Willard
01-27-2007, 08:40 AM
Chapter 3
Resting against the pack, Dave looked at his watch, and set the alarm. He then drifted
into a light sleep. Waking to the beeping of the watch a little more than an hour later,
Dave again connected the little Yaesu to the improvised antenna, and pushed the third of
his preset frequency buttons. Today was a Thursday, and an odd numbered day of the
week, and he checked the frequency in his head, ensuring he was on the right push. As
Noon approached, he again put in the earpiece, and turned up the volume. Just as his
watched turned to 12 o’clock exactly, he heard squelch break on the frequency.
Marveling at the technology that could produce a watch that kept synchronized time so
well, he listened to the music playing in his ear. The gentle tune of Greensleeves broke
through, a version played by a folk group using words from the mid 1880’s. The female
singers soft voice called to him, “Away, away, come away with me, where the grass
grows wild, and trees grow free. Away, away, come away with me, and I’ll build you a
home in the meadow…”. Dave sniffed. It was a beautiful rendition in ordinary times, and
given his situation, very poignant. A voice came on the air. “Sua Sponte.” The
transmission ended. Dave leaned back is if a heavy burden had been suddenly lifted. Sua
Sponte, the motto of the Army’s 75th Ranger Regiment, was one of the prearranged code
words that indicated that all was well back at the ranch. He knew his wife and sons were
safe, and so were his friends. Sua Sponte, "of their own accord". The rangers other motto
was leave no man behind. If he was in serious trouble, sick, injured, on the run, he could
answer with codes of his own, indicating approximately where he was, and what was
wrong. They would monitor the frequency for a half hour after playing the message, and
the alert frequency was part of the retreats preset scanning. Hearing this his friends, some
of them, anyway, leaving behind enough staff to ensure the security of their families,
would come for him. Mutual aid was one of the things they had agreed upon long ago.
Can’t pay rent this month? We’ll help. Sick and can’t shovel your walk? We’ll be there.
It all worked out and in this case Dave’s investment was paying off.
Dave settled back, the camouflage painted rifle sitting across his lap. Looking at the rifle
he smiled to himself. What would old Sgt Chadwick say about this, he wondered, drifting
back to sleep.
“McGrath” the voice ordered.
“Yes Sergeant” answered Dave, his eyes on the ACU clad NCO at the front of the room.
“Since we are covering the basics, kindly explain camouflage, cover, and concealment to
the platoon”
“Yes Sergeant,” answered Dave, “Camouflage disguises something, to make it look not
at all like what it is. Concealment is something that hides you from observation, and
cover does the same and provides protection against small arms fire.”
“That’s right, college boy” said the Sergeant, “You win a cookie. Breaking up the form of
you or your equipment is camouflage. Take your rifle,” he held up his M-4 carbine, “It’s
just straight lines and all black. Pretty good color, but it still is a large black straight line
when all is said and done. What we’re going to do today is to rectify some of the
problems this presents to us in a tactical environment. Pratt” the Sgt pointed at a red
headed soldier in the front, “that box on the corner of your table, pass out the contents,
one color per two men.”
Pratt lifted the box and began passing out small spray paint cans to the assembled men.
“This is called “Bowflage”, and it’s a removable paint sold to hunters. We’ll be using this
today on our carbines. Hunters might need this to sneak up on Bambi, but your game is
harder-Bambi doesn’t use mechanical ambushes and RPG’s on Joe Sixpack. Later we’ll
be constructed camouflage for your rucks and your sorry asses. I don’t care much for
pretty equipment. When you put your ruck down in the field I want you to run a 70%
chance of losing it in the bush.” The platoon chuckled. Sgt Chadwick was a hard core
trooper. Having served most of his career in Special Forces, he was doing a three year
stint in a line unit to perfect his troop leading skills. The platoon was, for the most part,
glad to have such a colorful and knowledgeable NCO leading them. At the very least he
kept them interested-he came up with so many wild schemes the platoon would have
stuck around just to see what he came up with next. “I can’t train and lead a guerilla
battalion without having time training and leading troops” he had explained when he
reported to Lt Moore the previous spring. Lt Moore agreed, and was happy to have him.
