above. The men who had gone home for their rifles had finally arrived. Two men worked their way downwards with ammunition for the beleaguered militia below. Their arrival bought a little more time for the trapped militia, But that was all.
Major Starken’s aid approached with news that the rear guard had radioed to say that four trucks full of UN soldiers had arrived and wanted to know if the Major wanted them to deploy. “Of course I want them to deploy!” screamed the major. “They are no damned good sitting in their trucks.” While the Major had not been expecting reinforcements, their arrival would help get this operation mopped up. Soon the fresh UN troops could be seen advancing towards the Major’s position. A lieutenant came towards the Major, apparently for orders. Major Starken was surprised and horrified to suddenly find a pistol pointed in his face. The man told the major’s driver to not move. The UN soldier sat very still, but his right hand inched towards the radio. He had almost reached it when his brain splattered the windshield, propelled by a nine-millimeter hollow point round. The fifth Missouri volunteers had arrived. It was only as the troops passed his position that the Major noticed that many of the UN uniforms were blood stained. As soon as the Missouri Militia was in position they opened fire. Caught in the deadly crossfire men that had been sure of a easy victory spun and died. Finding what cover they could the UN troops now fought against two fronts. “You will never get away with this.” Starken growled. “My men will still out number you.” The Missouri officer holding the gun on Major Starken grinned. “We are just here to see that none of you men get away. And don’t you be expecting any help from your rear guard.” He answered, drawing his fore finger across his throat. Something about the man told Starken that he was not bluffing.
Suddenly the sky was torn by the sound of a jet fighter on a strafing run. Thousands of bullets hit the UN position, killing many, and panic took the rest. They tried to retreat, but the fierce fire of the Missouri Militia blocked their path. The second plane, marked with a yellow flag showing a coiled rattlesnake, made it’s run. It did not strafe, but instead dropped a canister. The patriots ducked for cover as napalm engulfed the remaining UN troops. A few, a very few, Managed to run towards the Missouri militia, but these were cut down. “ As a UN officer I demand the rights of a prisoner of war” Shouted Major Starken. His captor only shrugged. Once the fires had burned down, stretchers were brought up for the wounded, which were loaded on the trucks. “Sorry about the delay, but we had a run in with some UN boys on the way here. We convinced them to donate their uniforms, trucks and weapons, for the cause.” The Commander of the Missouri Militia told Caption Renolds. “We also got word that some of the patriot air force was close enough to get here. They had to take out a few UN planes on the way, or they would have been here sooner. We were in radio contact and agreed we should make it a joint mission.” He said. “We can’t stay here too long. We may have won a battle, but the war is not over. It won’t be too long before this area is crawling with UN.” The commander announced. Even the dead were loaded into one of the trucks. Several of the rebels and re-enactors had gathered around Major Starken. “I am a prisoner of war and I demand that I be accorded treatment under the Geneva Convention.” Starken exclaimed. “All loaded. Sir” one of the men reported. Having been told about the volunteering of the re-enactors the Commander of the Missouri militia said, “ I suggest that you all go home and get your families and come to Missouri. The UN will put the pieces together about what happened here pretty quick and the they will be taking reprisals.” Some of the men agreed and others said they would stay and fight. “This is our land and nobody is going to drive us out.” Tom Renolds said. They all agreed that they would have to get their families moved to safety immediately. The man who had carried the flag along with young Jememy came to where Major Starken stood. He carried the Confederate flag on it’s staff. He walked straight to Starken and drove the steel end of the flagstaff into the major’s face. Starken screamed and fell backwards to the ground. Before anyone could move the re-enactor drove the flagstaff through the major’s chest and into the soil below. The major writhed, pinned like an insect. No one came to his aid. They left the flag so that others who sought to invade American soil would see what fate awaited them.
Later men would tell their grand children of the Battle of Jackson creek and how the great war birds had screamed out of the sky, bringing fiery death to America’s enemies, and how men armed only with ancient weapons had stood with the militia. A brass plaque was eventually placed on the hill, where the old cannon had fired, with all the names of the honored dead. Strangely, none of the re-enactors knew the name of the man, dressed in a tattered confederate uniform that had killed major Starken. He had not gone in the trucks with the others but had walked alone into the woods. One man had run after him and come back shaken. “I saw where he crossed the mud by the creek, but when I looked I couldn’t find any tracks.” He had claimed. The End.
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