Chapter 17
From the Dennis the Menace Book of Tricks...
Samir was bored. He was scared. He was pissed. And, yeah, he might be five years old, but he knew what pissed meant.
His father had been gone for almost a week.
And he had had eight...eight...babysitters so far.
Not family members like his grandmother or Uncle Danny, not even family friends, except for once in a while the witch Madrene.
Nope, these were big ol’ scowling giants with arms the size of frisbees and grumpy voices.
..even the women. They didn’t let him do anything.
..not anything fun, anyhow, like play blood-and-guts video games.
..or play catch outside. The only thing they would let him watch on TV was Sesame Street or Noggin.
Like I’m ever gonna play with someone like Dora the Boring Explorer!
Or Ernie the Dork! They wouldn’t even let him have Pepsi and Twinkies for breakfast. They probably give prisoners that shredded hay stuff with milk and no sugar.
The only visitor he was allowed to have was a tutor.
..that was the name for a teacher with bad breath who forced him to read silly books, like See Jane Run.
If I was Jane, I would run, too...right out the door.
And numbers! My brain hurts from doing all those numbers.
He liked studying geography, though, especially when he could see on a map how far away Afghanistan was.
And history, he liked that, too. That Ben Franklin was a cool guy; he wrote a book called Fart Proudly. Farts are awesome.
Mostly, though, he was scared. They wouldn’t be having all these big goons watching him if they didn’t think that his grandfather was close by.
What will Grandfather do if he gets me? Will he lop off my head like I saw him do one time to Taj’s cousin’s uncle? Probably not. But he will beat me. I am certain of that. Maybe with a whip this time.
And he was scared that his father would not come back. Just like his mother. She had gone on a mission, too. And got killed.
Samir needed to do something, but he was only a little boy. He needed help. From someone who could be coaxed into stuff.
Suddenly, he knew.
Britta.
From caterpillar to babysitter, all in one day...
A week had gone by since Britta had made a harlot of herself...and, yea, that was how she increasingly viewed her performance on the metal frame of an otto-mow-bill with Zachary.
Not that she had not enjoyed herself.
Not that she would not repeat the exercise, if given the chance.
But Zachary and some of his cohorts had been gone for almost a sennight now, and not a word about their whereabouts, or even if they were still alive.
She’d tried to ask the commander about the mission on several occasions, but he’d merely glowered at her, muttering something about stupid men and stupider women.
“Okay, snuffies, I think it’s time for a new game,” the chieftain named F.U. said with an evil glint in his eye, mostly directed at her.
For some reason, he had taken a dislike to her, and picked on her constantly.
No doubt because she had dumped him on his arse that first day, but he had more than deserved his comeuppance.
Since Zachary and some of the other instructors were away on a mission, Chieftain F.U.
was in charge, backed up on occasion by Commander MacLean.
The performance that the WEALS had given for the visiting law persons had gone well. In fact, one of the female governing persons—a senator, just like the ancient Romans—had taken her aside and asked, “How are they really treating you?”
Taken aback, she replied, “Our training is difficult, but less so than SEALs. No need for complaint.” Britta was being generous.
She would have liked to tell her of the incessant running, the incessant surf passages, and all the other incessants, but she had held her tongue.
“Choosing battles” was a tactic she’d learned this week in Battle Theory class, and a good lesson it was, too.
“I like your attitude,” the white-haired woman had said. Then she had put a small parchment item in her hand. “That’s my telephone number. A private line. If there’s ever a problem, just call me.”
Now, five days later, they were deep in physical training...again. Incessantly.
She and the other WEALS had just returned from a five-mile run on the sandy shore carrying that heavy rub-her boat. To say they were hot, tired, dirty, odorsome, and in pain would be like saying that boars had bad breath...a large understatement.
“Okay, snuffies, here’s the deal,” the commander told them.
“Next week, we go to San Clemente Island for survival training and Sims. The week after will be rock portage, the gateway evolution for SEALs and WEALS. Doesn’t mean you’re on Easy Street after that, but it is a major hurdle.
Now I’ll turn the program over to Instructor Uxley, and I’ll see you early Monday morning. ”
“Yes, Commander, sir!”