An ROTC graduate, Lt Moore was also unique in that had served for four years a Marine
Infantryman before college. Also, he was smart enough to know his own limitations, and
had hence learned quite a bit more about leadership and command than any other Lt in
the Brigade.
After painting their weapons and receiving Sgt Chadwick’s approval (several men had to
redo their weapons to Chadwick’s standards), he had Pratt start passing out woodland
pattern ruck covers and four foot square sections of camouflage net. Using black
electrical ties and para cord, they attached the netting to their pack covers. They then cut
the net to size, and using strips of burlap from rolls (“I have the NSN for everything” Sgt
Chadwick had answered deadpan when Lt Moore asked him where it had come from),
they added detail to their new covers. This cover is what Dave had on his pack now,
although with slight modification.
“These covers have been treated by the esteemed Mrs. Chadwick,” said the Sgt. She was
always “The Esteemed Mrs. Chadwick”. Never a name, “with a water repellent, as has
the burlap. You nasty smokers had better not set the burlap on fire, boys, or I will make
you regret it” His malevolent smile reinforced his word. “We’ll be doing a smaller cover
for your boonie hats, too, so leave some burlap, Williams”. Looking at Williams, Dave
could see that he had a cover that looked not so much like a camo'ed pack cover as a
lump of burlap the size of a hay bale. Williams smiled apologetically and started
removing material. “That’s better,” said Chadwick, tying more burlap to his own pack
cover.
Their first field problem after the camo session proved the worth of the camouflage. They
were crossing an open area when they heard helicopters. “Down” yelled Chadwick. The
men dropped beneath their covered rucks and peered up at the Blackhawks coming in
from their left front. Flaring, the birds touched down and quickly disgorged their cargo of
heavily laden infantrymen. “Psst” hissed Chadwick, “we’re recon. No one fires unless
fired upon, pass it on.” Under the roar of the idling UH-60’s the men passed the word.
Suddenly the engine noise changed, and the four ‘Hawks applied power and lifted off in a
cloud of dust, leaves, and grass. The LZ soon filled with the sound of an infantry platoon
moving, the jingle of rucksacks being put on, the sounds of squad leaders issuing
commands for movement. Heading out through the tall grass, the squads formed into
wedges and moved out, right through the recon platoon. Even though he knew it was only
training, Dave felt tension as soldiers bearing heavy weapons and packs walked through
his platoon. After the platoon entered the woodline, Dave let out a sigh of relief. The
camo had worked. Over 40 men had just walked over and around 18 men lying in the
grass, and not one had been spotted. After calling in a report of the size and direction of
the just landed platoon, the recon troops split into their three teams and one command
group, and continued their mission. Camouflage, concealment, and staying still had just
made a great impression on Specialist David McGrath. It would one day save his life.
__________________________________________________ ____________________
Dave woke from the cold. The sun had set and he could see stars shining brightly above
him in the clear Fall air. He drank some water, and nibbled a Maple nut cake from an
MRE. Finishing, he took the cover off of his pack and reversed it. He had, some time ago,
had has wife, Sandy, sew green cotton onto the inside of the pack. He could then reverse
the cover and it would appear to be a commercial pack cover and not present an alarming
appearance to the gentler citizens of the hiking world. Dave felt that he would create less
of a scene if he were noticed walking through suburbia than if he had a large, burlap
covered tick on his back. He removed a cotton flannel shirt from his pack, and put it on
over his chest pouch to hide it from casual observation. His rifle would present more of
an issue. Taking his pack he left the little hiding spot and crawled out of the thicket.
Taking his bearings, he consulted his compass and set out. Before long he came to the
first of many houses. They were all dark, some with a little light showing through
curtains, but it was apparent that this was a no power zone. He made his way through
backyards, carrying his rifle on his left side, up close to the side of the pack. Eventually
he came to the cemetery he had noted earlier. Staying near the wooded edge of the
property, he paralleled a small stream and left the security of it only when he came to a
school. He paused on the embankment, and conducted what he had once called a security
halt. Listening for anything unusual, he only heard gunshots once, three of them, from a
very long ways off. What did give him cause for concern was the car that turned into the
parking lot of the school near the gym. When the door opened he saw it was a police
cruiser. The two officers in the car went to the door of the gym and knocked. Light
flowed forth as the door was opened, and the Officers entered the gym. Darkness returned
as the door shut, the sound of the metal fire door hitting the jam echoing across the ball
field like a bass drum. Dave was up and moving before the echo was gone from his ears.
