The Mob

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I was a big fan of the TV show The Sopranos. The world of organized crime meeting small town New Jersey was done well and was pretty compelling at the time. There was also the shock factor of big characters you knew well who would get knocked off once a season or so, not to mention the violence that Tony Soprano's crew would inflict on those both deserving and undeserving.

I remember one episode with a friend of Tony's, played by Robert Patrick of Terminator 2 fame.  He knew Tony was involved in crime, but he wasn't a part of it.  They had a cordial relationship based on sports, their sons' athletic endeavors, and not of things more seedier.  That was somewhat refreshing to see for Tony, that he could be this normal guy with regular friends.  However, his friend started to succumb to an addiction to gambling.  He owned a sporting goods store and started taking money from the till to pay off his debts.  He got a little behind because he gambled too much and could not make payroll at work, so he turned to Tony for help.  His problems compounded and in the end the mob just took over the business and destroyed it, because that's just what they do.  He was fine up until the point he let the mob into his life and his business.  He was in debt that would have caused bankruptcy and financial ruin for his family, but instead of admitting to his addiction, he turned to the dark side for support.  Tony's crew was a support structure that didn't care anything about him or his family, one that had its own horrible underbelly of problems. 

We too are letting the mob into our lives, into big business, and into our culture.  It's not the mafia, but mob mentality.  We do this while ignoring the fact that their mentality is built on lies, doesn't care about the truth, and will ruin everything that we believe in.  In this case the mob isn't organized crime but it's acceptance of a culture and attitude founded on a lack of responsibility, ignoring the true reasons behind systemic problems in our country, and denying the truth behind tragic current events.  We look at certain organizations that supposedly advocate for these victims, as if they are some paragons of virtue, but they really don't care about anything but money.

When a policeman is called to a scene he doesn't get a vote on who he will meet, or the color, age, race, or the economic status of the people he will interact with as he tries to protect and serve.  He is there to restore peace, correct wrongs, determine fault, and uphold the law.  What the mob is doing recently is ignoring some of the early facts of a case, often the most important ones, jumping right to a sensationalized narrative that is not only false but is extremely dangerous to our society.  When a cop has to pull his gun and shoot someone in most cases it is because he has no other choice.  He does not have the time, nor the tools, that can stop a situation from progressing while guaranteeing no one else, including himself will be hurt.

I have seen video, either cell phone video or bodycam images, of policemen having to fire on citizens. What we often see is just that image, and rarely are we given the full story. What often precedes the tragic end is an interaction between the police and a person that is far from respectful, one that is escalatory, and in many cases shows blatant disregard for the policeman's instructions, often the fast, violent, and dangerous resisting of arrest.  When a cop is trying to put handcuffs on a suspect who then squirms away and jumps into a vehicle, a cop has no other choice but to pull his weapon and probably have to use it, because of the danger that often follows that type of non-compliance. 

The media, is participating in that mob mentality by carefully editing of the video to only show the tragic end, not the escalation.  The even go so far as to intentionally omit certain key facts, like a person wielding a knife, or even blurring out that part of the video.  Celebrities, Twitter, woke corporations, and others on social media participate in mob mentality by condemning the cops and ignoring the full facts of a case.  What makes it worse is when that the people that employ them, the cities and attorneys general, the ones who know the real truth of these situations, bow down to the mob, firing and prosecuting these protectors for doing the job they were trained and hired to do.  It's clear that when the media does that, they are blatantly rooting against the police, hoping they'll go down.  Your friends and neighbors are joining the mob when they buy into the BS that uses phrases with words like "systemic" and "privilege" in them.  We are enabling the mob when we keep our heads down, silently shaking our heads, when we know the truth but don't say anything for fear of the mob's wrath.  When we're afraid of being cancelled.  

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The thing is, is that the mob doesn't care whether you are aligned with them or not.  Whether you posted a black square or not.  Whether you donated to their cause or not.  They just want to watch the world burn.  

Here in San Diego a young teenager wore a "Catholics vs Convicts" t-shirt to a football game between Cathedral Catholic High School and Lincoln High.  This was a shirt that was popular on social media a few years back when Notre Dame played Clemson University, which had at the time a few players that had gotten in trouble with the law.  Cathedral Catholic here is an expensive private school in an affluent neighborhood, while Lincoln High is not in the best part of town.  The only reason we know about the situation is because a student from Lincoln took a photo of it and shared it on social media to his entire high School.  That got picked up by local news stations, thereby further escalating the situation, getting a lot of people very riled up, and stoking the flames of anger and racism. 

One thing that was good to hear was how the football coach from Lincoln high didn't become part of the mob.  He said that that the Lincoln student did a stupid thing, posting of the photo, which only escalated the issue. He didn't cater to those chanting racism or allow them to stoke the fire even more.  He said it was all blown out of proportion, and he tried to keep the situation from growing. 

Source

We cannot give in to the mob, we can't allow them to control the narrative when it is so blatantly false.  We have to call looting for what it is, criminal behavior, and not turn a blind eye to it.  We can't be silent in the face of such action, ceding territory to those that don't deserve it.  We have to call out riots and burning as domestic terrorism.  We have to call out the media when they report irresponsibly.  We have to demand our Attorneys General call for the investigation into groups fomenting the riots, who funds them, who organizes them.  We have to say the words that we must have calm, and peaceful, and respectful interactions with police.  We have to call out (and vote out) the politicians that incite violence and energize the mob.  We have to loudly say that you cannot resist arrest, and we must highlight the fact that this is a common thread in many of these police shootings.  We have to say that the statistics do not support the narrative that cops are indiscriminately shooting unarmed black men.  We have to say that while tragic, a cop may have to shoot one person in order to defend the life of another.  We have to take into account drug use and health issues of a victim that dies during a police interaction.  And we have to admit that the lack of fathers is the root of much of this evil.  Otherwise we are putting cops in danger, we are putting all of our lives in danger, because cops will find that the job isn't worth it and they will not be there to protect and serve us if they are continually pilloried or attacked in the public square for doing their job. 

