Monday, February 24, 2014

Betsy

       

        [Book-plugging time again. This is from Freedom's Sons, Chapter XVI. - HAC]

“It really sounds funny referring to a comrade by a Jewish name,” said Campbell, shaking his head in bemusement. “When this is all over, somebody needs to tell me the doc’s real name.”

“I don’t know it, and he may not remember it,” said Cardinale. “Out Here you can end up losing yourself in your cover and forgetting who you really are. No kidding. I’ve been Vinnie Skins for so long that I swear I have these vague memories of my childhood in New Jersey that never happened. Be glad you’re only Out Here for the short term. When you get back Home, you may find yourself thinking and acting like Richie for a while. I hope your wife is understanding.”

“I don’t know what she’d think of Richie the Buttlegger, but I damned sure know what she’ll say about these tattoos!” said Campbell, lifting his be-Lila’ed arm. “Speaking of which, I know we’re not supposed to act curious about fellow team members, but Betsy’s let some things slip over the past couple of months that give me the impression there’s a story there. She said once she’s never even been back Home since she was a kid. How is that possible? I mean, she’d have to go back to go through SoI on Whidbey Island, at least?”

“Betsy never went to SoI,” said Cardinale, shaking his head. “We recruited her locally. Fortunately for us, she’s turned out to be a natural. Yeah, there’s a story there, and I suppose you ought to know it, just so you don’t end up putting your foot in it with her. She’s from a little town out in eastern Washington called Wheeler, or it was called Wheeler. It was out near Moses Lake somewhere.”

“Was?” asked Bob.

“Yeah, was. It’s gone now,” Cardinale told him, “The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers dynamited all the buildings, burned what they could, and bulldozed the rubble into a landfill during the last year of the war. I don’t know if the Republic ever rebuilt it. The NVA had an active company out there, attached to the Yakima Brigade. Can’t remember the details, never got down that way myself, but that particular crew specialized in whacking Indians. They used to leave cards at their hits saying it was revenge for Kennewick Man or some such. They shot some self-proclaimed chief of the Hunkapoop tribe or whatever, coming out of the liquor store just outside the res, of course. Turned out this redskin was a real favorite with the liberal media back east here, kind of their official Native American Mascot from the Racist Northwest.”

“And here I thought we were all Native Americans, by virtue of being born here,” sneered Bob.

“Not if you’re the wrong color, no,” said Cardinale. “Yeah, that one always used to get my back up as well. Anyway, when Chief Running Nose was sent to the happy hunting ground, there was all kinds of screaming and hollering about wicked white men completing the genocide of the noble red man, all that happy horseshit. The Volunteers who did the deed were out of reach, but the political pressure was on for the feds to do something, jump up and down and shit snowballs, whatever. So the FATPOs moved in and arrested the entire population of Wheeler, which was four or five hundred people, and deported them all to the FEMA camps in Nevada.”

“Oh, Jesus!” said Bob, shaking his head. “I’ve heard of those camps. Let me guess. Was Betsy … ?”

“She was,” said Cardinale grimly. “She was about thirteen at the time, so she was considered too old for It Takes a Village, her mind being already corrupted with wicked racism and the King James Bible, so forth and so on. So she got to go along for the ride. Betsy and her mother and her little brother were dragged out of their house around dawn and thrown into the back of an eighteen-wheeler along with about seventy other people, standing room only, and then they hit the road south. No stops along the way, at least not for the deportees. By the time the truck got to the camp in Pahrump, only about half of the people in the truck were still alive, and Betsy’s brother was dead. Heat and dehydration. The child was about six, I think. Betsy’s mother died a few months later of the same causes plus malnutrition, starvation, intermittent beatings, and occasional bouts of interracial gang rape at the hands of the guards, most of whom were nigger and Mexican military stockade inmates, acting as trusties under the so-called supervision of the army MPs. Once her mother died, Betsy was left there on her own. Do you want me to go on?”

“No, sir,” said Campbell. “I’m sorry I asked. I won’t say anything to her to let on that I know. We all know some Mandingo older women back home. There’s a rule that we somehow get taught, but it’s so subtle that most of us can’t even remember where we learned it. I know I can’t.”

Say nothing, remember everything,” quoted Cardinale. “Yes, I’ve heard it, and it doesn’t just apply to Mandingo experiences. Anyway, Betsy ended up here in D.C. through a series of events I won’t get into, and we were lucky enough to pick her up. The reason Betsy has never been Home is that she feels she has nothing to go Home to.”

“That’s not true, sir!” said Campbell sadly. “She has the land we made out of what we took from them to go home to. She can start over. That’s what the Republic is there for, for Christ’s sake!”

“Maybe someday she will,” said the older man. “Right now she doesn’t see it that way. She’s into the whole lifelong revenge thing, and you’re right, you do not talk to her about any of this. We can’t give that girl much in exchange for all she does for us, but we can damned sure give her respect!”

2 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

Buy this book. Read this book. Loan this book out. Post a review on Amazon.

Since this book came out, there are only nine reviews posted on Amazon. We can do better than that.

Terry in Florida.

7:42 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Thanks, Odin, for your review on Amazon.

Next review, Go!

Terry in Florida.

9:24 AM  

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