He wanted to move now, while the cops were inside. He made his way along the edge of
the field, and then ran across the street and into a backyard. Taking cover behind a shed,
he rested for a moment to catch his breath. He then rose and continued through a
seemingly endless maze of backyards. Several blocks away he almost died of fright as a
shed door opened in his face. Stopping and backpedaling, he backed around the corner of
the building as a man holding toilet paper in his hand walked across the backyard and
entered the house. Dave slunk around to the back of the shed and was suddenly assaulted
by the ripe odor of human waste. “Outhouse” he thought to himself. Had things really
gotten that bad so soon? Well, he reasoned, if the water treatment plants were without
generators, water would be rationed. Only those with artesian water would have enough.
He skirted several houses that had dogs in the yards, and had to change his course several
times to avoid large stockade fences. He finally sought cover behind a house that was
somewhat secluded from its neighbors by trees, apparently being built near the center of a
large double lot. In fact, the house was large enough and old enough to have been here
before the area was developed into a tract of soul-less, cookie cutter colonials. Taking
shelter behind a garden shed, Dave dropped his ruck and drank the last of his water. This
was going to be a problem. If the water was being rationed, how could he fill up? The
sound of a door slamming sent his adrenal gland into overdrive. Grabbing the FAL, he
rolled over into the prone and aimed at the house. The door opened and slammed again.
The wind, he thought. He looked at the house. Several windows were open, with curtains
blowing gently out of them. The door itself, wait, the screen door was askew on its one
remaining hinge. Abandoned? Dave watched for a half hour, and then quickly opened his
pack to get the water bladder. Unclipping his buttpack, he slung it over his shoulder on a
length of para cord and headed for the house.
Pausing at the back stoop, he examined the door more closely. It definitely had been
broken in. Whoever did it may be inside, thought Dave, sleeping something off. Well, no
guts no glory he said to himself, and quietly climbed the concrete steps. He entered the
kitchen to find it untouched, except for wood splinters on the floor from where the jamb
had given way. The living room and bedroom were trashed however. In what was
apparently the master bedroom one section of wall had been exposed, plasterboard all
over the place, trampled by a number of feet. What the H??? thought Dave. The dressers
were open and the contents were scattered all over the room. Dave looked around. The
wall in the hall was covered with family pictures. A young man in a sailor’s uniform, the
same sailor in uniform with a young girl in her wedding gown, both smiling. Children
turning to adults, must be grandchildren, too. Returning to the kitchen, Dave noticed a
yellow paper attached to the table with a thumbtack. Using his red filtered light, and lying
on the floor to avoid exposing the light, he read the notice, all information on the
preprinted form. Dave saw that the details were filled in with the same block printed
handwriting, and the date was yesterdays:
Official Notice Department of Homeland Security
FEMA REGION 1, NEW ENGLAND
NOTICE OF SIEZURE
The property located at 13 Maple Terrace is hereby under seizure by the Department of
Homeland Security for the crime of (filled in) willful possession of unregistered assault
weapons.
List of items seized:
M1 Carbine, SN 1503117
Japanese rifle, S/N 456329
.45 pistol, US Property marked, S/N 67644 (stolen Gov’t property)
Ammunition, three cans
Unintended Consequences, seditious material
Patriots, Surviving the Coming Collapse, seditious material
Boston’s Gun Bible, seditious material
Various sedition material found on hard drive of iMac computer S/N AG 456E3410
All items seized as evidence.
IN ACCORDANCE WITH FEDERAL LAW SECTION 15, PARA 55, THE PREMISES,
MATERIALS, AND PERSONS RESIDING AT THIS RESIDENCE ARE REMANDED
TO THE CUSTODY OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE INTERNATIONAL
ASSISTANCE FORCES, UNITED STATES REGION, FOR TRIAL.
PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL FEMA REPRESENTATIVE OR ISAF
HEADQUARTERS FOR THE RETURN OF ANY PROPERTY THAT IS NOT
LEGALLY HELD BY THE OWNER, RESIDENTS, OR REPRESENTATIVES OF
SAID PREMISES.
Dave crumpled up the form and dropped it to the floor. Well, they went and did it all
right. Rounding up old people for a few war trophies. Unbelievable. Dave sat for a
minute. Get some stuff and get out said the little voice in his brain. Dave got to his feet
and turned. He opened the frige and looked inside. His eyes were drawn to a bottle of
soda and a 2 1/2 gallon jug of spring water-almost full. He removed the jug and the soda,
and put them near the door. Finding nothing else of use in the fridge, he went through the
cupboards, finding some cans of tuna, beef stew, canned meat, and various veggies.
Justifying his actions by the fact that the Gov.org now owned the contents of the house,
he stuffed as much as he could into the buttpack, grabbed a few apples and bananas from
a basket on the counter, and knelt by the door. He heard crickets in the backyard, and
determined that it was safe. Leaving the shelter of the house behind, he quickly retrieved
his pack, donned it, and continued through more backyards.
Chapter 4 – Beginnings
Dave approached the highway cautiously. He went through the parking area for a school
bus contractor, the silent yellow buses magnifying the sound of his steps on the gravel He
had wanted to go around, but the way was blocked by a fence and a steep gully. He
approached the rear fence, and dropped his pack. Taking a moment to look around and
listen, he once again unsheathed his Leatherman and undid the soft aluminum ties that
bound the fence to the bottom crossbar. Propping the fence open with his pack, he
wriggled under the fence, then held the fence open and pulled his pack towards him.
Gently replacing the fence, he returned the ties to their spots and resealed the fence. He
took a moment to reverse his pack cover and donned an olive green BDU top. Rebuckling
his chest rig, he once again shouldered his pack and entered the woodline. About 75
yards into the woodline, he saw an open area to his front. Dropping his pack, he placed it
near the base of a large pine tree.
Pulling on a pair of aviator gloves, he removed a pair of small binoculars from the
ammunition pouch on the right side of his packs hip-belt and put them in his left cargo
pocket. Moving with as much silence as he could, he slowly approached the cut. As he
got closer, he dropped and crawled the last ten yards, winding up under a mountain laurel
bush. Below him the empty interstate stretched like a black snake in the setting moons
light. He was right where he wanted to be, about 75 feet above the road on a cutout, an
almost sheer granite face to his front. On the other side of the highway he saw a similar
face. To his left the ground gently sloped away, and he could just see where the highway
crossed the low area, resting on a built up berm that rose about 15 feet above the
surrounding terrain. He took the time to study the ground opposite him, straining for any
sign of an OP. Scanning the roadway, he saw no vehicles on the shoulders, and no sign or
sound of anyone. Remaining where he was for an hour, the only traffic was three
Humvees led by a State Police car heading East, from his left to right. The Humvees
towed covered trailers, and were running without light discipline. That meant, said Dave
to himself, that they do not expect ambushes or hostile acts, which meant that they would
not as observant as they would if they were fighting a guerilla war.
Moving away from the road, he checked his watch. Dawn was fast approaching. He
moved back and eventually found his pack (good camo, Sgt Chadwick, he thought as he
finally found it). The sliver of moon had set, and the light of the stars lit his way. He
moved to his right and dropped his pack again. Walking and kneeling frequently, he
finally found a likely spot. A large pine tree with broad sweeping branches close to the
ground, very near the edge of the cut, with a large fallen pine right in front of it.
Retrieving his pack he returned to the pine and crawled under the lowest branch. Using a
bit of para cord and some stout dead sticks he quickly set up his space blanket over him,
shiny side down. In doing so he hoped to avoid observation from any aircraft or road
bound vehicles equipped with thermal vision. Laying out his sleeping bag, he unstrapped
the waist belt of his rig, and pulled the magazines forward, allowing him to lie on his
stomach comfortably. As he settled in for a long wait the first rays of dawn streaked the
sky. He watched the road, and his thoughts drifted to the circumstances that had brought
him here.