There's a saying that the way for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.  We have to be willing to engage in calm and rational dialogue with others.  We have to counter false statements with factual ones, and we have to push for respect of our institutions.  I'm not saying everyone needs to be as vocal as I am on social media, but being able to pull out a few calm and factual talking points from your back pocket when faced with falsehoods is probably a good thing.  If we stay silent, we are allowing the mob to run wild. 

The End is Near

(Source)

1st Lt. Nathan Paddock sat in the cab of the well-worn GMC deuce-and-a-half and marveled at the long columns of German prisoners marching down the autobahn's median strip. On either side of the defeated Germans roared the mechanized might of the United States Army heading in the opposite direction.

"Kinda nice to see those bastards disarmed and defeated, ain't it L.T.?" Sgt. Woody Sherman was grinning and waving at the prisoners. He was driving the truck which held the men of the platoon headquarters, the other three squads had their own trucks and were following behind.

"It's nice to know that we don't have to fight those guys any more. Word has it that the Germans are giving up in droves now. There may be some holdouts in Czechoslovakia, which is probably why we're headed there." Paddock said.

"I'm glad to get out of those damn forests. I tell ya L.T., when I get out of the Army, I'm moving someplace flat with no trees at all." Sherman shook his head, then continued, "How about you L.T.? What are you going to do after the war?"

Paddock looked at his platoon guide, "I'll think about that when the war's actually over, Woody."

"Damn, I hope they don't send us to the Pacific, Sir."

"You and me both Woody, you and me both."

Patton's Third Army was scouring the Czech-German border, but Eisenhower was worried about the reports of the Nazi Alpine Redoubt in southern Bavaria. He wanted Patton's army to close on that area. So the 1st Infantry Division was headed south to relieve one of Patton's divisions.

Cpt. Hernandez was in a jeep driven by his first sergeant, Mort Saeger. Riding in the back was his radioman, Cpl Jacob Winters. He wasn't sure what to make of this Alpine Redoubt, earlier intelligence had indicated that the Harz Mountains were intended to be a fortress area. That had fizzled when the Big Red One had gone through. Even still, eleven men of Charlie Company didn't make it out of the Harz.

One lieutenant relieved of command, the company commander himself, his predecessor Cpt. Tony Palminteri, was a psychiatric casualty. Then there were the wounded and the dead, four of the former, five of the latter.

Hernandez was somewhat depressed about that, nine of his men wounded or killed within days of the end of the war. He prayed to God that there would be no more.

Oberfeldwebel Jürgen Holzmann trudged wearily along, placing one foot in front of the other, concentrating on the back of the man in front of him, something he'd been doing for many years. For Holzmann was an infantryman, he had gone into France on foot, just as his father and uncles had. He had marched into Russia, then had retreated on foot from France. The Panzers got all the glory, the infantry still did most of the dying.

They definitely did all of the walking!

He looked around, watching the American vehicles roaring by on either side, tanks, trucks, the small open-topped cars he'd been told were called jeeps. There were hundreds of vehicles. It was no wonder to Holzmann that they had lost the war. The leadership had to have been insane thinking that they could take on the world. They urge us to fight on, yet where are they?

Sgt. Melvin Katz stared morosely out to the side of the road. He had been watching the long columns for a while, then the reports of the concentration camps that he had read would fill his head. How could a civilized nation like Germany do such a thing?

Although his father had seen the writing on the wall and had managed to get his immediate family out of Austria prior to the Anschluß and prior to the Nazis, he knew that he still had cousins in Austria. He couldn't help wondering if they had wound up in the camps. Were they even still alive?

One thought filled Katz' mind, this could never be allowed to happen again.

Though Sgt. Charlie Gammell was a combat veteran and now led his own squad, he had trouble remembering that he was just 18-years old. He should have been back on his father's dairy farm back in Vermont. Hunting in the fall, fishing in the summer, helping his grandfather with the maple sugaring in the spring. Gammell couldn't help but feel that his youth had been stolen from him.

He had really looked at himself in the mirror the night before as he had shaved. His eyes had bags under them, he had crow's feet at the corners of those eyes, he looked ten years older than he actually was. He felt much, much older than that physically.

The strain of combat, of sleeping in the rough, usually outside, tended to age a fellow. Gammell couldn't really remember what life had been like before he'd joined Charlie Company. He wondered how many of the men he'd met at the Repple Depple were still alive.

His goal now was to stay alive and to keep his men alive. It struck him that with the influx of all the new replacements, he was no longer the youngest man in the squad.

As the men of Charlie Company, 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry head towards Czechoslovakia, the men of Major Jürgen von Lüttwitz and Leutnant Manfred Sauer still languish in the improvised POW enclosures near where they had gone into captivity.

The food was slightly better, the men had built better shelters, and as the weather improved the sickness rates were down. Even still, there were one or two men a week who succumbed to the poor conditions, sickness, and poorly healed wounds.

Von Lüttwitz had remarked to Sauer one day that he was proud that the men he had led into captivity all still lived, not one man had died. Unlike some units, the men of the 2nd Battalion of the 8th Panzergrenadier Regiment looked after each other. As comrades should.

In six days Adolf Hitler will kill himself in his bunker beneath the city of Berlin as the impact of Russian artillery shells fall nearer and nearer.

In two weeks, the Germans will surrender.

Link to all of the Chant's fiction.

