Bookshelf Battle

I was surrounded.

Tucked snugly in my waistband and hidden under my tank top, Betsy was my only back-up.

The leader dismounted his horse and pointed his sword at me, bidding me to reach for the sky.  I wasn’t in a position to argue.

“I am Amal Al-Karim,”  the man said as he removed the scarf that once covered his mouth, revealing a bushy black beard.  “Son of Imran, descendant of a tribe that traces its roots in this land to the 7th Century.”

Silence.  They were all waiting on me.

“I’m Hatcher,”  I replied.  “Jake Hatcher.  Son of Gus.  I’m from Bayonne.”

“Hatcher, Son of Gus,”  Amal said.  “You’re not a German.”

“I should say not,”  I said.  “In fact, there’s some egg on your face there, chief, because my boys and I are here to make the Germans go boom boom for ya’ so if you’ll take a hike we’ll be on our way as soon as we can.”

Amal walked around to my other side, studying me as if I were some kind of puzzle.  Little did he know I wasn’t that deep.

“You’re not a Frenchman.”

“What tipped you off?”  I asked.  “That we shot at you a couple of times before giving up?”

Ouch.  Yeah, I know.  Low blow.  The whole situation in France and her greater territories was a real, to borrow a modern phrase, “shit show.”

You had your Vichy French.  They collaborated with Hitler’s goons.  Then you had the Free French, the Frenchies who answered to the so-called government in exile under Charles Degaulle.  There was a whole French underground movement that fought the Germans valiantly.

The Vichy French were collaborating with the Germans in North Africa at the time as well, though I heard it wasn’t unheard of for the occasional Frenchman to switch sides once the Allies came rolling in.

“And you’re not British,”  Amal said.  “Where is this, ‘Bayonne?’”

“You’re looking at a bonafide Stars and Stripes waving American, Abu.”

“Amal.”

“Whatever.”

“Why are Americans here?”

“That’s a helluva yarn,”  I said.  “Long story short, the Japanese bombed us, the Japanese and the Nazis are buddies, so now we hate the Germans and so now we’re here to make the Nazis go bye bye.”

“The French as well?”

“Only if they get in the way,”  I said.

Amal looked around at a few of his men.  I was outnumbered and like the Queen of England after a night with Prince Phillip, screwed royally.

“Surely these lands will return to us when this war is over?”

“Pbbbhhhhht…”

That was my only response.  I tried to stall but the breathe slipped out of my lips like I was a leaky balloon.

“You know, Armando…”

“Amal.”

“Right,”  I said.  “I’m just a tiny cog in a much larger machine.  The brass doesn’t fill me in on the big picture questions like that.  They tell me where to go and who to shoot and I do it.  You know how it is.”

Without warning, Amal grabbed my knogan and slammed it up against the tank tread.

“YOU WILL ANSWER ME!”

“All right!”  I said.  “Jesus.  I’m not a betting man, but I’d say when the dust settles, the French will be calling the shots in these parts again.”

Amal raised his sword and I felt a few drips of my own urine leak out in terror as the sun’s rays glistened off the shiny steel.

Me?  Jake Hatcher?  Get separated from my squash in the name of French imperialism?

No thank you.

I reached into my pants and pulled out my weapon.

The other one.

Betsy had six shots on her and I was going to use all of them.

SHOT 1 – Into Amal’s foot, putting him in so much pain that he was forced to release me.

SHOT 2 – The head of the palooka who charged at me screaming various mumbo jumbo words I didn’t understand.

SHOT 3 – A fella’s head, stopping him before he could jam his damn sword into my neck.

SHOT 4 – Some nimrod that tried to slice my stomach open.

SHOTS 5 and 6 – Two galoots that made a run for me, each dispatched in quick secession.

I was out and Betsy was back in my waistband for safekeeping.

Amal and a few of his goons circled me as the others watched.  Why they all didn’t just jump me, I don’t know.  Maybe it was customary to let their leader duke it out.  Maybe they just thought by hanging back, it would make for a more dramatic effect.

  For an injured man, Amal was pretty handy with the steel.  He lunged at me and I bypassed him quickly, then introduced one of his cronies to the business end of my fist. 

Yet another attacker screamed some gibberish and slashed away at me only to meet my left hook, followed up by a sweet right cross.

These fellas were hungry and I had an unlimited supply of knuckle sandwiches.

Amal flipped his sword around, performing various tricks until finally I delivered a clothesline punch right to his kisser.

He hit the ground like a ton of bricks.  I let my fists fly, one by one knocking the sword swinging madmen off their feet with my fists of fury.

Amal was back up.  Once more, he raised his sword and was about to bring it down when….BLAKATKATKAT!!!!

A barrage of machine gun fire ripped him to shreds.  A dozen or so more palookas were cut down until the rest of them hopped on their high horses and got while the getting was good.

Like an old Western, the cavalry had come at the last minute.  Except they were rapidly approaching in the form of ten tanks with British markings.

I’d never been happier to see the Union Jack.

They pulled up to a halt.  The hatch on one of them opened and a man with a handlebar mustache popped out.

“I say,”  the Brit said.  “What the bloody hell are you yanks doing out here in the middle of nowhere all by yourselves?”

The hatch of my tank popped open and Dag shoved his stupid head out, only to loudly shout, “God save the Queen!”

“I love you guys!”  my mechanic continued as he jumped out and walked over.  Sam and Larry soon followed.

“I love tea,”  Dag continued.  “I love crumpets.  I love your muffins.”

The Brit came out to meet us and I answered his original question after shaking his hand.

“Good help is hard to find.”

“Yes,”  the Brit said.  “And my good man, you are…”

“Hatcher,”  I said.  “Sergent Jake Hatcher.  Third U.S. Army.”

“Major Nigel Roundtree, at your service.  You’re a bit far from General Patton.”

“Yeah,”  I said, pointing at my rig, and then at Dag.

“Lousy ride…lousier mechanic.”

“Hey!”

“No worries, old boy,” Roundtree said as his men began exiting their tanks.  “My men will have a look at it.  You chaps look famished.”

“I could eat,”  Sam said.

“Come, come,”  my new friend said as he put his arm around me.  “We’ll have a drink and get you fixed up.”

“No arguments here,”  I said.

“But Hatcher, you must tell me something.”

“What’s that?”

“Where on Earth did you learn to throw a punch like that?”

Copyright 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.