David McGrath was a typical American kind of guy. Two kids, a wife, a mortgage. He
lived in a modest home in semi rural Connecticut, and attended church weekly. He had
grown up in a home broken by divorce, but had a good relationship with his father and
mother, who had not let the divorce destroy their relationship with their children. Dave
had a fairly typical childhood for his area. Growing up he lived in a more rural area of the
state, in a house surrounded by farmland. He spent much of his free time as a youth
roaming the neighboring woods, graduating from a bb gun to a pellet gun then, on his
16th birthday, a .22 rifle, the same one his grandfather and father had used. He learned to
camp through his father and the Cub and Boy Scouts, and developed a life long love
affair with wild places.
Starting summer during his 14th year he worked for Mr. Houston, the old timer who
owned and farmed the land surrounding Dave’s house. Mr. Houston was a good man, a
Swamp Yankee, as they were known locally. He had only left his farm for any
appreciable time once, when he spent three years in the Pacific babying the piston
engines of Marine Corsair fighters. Like many of his generation he had come home from
the war and married his childhood sweetheart. As far as Dave knew there had been no
children, no heir to pass on the trade of farming. Mr. Houston never spoke of it, and it
just wasn’t something you asked someone about unless they volunteered it. Mrs. Houston
was a little bird of a thing, always baking pies and cookies, and Dave and his sister had
been welcome guests in her kitchen since they were in diapers. She canned the vegetables
grown in her modest kitchen garden, and they raised both a pig and a calf every year for
meat. They were the closest thing Dave had to grandparents, as both sets of his had died
before he was born. When Dave turned 8 Mr. Houston was complaining about the
squirrels and crows destroying his garden. Dave suggested shooting them with the BB
gun Mr. Houston kept behind the kitchen door. Mr. Houston put him off, saying he had
too much work to do on the farm to play with rodents. Dave suggested he find someone
to do it. After considering and discarding several names, Dave finally suggested that he
be allowed to do the job. Mr. Houston agreed with a twinkle in his eye, and it wasn’t until
years later Dave realized that he was the man Mr. Houston had been looking for the
whole time. From that day forward, Dave was never outside without the BB gun. That
Christmas he received one of his own from Mr. and Mrs. Houston, and the next summer
he started getting rewarded for his efforts-three ears of corn per squirrel, and two for each
crow.
When he started working for Mr. Houston around the farm, Dave learned much about life.
The birth of dairy cows, how to tell if an udder was infected, and mechanics by working
on the battered Ford pickup that was the farms workhorse, and the several old tractors Mr.
Houston around the place.
During the school year he rose early and helped with the morning milking, and grew to
love the early morning smells and sounds. Every summer he did take a break, though. His
uncle Tom was a history teacher at a local Community College, and house sat for one of
his friends for 6 weeks every summer, when his old roommate took his summer trip to
Europe. Dave would go for one to three weeks to stay with his family, spending his days
at the loaner beach house swimming in the Atlantic and boating in Long Island sound.
Dave’s uncle was a major military history enthusiast, and collected many historical
firearms and replicas. He would take Dave to his cabin in New Hampshire once or twice
a year, and they would spend the weekend shooting them. Cap and Ball revolvers,
flintlock and percussion muskets and rifles, lever action Winchesters, and his uncles’
trapdoor Springfield. Dave’s favorite was the M-1 Carbine an old man had given his
uncle. Despite his uncle’s best efforts, Dave developed a taste for more modern,
magazine fed arms. Eventually his uncle gave him the carbine, saying it was about 50
years ahead of his interests anyway.
Eventually his uncle took a position with a large college in New Hampshire, and Dave
visited him as often as he could until his untimely passing due to the affects of Agent
Orange exposure. Dave graduated from high school at 18, and while not a stellar student
was able to get into the state university that was about 50 miles from his home. He
attended school for two years, and studied History and Finance, and joined ROTC.