Despair

(Source)

By dawn of the second day, SS-Sturmmann Rainer Bodenschaft could see that SS-Scharführer Ernst Schneider's right hand was badly infected. The hand was swollen, badly, and two of his fingers were turning black. Though Schneider denied being in any pain, Bodenschaft could see the man wince whenever his hand brushed against something. He had also taken to carrying his rifle in his left hand. Bodenschaft wondered if Schneider was still capable of even firing his weapon.

Schneider was indeed in intense pain, he couldn't feel the tips of his ring and little fingers any more, his hand throbbed constantly. As he sat there, absorbing the pain and trying, in vain, not to show it, he told the last two Volkssturm men to go home.

"Wolf, Johannes, you're old men, you fought your war thirty years ago, this one is ours. Go home to your families." Both men lived in a small town 15 kilometers north of the Harz.

Johannes Beck looked at the gaunt SS sergeant and said, "Come with us Scharführer, you need a doctor for that hand." He had wanted to say something about the hopelessness of their situation, but the SS man made him nervous, spouting Nazi slogans one minute, acting like a normal human the next. Beck was convinced that Schneider was insane.

Wolf Meyer stood up, "You're not coming with us, are you?"

Schneider shifted the position of his hand, winced, then said, "My duty is here Wolf." Turning to look at Bodenschaft he said, "Rainer, dump your tunic and smock. Go with Wolf and Johannes, you've done enough for the Reich."

Bodenschaft looked down at the ground then back up again, staring at Schneider, "I'd be dead if you hadn't pulled me out of that trench just before that Russki T-34 collapsed it." He turned to the two Volkssturm. "My right leg was badly injured, I couldn't walk, I could barely crawl. The rest of the squad left me, Ernst came back and saved my life." He looked at Schneider.

"I won't leave you to fight alone Ernst. Not in this lifetime."

2nd Squad of 3rd Platoon was on the far left flank of the company as they swept the woods, looking for werewolves.

"They ain't no such thing as werewolves, right Sarge?" Pvt. Rufus Curry was from the mountains of Arkansas, he didn't have much schooling, but he possessed a wealth of common sense.

Sgt. Ed Russell shook his head, "Nope, Rufus, no such things like you hear about in scary stories. These werewolves are Nazis left behind to terrorize the rear areas. Mostly SS from what I hear, scary bastards if you're unarmed."

"Sarge, I heard..." Pvt. Melvin Gonzalez was interrupted by a noise just ahead and off to the left. The entire squad immediately went down, ready to engage whatever was making the noises off in the brush.

Meyer hissed at Beck, "Can you make any more noise? We might as well have a brass band. Be quiet you old fool."

Beck hissed right back at his old comrade, "Old fool? Who saved your silly arse at Verdun? Was I an old fool then?"

Meyer was ready with a retort, then stopped and held his hand up, "Listen."

Both men watched as an American soldier advanced in their direction, rifle at the ready.

Beck slowly stood up, hands raised over his head.

Meyer watched in shock as the American fired a single round, which hit his friend Beck square in the chest, knocking him back into the brush.

"Goddamn it! Hold your fire! Hold your fire!" Sgt. Russell came up, he saw that Pvt. Oscar Combs was still pointing his rifle at a small clump of low evergreen bushes. Russell thought he heard sobbing.

Advancing carefully, rifle at the ready, flanked by Combs and Gonzalez, he pushed aside the brush, he could see a man on the ground, with another man kneeling over him.

Meyer was holding one of Beck's hands in both of his, "Stay alive Johannes, Gerda needs you. Damn it, I need you."

Beck was bleeding badly from a bullet wound just above the heart, he knew, deep inside, that he had but seconds to live. His eyes went to the three Americans standing over them. One of them, a very young soldier, still pointed his rifle at the two men, but tears were running down his cheeks.

Beck wondered for a moment if this was the soldier who had killed him. He supposed that it didn't matter. He looked once more at his old friend Wolf Meyer, he had known the man since 1904. Boyhood friends, they had served in the same regiment in the Great War, the same company in fact.

Meyer couldn't restrain the tears any more, they poured down his cheeks as he held his friend's hand. "Stay with me comrade, stay with us."

Beck coughed, blood came from his mouth, he was starting to drown in his own blood. He managed to say one last thing, "I'm sorry Wolf, tell Gerda, won't you?"

Then he died.

The morning of the third day, Bodenschaft woke up to find that Schneider had died sometime in the night. As he sat up, he saw his friend leaning against the side of the trench, his weapon on the lip of the trench in front of him.

At first he thought Ernst was still keeping watch, then he noticed that his sergeant's head was tilted slightly forward, as if he was studying the earth upon which his rifle lay. Bodenschaft got up, he realized that Schneider's eyes were glassy and unfocused.

Placing a hand on Schneider's shoulder, he shook him gently. It was then he realized that Schneider was dead.

Bodenschaft spent the next hour burying Schneider in the trench. Then he put his soft cap on, then tossed his helmet and rifle into the brush. He stripped off his camouflage smock and tunic. As he still had his blanket, he cut a hole for his head in the middle, then draped it over himself.

He started to walk, then had a thought, he took his cap off and looked at it. The SS eagle and Death's Head were too obvious, so he tossed his cap into the brush as well, then he began to walk downhill.

Russell had noticed that both of the older men were wearing Volkssturm armbands, though he was tempted to let the surviving man go, he had his orders. He sent the man, under escort, back to the Company CP, perhaps the Cap'n would know what to do with him.

Meyer looked one last time at the body of his friend, then he turned and let the Americans take him wherever they wanted him to go.

His sons were all dead, all three of them, last month his wife and daughter had died in a bombing raid. He had nothing left to live for, despair was all he had left.

SS-Sturmmann Rainer Bodenschaft was captured by a patrol from 1st Platoon near sundown. He had been walking down the road shouting in broken English, "I geef up, don't shoot!"

Pvt. Billy Pires nearly shot the German as his squad rounded the corner. But the man had his hands in the air and was clearly giving himself up.