Chieftain Uxley waited till the commander was out of hearing range, then yelled, “I’m thinkin’ it’s time to play caterpillar, sweet things, and guess who’s gonna give head...I mean, be the head?” He winked at Britta. If ever a wink could be construed as malicious, his was.
No doubt this would be another exercise in torture designed to make the women ring the quitting bell. Her assumption soon proved true.
In truth, everything they did these days was torture.
And the hollered orders all ran together.
“A-ten-shun!” “Listen up!” “Run, run, run!” “Recover!” “Hydrate!” “You weak-as-piss maggots!” “A-ten-shun!” “Fall in!” “Fall out!” “A-ten-shun!” “Drop!” “Drop and give me twenty...thirty...fifty!” “Hydrate!” “Recover!” “On your backs, scruffies!” “On your feet!” “A-ten-shun!” “Up boats!” “Down boats!” “Hydrate!” “Hit the deck!” “You Can Always Ring Out!” In between, they kept hearing that blasted whistle and must needs react in the correct manner.
Now they were going to be bloody caterpillars.
Wearing heavy life vests and helmets, the trainees were forced to sit in the water in a line, breasts to backs, snugly placing the legs around the person in front, thus becoming a water-going caterpillar.
They could paddle out to deeper waters with their hands, but not kick their legs.
The vests kept them buoyant, but they were nigh drowned after a half hour in this position.
When they staggered back to shore, vomiting, several instructors helped those in greatest need.
Chieftain Uxley just smirked. Three women wobbled up to the bell to ring out.
Leaving only thirty of the original ninety-five, a number that did not surprise those in authority.
The caterpillar nonsense was a not-so-great ending to a not-so-great week, with a two-day liberty looming ahead, but all Britta could think about was sleep. That plan was cut short when Commander MacLean intercepted her on the way to the women’s quarters.
“Madrene wants to talk with you,” he said, handing her a tell-a-fone.
“Greetings!” she said.
“Britta, how do you fare?” Madrene asked. In the background, she could hear Sammy clamoring, “Let me talk, let me talk,”
“How do I fare? I am sore. I am tired. I am dirty. I am hungry. And I smell. Other than that, I am just wonderful.”
Madrene laughed. “Well, I can take care of one of those. Wouldst join me and Hilda for dinner tonight? Ian could drop you off here at Pretty Boy’s on his way home. I am watching Sammy today, but one of the guards will be taking over.”
The thought of getting into a small vehicle space with the dour commander was daunting, but Britta relished the idea of meeting with these two old friends. Plus, she yearned for news of Zachary, and going to his home might provide the information she wanted.
Several hours later, Britta braved the guards surrounding Zachary’s keep, whilst Madrene brought her two children out to the otto-mow-bill for the grumbling commander to take home so she could enjoy a “girl’s night out.
” She noticed that the commander kissed Madrene sweetly afore leaving, which made her think that mayhap he was not as bad as he appeared.
Besides, on the drive here, the commander gave her news of Zachary and his comrades-in-arms. They might be home in a few days, she was told.
Plus, she found out that they had not left the country, but instead were fighting terrorists at a football stadium.
Football was a ludicrous game in this country where grown men threw a leather ball and tackled each other with great force, often causing serious injury.
Viking men would love it. In any case, Zachary could not be in such great danger at a game, she told herself.
The second Britta entered Zachary’s keep, Sammy launched himself at her, arms wrapped tightly around her neck, and little legs hugging her waist. He was sobbing and talking a garbled message that seemed to indicate he was lonely and scared and wanted her to stay with him.
Madrene, who had been watching him that day, just shook her head with dismay. “I don’t know what to do with the boyling. The longer Zach is away, the more frantic he becomes.”
Madrene went to open the door for Hilda, who had just arrived.
Britta sat down on a soft fabric, cushiony chair and pulled Sammy onto her lap, drying his eyes with the hem of his tea-ing shert.
At the little-boy scent of his skin and the feel of his tightly clinging arms, Britta fought to control her tears.
..and a yearning for something she had never thought possible. Motherhood.
“Stay with me,” he wailed.
“I cannot, dearling. I must needs do my military training.”
“All the time?” His words were alternated with hiccups.
“Well, not all the time. Most times.”
“Stay now.”
“I am going out to dine with Madrene and Hilda.”
“You’re leaving me here...alone.” That set off a new round of crying. And more aching in the region of her heart.