During his summer camp for ROTC Dave received a taste of military life. All of the adult
males of his family had served in the military in one capacity or another, except for Uncle
Rich. Dave suspected his Uncles lisp and feminine ways were more than an act put on for
the draft board. In fact, Dave could trace military service from members of his family
going back the Mexican War, and he had relatives on both sides of the Civil War. For all
of his effort, Dave didn’t really enjoy college. He dated a couple of girls, but found the
majority to be shallow and vain, interested more in parties and social circles than
anything of substance. Dave started to think of dating them as "defiling infidels", and
started to reexamine his own life. This decision led him to enlist in the Army in the spring
of his sophomore year. He told his mother that weekend when he went home, much to her
surprise. She was counting on Dave going to school and becoming successful.
Mr. Houston was happier with his choice. “Glad to see you doing something useful”, he
said in his gruff way. Dave could tell he was bursting with pride, “sitting around all day
listening to panty waisted professors yakking about things they have no real experience
with is a good way to get a pedigree, but no way to learn about life. You keep your mouth
shut and do what they tell you and you’ll do fine. And drop Mrs. Houston a note from
time to time, she’ll be worried sick about you.” Dave smiled. That was the most affection
Mr. Houston had ever overtly displayed to him.
His semester ended but Dave’s thoughts were on the summer. He had two weeks from his
last final exam until he reported the MEPS station for his processing. He spent most of
that time working around the farm. Mr. Houston was getting long in the tooth, and Dave
had a lot to do around the farm before he left for Fort Benning and Infantry School.
Dave eventually graduated from Infantry School and went directly to Airborne School
across post. Jumping out of planes was as exciting and as awesome as he had hoped. He
got his orders in his first week of jump school-Korea! He was both intrigued and
apprehensive. He spent the next two weeks trying to find out what Korea was like, but the
rumors that floated among the initial entry soldiers contained more false information than
a Clinton press release. Service in Korea turned out to be better then he expected. Here
was real soldiering. As part of an Air Assault Battalion, Dave spent much of his time
humping a large rucksack up and down the numerous “yammas”, or hills, in the Land of
the Morning Calm. Dave eventually wound up as a machine-gunner, by his own
insistence. He loved firing the big 23-pound M-60, and being an important part in his
platoons organic firepower. Also, being able to hump the “Pig” while heavily burdened
and in a country with little flat ground gave one a little more bragging rights than the
ordinary guy had.
Two months before his tour ended he got new orders-Fort Bragg. “All right”, said Dave
to his roommate, “82nd Airborne, here I come.” Dave was excited about the prospect of
joining “America’s Honor Guard”. They had a reputation as a fierce fighting unit, and
certainly he stood a better chance of seeing some interesting deployments.
When Dave arrived at Fort Bragg and checked in at the reception station, he talked to a
Sergeant who was waiting, like Dave, for orders to a unit within the division. “It’s like
this” the Sgt. began, “when you get to your battalion you’ll be assigned to a company.
The day you get your orders, take a walk to the battalion area and talk to the guys, find
out which company has the best reputation, then talk to the first shirt or the CO, and let
them know you’re being assigned to the battalion and due to the company’s reputation
you want to go to them. When you get to battalion HQ the next day, they will usually
send a runner up to grab you from the staff pogues, and you’ll get the assignment you
want.”
Dave took the advice heart, and when he got orders for the 1/504th Infantry he did just
that. Putting on his best BDU’s and his newly issued Maroon beret; he walked over to the
Battalion headquarters, and asked the CQ where he could find the Scout Platoon. The CQ
took Dave to the door and pointed out Recons area to him. Dave thanked him and smiled.
Looked like where he wanted to be. Above the door was a large, hand painted sign, a
black field with a gleaming white skull grinning down at him. The sign boldly
proclaimed “Where Mortal Man Fear Tread, Recon Leads the Way!” He knocked on the
door and a smiling black face soon opened it. “Watcha want, troop?” asked the soldier, a
Specialist by his collar insignia. “I’d like to speak to the Platoon Leader or Platoon
Sergeant’, said Dave. The soldier grinned “Looking for a job?” Dave nodded. “Well, this
is the place. Lt. Moore and Sgt. Chadwick are really cleaning house. If you aren’t squared
away and STRAC as Audey Murphy you won’t stand a chance. You just in from
Benning?” Dave shook his head, “Alpha, 1/503rd, Second ID.” The smile grew broader
“First Rock! I was in Charlie Company in ’92. I’m Williams, c’mon, the Platoon
Sergeant will want a guy used to humping the ROK.”