"Handy hock!¹" Pires shouted out, a phrase he'd learned at the Repple Depple. The man who taught him that didn't know how to pronounce it either.

"He's already got his hands up numbnuts." Pfc. Zachary Beach pushed past Pires, who was all of seventeen years old.

Sgt. Francis Baldwin examined the prisoner, no pay book, tunic gone, belt gone. Most of the men who'd surrendered had kept all of their clothing and their pay books. This guy didn't even have a hat. He also seemed ignorant of the English language, other than what he'd been shouting as he came down the road.

Eventually Cpl. Woodrow O'Neil and Pvt. Curt Hoffman from 2nd Squad joined them, Baldwin had sent one of his scouts, Pvt. Jerry Santiago, to fetch Hoffman, who spoke German very well, having grown up in a German community in Texas. O'Neill came along to see what all the fuss was.

"Hoffman, you speak Kraut, right?" Baldwin asked.

"Yes, Sergeant, I speak German. Want me to talk with this fellow?" Hoffman nodded at the prisoner.

"Yeah, find out what his story is, uniform pants and boots but no tunic, no pay book. Something's fishy here." Baldwin said.

Hoffman turned to the German and spoke, "Krempel deine linken Ärmel hoch.²"

The German went pale and stuttered, "N...n..nein."

Hoffman pointed his rifle at the German's belly and barked out, "Sofort!³"

Reluctantly the German pulled his left sleeve up to about the elbow.

Hoffman barked again, "Mehr!⁴"

The German sighed and pulled his sleeve all the way up, revealing a small tattoo on the inside of his left bicep.

"He's SS Sarge, that's his blood group tattoo. Probably ditched his stuff hoping to pass himself off as Army." Hoffman spat in the dirt at the German's feet.

Bodenschaft knew that the game was up when the blond American had ordered him to roll up his sleeve. After he heard the American say "SS," true despair come over him. He stopped paying attention to the Americans and looked around.

The deciduous trees were starting to bud, birds were flitting from tree to tree. He could hear them twittering in the trees. It had been a cloudy day, but as the sun set, the clouds in the east opened and brilliant sunlight flooded through the tops of the pines.

He thought back on his life, there were many things he regretted, now he regretted that he'd never see home again. A slight breeze started, he could smell the pine woods, even the snow on top of the Brocken.

He supposed that there were worse places to die.

"He's SS, Cap'n, probably one of the guys who killed those two G.I.s from 8th Armored." Hoffman had the temerity to protest Cpt. Hernandez' order to take the prisoner back to battalion.

"At ease Private." Hernandez snapped. "Haven't you figured it out yet? We're not like them. He's a prisoner, he gave himself up."

Turning to Cpl. O'Neill, Hernandez said, "Get this man back to battalion, alive. Are we clear on that?"

"Yessir." O'Neill said.

"Beach, go with Cpl. O'Neill, Hoffman report back to your squad. Move!"

As they led him away, Bodenschaft couldn't believe that the Americans hadn't killed him. It's what his old unit would have done. But for now, he was alive. Maybe he would live to see home again.

Hope returned.

¹ "Hände hoch!" - Hands up.

² Roll up your left sleeve.

³ Immediately!

⁴ Further!

Link to all of the Chant's fiction.

Werewolf

(Source)

S/Sgt Jeff Kilcannon rushed into the 1st Platoon CP, "Sir, we've got a big problem, one of our patrols found a couple of dead GIs!"

"Uh, we're at war Jeff, not a surprise to find dead men." 1st Lt. Nathaniel Gonzales stood up and put his helmet on, then he reached for his carbine. He figured that he'd better check this out, Kilcannon wasn't normally this excitable.

Kilcannon explained, "Sir, these guys are from 8th Armored, they've only been dead a day or so."

After that revelation, Gonzales had Kilcannon fetch Sgt. Rudy Taylor's 2nd Squad. He also dispatched Pvt. Frank David to let Charlie Company's commander, Cpt. Stephen Hernandez, know what was going on. "I don't want this going out over the radio." He explained.

Gonzales knew that the 8th Armored Division was operating to the north of the Harz. Why were these men so far from their unit? Deserters perhaps?

Cpt. Hernandez listened as David explained what was happening, then he told the messenger to head back to his platoon. He called the First Sergeant into his office.

"Mort, send a runner to each platoon, no one is to leave the vicinity of the village unless with their squad. I think we have a possible Werwolf¹ situation." Hernandez had said 'werewolf' using the German pronunciation.

1st Sgt. Saeger looked at the company commander as if the man had just grown a second head. "Werewolf Sir? Are you serious?"

Hernandez realized that he hadn't yet shown his first sergeant the message that had come in via courier that morning. Pulling a piece of paper from the pile on the table he was using as a desk, he handed it to Saeger. "Better read this Mort."

The message detailed what division knew about a Nazi plan to set up guerilla units behind the lines, the two dead men that 1st Platoon had found could very well be related. Saeger read through the message, then swore, "Holy shit, Sir, this could be a big problem."

"Yup."

SS-Scharführer Ernst Schneider was rewinding the bandage on his right hand while SS-Sturmmann Rainer Bodenschaft kept a lookout in the direction of where they had surprised the two American soldiers. 

Schneider and Bodenschaft had ambushed the two Americans, killing them with their fighting knives. While they still had their StG 44s, ammunition was scarce, also, firing was noisy, so they had used their knives. All had gone well except that Schneider had lost his grip on his knife and cut the palm of his hand. It hurt like Hell and was still oozing blood.

"We should go back and get their medical kits, Americans all carry that sort of thing don't they?" Bodenschaft was trying to be helpful, but the older man was in no mood for it.

"Shut up Rainer, it's not that bad. It hurts but I'm not wandering back to that area. Eventually the Amis will find the bodies. The men in the village aren't as careless as they two men we killed. I suspect those two were deserters looking for loot."

The two SS men were all that was left of an SS mountain infantry company that had been sent into the Harz Mountains when Heinrich Himmler had ordered the creation of the Harzfestung.² Their unit had been cut to pieces by elements of two American infantry regiments, both having strong armored support.

Both men had been in the Waffen SS since the invasion of Russia, they had seen and done things which made them realize that there would be no pity for men of their ilk after the war. Therefore they had resolved to fight on, no matter the outcome.

Pfc. Omar Horton held a hand up, behind him the squad halted and faced outwards, each man covering a particular sector. Sgt. Lawrence Hanson hustled up to where his lead scout was. He was scanning the forest around him, his senses heightened to any threat. He'd been at this since North Africa and so far his instincts had kept him alive.

Hanson took a knee next to Horton who pointed at the ground in front of him. Hanson saw it immediately, a bloody scrap of cloth. There were also boot prints, the kind made by hobnailed German boots.

"I think two guys, maybe three. They stopped here, probably to tend to a wound. There's no blood trail leading away from here, so the guy can't be hurt that bad." Horton looked off into the woods, the underbrush hinted at the wildness of the place, the Germans liked their forests tidy, this area was still as wild as it had probably been back in ancient times.

Hanson nodded then tried his walkie-talkie, nothing but static, too many hills, too many trees for him to get a signal. He thought about it, then decided that they should head back. There were definitely enemy about, not many, but probably the fanatic kind. They could have laid low until the war ended, but they had killed those two men from 8th Armored.

With knives for God's sake!

Reluctantly, he ordered the squad back to the village.

"My man says two men, maybe three, they'll be hard to find in this wilderness." 1st Lt. Gonzales explained to Cpt. Hernandez.

"I've already talked with Maj. Josephson, he wants us to sweep the area. We're moving east anyway, I'd have rather gone by road, but now we're walking. So we'll move out in skirmish order, two platoons up, one back. Let your men know that if they see anyone, shoot first, ask questions later, these guys might be guerillas, they might be deserters, but they're desperate. They could have let those armored guys pass, but they didn't. No signs of a struggle, those two men were ambushed." Hernandez paused and looked at his platoon leaders.

"Questions?" he asked.

1st Lt. Nate Paddock raised a hand, then said, "Brad Woodstock says he's got orders to follow the rest of the regiment south, so we're without tank support. Right?"

"Yeah, tanks aren't much use in these woods, so they've been ordered to rejoin their battalion. We might not be going to Czechoslovakia after all. It depends on what we find as we sweep to the east. Get your men ready, pack three days rations. We move off at first light."

"Half the men on watch Sir?" 2nd Lt. Bob Poole asked.

"Yup, good idea Bob. Two shifts of four hours each. Make sure you leaders get your sleep. A tired leader makes mistakes, those mistakes get men killed. Platoon sergeants take one watch, officers the other." Turning to his Weapons Platoon leader he said, "Herm, I want your platoon around the company CP, MGs covering the roads, mortars ready for action."

2nd Lt. Herman Jacobsen nodded and said, "You got it boss."

"Okay guys let's do this, we've got our work cut out for us."

Schneider and Bodenschaft linked up with a five-man unit of Volkssturm just before sunset. Schneider immediately took command.

"We're going to start hunting the Amis. I want them scared to leave their bivouacs at night. I want them looking over their shoulders during the day. I want to kill some and terrorize the others. We have our orders, the Reichsführer has declared the Harz a fortress. We are its garrison. Reinforcements from 11th Army are headed this way. Final victory is a question of willpower, not fire power." Schneider had an odd tone to his voice, almost as if he were preaching to the men.

The five Volkssturm men shared hidden glances, none of them were thrilled with the idea of fighting any more. Especially not under an SS fanatic.

When the two SS men woke in the morning, they discovered that three of the Volkssturm had disappeared in the night. Local men, they knew these woods, which Schneider had been counting on. Which also meant that they had little chance of tracking them down.

"We'll keep patrolling, there are others out here. We shall be werewolves, the enemy will learn to fear us." Schneider harangued the men as they prepared to move to a new position.

Bodenschaft thought that his old comrade had finally lost his mind. There was no hope of victory.

There was, in truth...

No hope at all.

¹ Werwolf (German for "werewolf") was a Nazi plan which began development in 1944, to create a resistance force which would operate behind enemy lines as the Allies advanced through Germany, in parallel with the Wehrmacht fighting in front of the lines. It is widely misconstrued as having been intended to be a guerilla force to harass Allies forces after the defeat of Germany, but this misconception was created by Joseph Goebbels through propaganda disseminated through his "Radio Werwolf", which was not actually connected in any way with the military unit. (Source)

² Fortress Harz

Link to all of the Chant's fiction.

A Breather

(Source)

"You wanted to see me Sir?" 2nd Lt. Bob Poole had been summoned to the company commander's makeshift office which was situated in an old barn not far from Charlie Company's latest battle with the retreating Germans.

"How's Kincaid working out for ya?" Cpt. Stephen Hernandez was still trying to get to know as many of the new officers and senior sergeants as he could. April had been a rough month for the company so far, and it wasn't over yet.

"He's a good man I think. The kids like him, he seems to know his shit, but until I get to see him in action, I can't really judge the guy. D'ya know what I mean Cap'n?" Poole was still getting used to being an officer, Hernandez probably was as well. Hell, it wasn't that long ago that both men were platoon sergeants!

"Yeah, tough to gauge a soldier's worth before you've seen him in combat. But the reason I wanted to see you is that we'll be moving again, this time to the south. The fighting here in the Harz is wrapping up. Division wants us to hang tight, our regiment is officially in reserve for now. A guy I know at regiment says that we're going to be headed south, to Czechoslovakia if you can believe it. But for now we're the division reserve until the boys in the 16th and the 18th finish mopping up resistance in this area."