Dave was promptly introduced to Sergeant First Class Wesley Chadwick. Dave was
slightly intimidated by the Sergeant. He had more patches on his uniform than Dave had
ever seen. Drill Sergeant, Pathfinder, Jump Wings with a star, indicating a combat jump,
CIB, Special Forces combat patch on his right shoulder, Ranger and Special Forces tab.
“Pfc. McGrath requests permission to speak to the Platoon Sergeant”, said Dave from his
best parade rest. “Speak”, rumbled Sgt. Chadwick. “Sergeant, I report to battalion
tomorrow, and I would like to be assigned to the Scout Platoon.”
Chadwick looked at him. Jump wings. Reasonably fit. Didn’t sound like an idiot. “You a
college boy?” asked Chadwick. “No Sergeant, I’m a soldier”, replied Dave. “But I did
attend college before I wizened up.” Chadwick considered him again. “Troop, that makes
you a college boy. Can you type?”
“No sergeant, no more than hunt and peck.”
“That’s the right answer. Where you coming from? Benning?”
“No Sergeant, Alpha 1/503rd, Second ID, Korea.”
“What’d you do there?”
“Walked point in the Z, then humped a ’60.”
“Why’d they let a cherry walk point?”
“I grew up hunting and am good in the woods.”
“Country boy?”
“As much as a Yankee can be.”
“You use a radio?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I was an RTO for a short time, but I really wanted the ’60, so my Platoon
Leader squared me away.”
“What’s your GT score?”
“125”
“Last PT score?”
“322”
“Can you swim?”
“Yes Sergeant”
“How well?”
“I spent a few weeks every summer at the beach, so well enough.”
“Like jumping?”
“Well, Sergeant, the first five were pretty cool.”
Williams laughed “Cherry”, he said, a derisive term for new jumpers.
“That’s enough, Williams,” said Chadwick, “you were a cherry not to long ago yourself.”
Williams looked away, embarrassed to be chastised by his well respected Sergeant.
“Come by before you report to battalion tomorrow. I’ll ask Lt. Moore to go up and grab
you before the staff wienies make you a commo section chief. We’ll look at your file and
make sure we want you, but based on what I’ve heard we’ll try you out. If you can’t hang,
or you’re an idiot, or if the platoon doesn’t like you, you’re gone to a line company. got
it?”
“Loud and clear, Sergeant”, answered Dave. His face glowed. Recon! Better not screw up,
boyo, he thought.
“Get out of here”, said the sergeant.
Williams walked him to the door. “See you tomorrow. You’re going to love it here, this
platoon is kick ass. It’s a lot like the Rock-we train hard, but they give us less B.S. and
more high-speed training. The platoon is going to rough terrain jump school in six weeks,
you’ll get a couple more jumps before you go. In four months JOTC in Panama, and
we’ll be in the field pretty much the whole time until then, except for RTJ School.”
Dave thanked him, and headed back to the reception barracks. One more day to kill
before the fun started.
The next morning was spent out-processing the reception company, and he reported to
Battalion HQ with seven other men at about 11:30 A.M. He managed to get over to
Recon by saying he need to hit the latrine, and he told Williams he was going to battalion
HQ. As he stood in line, a short 1st Lt. Came out of a door to their right.
“O.K., O.K., I’m Lieutenant Castner, and I’ll be assigning each of you men to the unit.
Any NCO’s?”
One man, an E-6, raised his hand. Lt. Castner pointed, “Go on in, Sergeant, and Specialist
Gomes will take care of you.”
The Sgt. nodded and picking up his small backpack left the group. Lt. Castner called the
remaining junior enlisted men to attention.
“You men are about to join the 82nd Airborne Division, the most powerful force
projection organization in the United States Army. Before I hand out your assignments, is
anyone here not 11 Bravo?” (11B is the MOS for Infantryman-Willard)
No hands went up.