"Good to know Sir, but why aren't the other platoon leaders here?" Poole was worried that perhaps he'd done something wrong. He wasn't just a new officer, and though he'd been Damien Lott's platoon sergeant, he was new to leading a platoon. He still felt somewhat responsible for Lott being relieved by Palminteri. That situation, so he had heard, was being looked at, regiment was concerned that Palminteri's later mental breakdown may have influenced his earlier decision to relieve Lott. Lord knows they were all under stress, but the Captain had been really stressed when he'd fired Lott.

Hernandez coughed to get Poole's attention.

"Sorry Sir, I was thinking about Lieutenant Lott." Poole snapped back to the present.

"Yeah, from what I understand, regiment is reviewing his relief. If he is exonerated, he won't come back to us. He'll go to one of the other regiments, probably the 18th, they've taken some serious losses in lieutenants and sergeants."

"Yeah, wouldn't look good him coming back here, but he wasn't a bad officer, he just f**ked up that one time." Poole sat up in his chair and leaned forward, as if he was about to make a point.

Hernandez held a hand up to stop Poole, "I know Bob, I know, we lost men because Damian didn't have the armor leading the way. Yesterday we had the armor up front and we still lost men. Cap'n Palminteri maybe shouldn't have relieved Damian, but he did, so Lott's reputation is shot in C Company, Hell, probably the whole battalion as well. I don't know."

Poole sat back in his seat and sighed, "If the f**king Krauts would just quit."

"Yeah, and if my uncle had tits he'd be my aunt."

"L.T., I've got four replacements for 2nd Squad: Jacques, Weiss, Gustafson, and Worthington. These guys are green as grass L.T., I don't even think they shave yet." S/Sgt Jack Wilson gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

"Maybe we should divvy these guys up between the other squads? Chapman's got six green recruits in his squad, half of his guys."

"Yeah, but he's also got two pretty smart guys in O'Neal and Grant, college boys as I recall. Besides which, Cap'n says he's gonna keep 2nd Squad back as the Company reserve. Also, we're not going anywhere just yet. Looks like we'll be in this little village for a couple more days." Paddock stepped outside to see the new guys.

Damn, they look young, he thought.

Rumbling down the main street of the little village, tank after tank rolled by. Interspersed with those tanks were trucks towing artillery, trucks loaded with infantry, and the occasional jeep or staff car. The 26th Infantry Regiment was on the move, for now the 1st Battalion's Charlie Company would be in reserve. Someone at division had decided that a single company was enough of a reserve for now.

As the new men watched, a long column of halftracks carrying infantrymen passed by, from the catcalls of the men in the tracks, the new men realized that they stood out like sore thumbs in their clean uniforms and new equipment.

Pvt. Herschel Weiss said, "I feel like I should go roll in a mud puddle or something, just so I don't stick out as much." He heard a voice behind him.

"Don't worry kid, you'll get dirty soon enough. Provided you live that long. I'm your platoon sergeant, S/Sgt Wilson. Follow me, I'll take you to your new home. You're all in 2nd Squad, your squad leader is Sgt. Chapman, don't let the name fool you, he's a Cajun from the bayous. Don't get him excited or you won't be able to understand a word he says."

Pvt. Ed Jacques spoke up, in heavily accented English, "Bon! Un homme from da' bayou. Laissez le bon temps rouler!¹"

"Hhmm, you and Sgt. Chapman should get along just fine. At least when he's yelling at you, you'll be able to understand what he's saying. The rest of you don't worry, Sgt. Chapman does speak English. Sort of. Come on, let's go."

Charlie Company gets a breather, one they need, but the war rumbles on to the East. Die hard SS and Wehrmacht units continue to fight on, the SS for their twisted ideology, the Wehrmacht for their homes.

Men will continue to die right up to the end.

On both sides.

¹ Let the good times roll.

Link to all of the Chant's fiction.

On the Slopes of the Brocken

(Source)

As tracer fire from at least two German machine guns crisscrossed overhead, Cpl. John Myerson yelled over at his lieutenant, "Welcome back L.T.! Nice of the Krauts to provide fireworks for your return!"

1st Lt. Nate Paddock just grimaced at his radioman, then tried to burrow deeper into the mud at the bottom of the roadside ditch that the platoon command group was taking shelter in.

The day had started normally enough, 2nd Platoon was in the lead once more, riding the tanks of 2nd Lt. Brad Woodstock. Their battalion, the 1/26, was covering the left flank of their sister regiment's 2/18 battalion. That battalion had been meeting heavy resistance from what Paddock had been told.

The 1/26 was following what was essentially an improved logging trail along the southern slope of the tallest peak in the Harz Mountains, the Brocken¹, which still had snow on its upper reaches. They had just moved out of the forest and onto a better, paved road when all Hell broke loose.

Machine gun fire from the right had peeled the infantry off of the lead tank, Box O' Nuts, commanded by Sgt. Ken Boyd. From what Paddock had seen, at least four of his men were sprawled in the road near the tank and Sgt. Boyd was slumped over the edge of his turret. Paddock had no idea if any of those men were still alive.

Just when he thought that things couldn't get any worse, Myerson pointed at a hole in the radio. They were stuck in a ditch, under heavy fire, and had no way to communicate with the rest of the platoon, or the company for that matter.

Pfc. Jack Horner, Box O' Nuts' gunner, was slewing the turret to the right, trying to lay the gun on where the German tracers were coming from on the right. He was covered in the blood of his tank commander, Ken Boyd.

"Got him! Firing!" he yelled out.

Horner stomped on the floor trigger sending a high explosive round downrange. It must have hit something because the fire from that sector ceased.

Cpl. Jon Riggs, the driver and now the de facto commander of the tank, screamed over the intercom, "Another MG 10 o'clock! Kill him!"

Horner began slewing the turret in that direction when the tank suddenly rang like a church bell. A German anti-tank round had glanced off the turret, knocking Boyd's body to the roadside.

"Shit! Shit! Shit! Get us out of here Jon!" Horner was screaming, he was starting to slew the turret back to the right where he thought the AT gun was, he hadn't gone far when another shot from that gun hit Box O' Nuts again. This one penetrated the hull in front of the assistant driver, Pvt. Bob Turner.

Paddock was watching when the second round hit Box O' Nuts. "F**k!"

"John, with me!!" Paddock bellowed as he rose up from the ditch and made a dash for the tank behind Box O' Nuts. He had seen the muzzle flash from the German gun and he wanted to kill it before it hit another one of the tanks.

Myerson followed close on his lieutenant's heels, yelling "Shit!" with every footstep.

Paddock picked up the phone on the back of the second tank in the column, he had no idea which tank it was, but the voice on the other end sounded familiar. "Brad, that you? It's Paddock."

"Yeah, it's Woodstock, did you see where that AT gun fired from?"

"Yup, if you pull up to the right of Box O' Nuts, the gun is at one o'clock, just inside the tree line."

"Got it!"

Paddock and Myerson stayed directly behind Catamount as the tank rolled forward at slow speed. Before reaching a point where they could engage the gun, the Germans fired their AT gun again. The round screeched past, just missing the third tank in the column.

The gun on Catamount barked and Paddock watched as a white phosphorous round exploded right about where he had seen the muzzle flash. A spectacular secondary explosion told him that the German gun was no more. The resultant screams from that location told him that the gun's crew were burning to death. Something which, surprisingly, didn't really bother him.

Woodstock's tank had rolled forward again after taking out the German AT gun. They were almost immediately engaged by the German machine gun which had been to the left of the road. Another round of white phosphorus silenced that crew as well.

Two more of Woodstock's tanks rolled forward and into the narrow fields either side of the road, they quickly eliminated all resistance in the tree line with machine gun and cannon fire. Paddock swore that he had seen two small parties of Germans emerge from the tree line with their hands in the air, both parties had been swept by machine gun from the tanks and rifle fire from his own platoon. The men were not in a forgiving mood.

The cost of the encounter was high, four dead, two from Boyd's tank, including Boyd himself, and five wounded, three tankers and two infantrymen. The infantry casualties were all from Sgt. John Chapman's squad: Privates Guy Morse and Herman Bridges had both been killed, Privates Leon Higgins and Ronnie Williamson were both wounded, Williamson badly.

Paddock watched as Doc Milbury worked on Williamson, a weapons carrier had been called up to evacuate the wounded, Paddock hoped it made it in time to save Williamson. Myerson was looking for a replacement radio back in the halftracks which followed the tanks. The infantrymen who had been riding in those vehicles, from 3rd Platoon, were already in the tree line, looking for German survivors.

Pvt. Ronnie Sykes heard a rustling in the nearby brush, he stopped and waved at the man to his left, some ten yards away. Pfc. Neal Mendoza gave Sykes a thumbs up, then pointed his rifle in the direction Sykes had indicated.

Sykes made sure the safety was off on his Garand as he advanced, one slow step after another. Using the barrel of his rifle to part the brush, he saw a man in the mottled camouflage favored by the Waffen SS. The man was bloody from the waist down and was trying to crawl away. Something made him stop, he rolled over and looked directly at Sykes.

"Bitte, nicht schiessen.²"

Sykes recognized the collar tabs of an SS sergeant, the man was older, hard-bitten, a real old soldier. His eyes darted around, Sykes thought he looked like a predator at bay. Though badly wounded, the SS sergeant still had an air of menace about him. He tried to sit up.

Which is when Sykes shot him in the chest.

The SS man's eyes glazed over and with a muffled gurgle he sank back to the forest floor, dead.

Cpt. Stephen Hernandez was talking with both Paddock and 2nd Lt. Bob Poole, commanding 3rd Platoon. Hernandez had sent 1st Platoon, along with Woodstock's four surviving tanks, further up the road, into the forest.

"From what your guys found, what do we have, a mix of SS and Volkssturm?" Hernandez asked, looking at Poole.

"Yeah, twelve SS and fifteen Volkssturm, the anti-tank gun was manned by SS men, most of the Volkssturm were kids, most of 'em in Hitler Youth uniforms wearing Volkssturm armbands." Poole paused then added, "One of my guys killed a wounded SS man."

Hernandez waited a beat, then said, "And?"

"Well, Cap'n, I mean, I don't like my guys getting in the habit of shooting wounded men, even SS." Poole seemed uncomfortable with bringing it up.

"Come with me, you too Nate."

The three officers walked over to the side of the road, where, bundled in their ponchos, were four dead American soldiers. Hernandez pointed to them, then spoke.

"Take a good look Bob, Nate. I don't like killing any more than the next man. But the bastards who did this know the goddamned war is lost. I don't know why they don't just quit. They want to fight? F**k them, we'll fight. I don't care if I have to kill every goddamned German in uniform to make this war end, I'll do it. Look good and hard gentlemen, this war can't last much longer and you know what, I'm tired of losing men like this."

Hernandez sighed, took his helmet off, ran one hand through his sweaty hair, then placed his helmet back on his head. "Look Bob, talk to the kid, what he did wasn't exactly right, but it wasn't exactly wrong. Those bastards want to live, they should surrender before they shoot at us."

Poole nodded, "I know what you mean Cap'n, but it bugs me when shit like this happens."

"It bugs me too Bob. But stuff like this happens all the time. Go on, mount up, I want your platoon backstopping 1st Platoon and the tanks."

As Poole jogged off, Hernandez turned to Paddock. "Sure you want to stay with 2nd, you coulda been killed out there. Think Edith would forgive either of us if that happened?"

"She's already mad at me for being back up on the line. She'd go crazy with worry if she knew I had my old platoon back. But hey, if my men have to lay it on the line, I want to be there with them."

"Okay, but ease up on the heroics, Myerson told me what you did. Gutsy, but you could have gotten the both of you killed. Be careful Nate. Okay?"

"Okay Stephen, hey, ain't this a hoot? You used to be my platoon sergeant, now you're my boss. Funny how life works, isn't it?"

"Does that bother you Nate?"

"Hell no, you're one of the best soldiers in the outfit. The men would follow you through Hell, so would I. And yes, I'll be more careful, Myerson told me if I ever did that again he'd kick my ass, officer or no."

"Heh, your radioman's a big boy, I wouldn't piss him off."

"Yeah, good point. All right, I need to see to my men. Chapman's squad has been taking it in the teeth lately, they lost Sgt. Cruz and Pvt. Genovese not long ago, now these four guys. Any chance I can cut them some slack for a few days?"

"Yeah, I'll make them the company reserve, keep 'em out of harm's way for a week or so. At least until we get replacements. Ah, my XO's waving at me, probably more paperwork I need to sign."

"How's he working out?" Paddock wanted to know.

"Good kid, overeager, ya know, like a young puppy, but a good kid. He'll do."

Paddock nodded then said, "Back to work I guess."

"Be careful Nate, I mean it."

The view from the Brocken, in the Harz Mountains.
(Source)

¹ Also known as the Blocksberg.

² Please, don't shoot.

Link to all of the Chant's fiction.

Progress

 Well....Haven't made a lot of progress clearing things off the "To Do" list this past week.  I did, however, find someone who makes house calls for riding lawn mowers.  Made calls to several lawn mower repair places, unfortunately, all required me to deliver the mower to their facility.  Which wouldn't be too difficult if the mower would start or move into neutral so I could, possibly, push it up a ramp into the bed of my pickup.

No, Beans, you're right. I'd have to bribe the two teenaged boys that live close by to come and help push.

In the Jungle, the Mighty Jungle, who knows what sleeps tonight!

Anyhow, just because I like the sound of rejection and the jungle was closing in, I called one final person.  I explained that the mower wouldn't start. It made a click and then nothing.  I told him that I'd replaced the battery when I first encountered the issue,  but that hadn't fixed the problem. It merely went from no reaction whatsoever when the key was turned to a click with the new battery.  I couldn't open the hood to see if I could see anything wrong, because the last operator (She shall remain nameless, since she HAD mowed the lawn) parked it right against the house.  Since the hood is hinged at the bottom front, the house interfered with opening.  Since I couldn't get it into neutral/disengage the brake, rolling it backward wasn't possible either.  I then asked if he, by chance, made house calls.  Surprisingly, he did.  For a mere $70, he'd come take a look.  He suggested a few things I could check vis a vis the transmission and brakes.  None of which were in my skill set.  So, Saturday arrives as does he.  He mounts the beast, turns the key...and...

No, Beans, it didn't start.  It just clicked.

I felt vindicated.  He popped the seat up, checked the connection to the battery. (Which I had done). Disconnected it and took a wire brush to the ends of the connecting wires.  Hooked it back up, got back on, turned the key...And...

Yes, Beans, it started right up.

I rationalized the visit expense by thinking that the cost of back surgery trying to get the mower into the truck, even with two strapping teenage boys to assist, would undoubtedly be more than that $75 bucks.  

My job will be to use the push mower to finish the yard.
Yay!

We've also made some progress on refinishing the dining furniture on what will be a second guest house on the property.  DIL is currently living in it and will until she leaves with Tex, the Wonder Dog. for their next assignment.  She's been very patient, but the finish on the chairs has been peeling off and the cane in the seat back has failed in one.  So, this operation (as yet unnamed, suggestions always gratefully accepted) has several phases.  (Yes, Beans, just like all my Operations.) Phase One ( now underway) is to repair, re-stain, recover the seat cushion, and re-cane the back  of two of the four chairs.  

Progress was made in that, the old finish has been sanded (and sanded, and sanded, and...) and re-stained.  The seat cushions have been recovered, quite nicely I might add, through no real skill of my own. (No, Beans, handling a staple gun does not require great skill. Folding the fabric around curves, pulling it tight while maintaining the pattern alignment with the front of the chair, on the other hand...).  

This only leaves the re-installation of the cane.   Which is our project for this week.  According to the YouTube videos, this should only take about 2 minutes.  YouTube videos are filmed in real time, Right????

We shall see how this turns out, then debrief for lessons learned and start on the last two. But, right now, it's looking pretty nice.

Personal projects? I read a post on Instapundit about this pamphlet "Before I go".  After the episode at Dead Man's Curve last week, I figured it would be worth it to take a look at what we've got in place and make any needed changes.  While the subject is difficult to address, I'm about halfway through it and already it's proven its worth in pointing out things I need to change/add/or update.  Highly recommended.  

Those are "To Do" slips sticking out the top and side.

Mrs J has decided to learn to paint using water color.  Been at it a few weeks now.  Frankly, I think she's doing great.

Our new House (with two imaginary trees)

Finally, Mrs J, the Dogs, and the Chauffer are planning to take a vacation the end of May.  We've decided on visiting Palo Duro Canyon, near Amarillo.  The plan is to rent an RV, pick up a rental vehicle when we get near and scope out the area.  We've never visited there, so any suggestions on must see/do things would be appreciated.

Peace out, y'all!  Remember, we ain't getting any younger. Besides...I've got a date with a push mower.