“OK, anyone here type?” Again, no hands. “Anybody have college?” No hands.
The Lt. Looked at the man next to Dave. “What’s your GT score?” he demanded. (GT
score is like a military IQ test-Willard)
The man swallowed, his Adam’s Apple bobbing like a dangled orange, “109.”
“109 what?” asked Castner.
“109 SIR!” barked the soldier.
“And yours,” he said, turning to Dave.
“86, sir,” lied Dave. He didn’t want to type for anyone.
Castner went down the line, asking every man the same questions. He then had the men
turn in their records, which they were carrying from their last post. He handed them to a
clerk behind a desk as Sergeant Chadwick walked in. “Can I help you, Sergeant?” asked
Castner in a condescending tone.
“I’m all set, L.T.” he said, pronouncing each letter of the abbreviation separately. “Just
picking up my new man. McGrath, grab your sh*t and come with me.”
“Wait a second, Sergeant,” ordered Castner, “I’m not through with that man.”
“You’ve got his folder, you’ve tried to steal him for your office staff, you’re done” said
Chadwick, “we’ve got to get him settled, the platoon is jumping the day after tomorrow.”
“Why was I not informed of this jump?” asked Castner. He tried to get on as many lifts as
he could, and was not beyond screwing up a training mission just so he could get in one
jump.
“It’s a training jump for the platoon, sir, and you are not in the platoon.” Answered
Chadwick honestly, “and you are not in my chain of command, so I have no reason to
inform you, sir. Let’s go, McGrath.”
“You stay right there, specialist,” ordered Castner. Dave stopped. “This man goes where I
say he goes, and when. Sergeant, step into my office.”
The lieutenant turned on his heel and walked away. Chadwick turned to Dave and said,
“Grab your stuff and go to the platoon CP. I’ll get this straightened out.” And he followed
the young Lt. Through the door.
Dave heard the shouting start as he left the HQ building. He collected his bags and went
down to the CP, where he introduced himself to Lt. Moore. He told Lt. Moore what was
happening, and Lt. Moore hustled over to battalion to see what he could do.
Dave wound up spending 5 years at Fort Bragg, all of it in the Scout Platoon. He left as a
Sergeant E-5, and would have had Staff Sergeant had he re-enlisted. He had decided the
Army wasn’t for him after deploying to a peacekeeping mission in a squalid third world
African nation. As had played out so often in the past, order was restored soon after the
arrival of American troops. But as the Democratic administration in Washington
vacillated on its policies, the rebels grew bolder, stealing food convoys and murdering
civilians with almost free will. As the situation deteriorated, the Americans were finally
pulled out-having been prevented from accomplishing anything of substance by an
administration fearful of any risk to American lives or European sensibilities. Dave and
the platoon discussed the operation at length during the months following their stand
down, and all of them agreed that they would have risked their lives to fight for the poor,
starving wretches they had seen on the roads and in the refuge camps. A person would
have to have lost all his sense of humanity not to be touched by the misery and suffering
they had born witness to and they all felt let down that they were not encouraged to
unleash their anger on the savages responsible for it. They were ashamed, too, that their
government would build up the hopes of so many innocent people, and then abandon
them to almost certain death.
Dave returned home and got a small apartment, and started attending college at night. He
worked full time in a hardware store, and visited his Mother and the Houston’s nearly
every weekend. He eventually returned to a normal school schedule, and finished his
degree. He started working for a large insurance company, training new employees. He
liked the work, it was a little like dealing with new soldiers, and he had a lot of freedom
in his job. He eventually was promoted to a management position, and it was interesting
enough that he didn’t feel boredom creep up on him very often. It was through this job
that he met his wife, Sandy, a computer programmer at his firm. They dated for a few
months and kind of drifted apart, and drifted back together nearly a year later. They
married when they were both 33 years old. She was the child of a lawyer father and
homemaker mother, and had three brothers and two sisters. She was a little more liberal a
woman than Dave had ever envisioned marrying, but other than politics they enjoyed
many of the same activities and were very compatible, and very much in love.
Dave’s activities that sometimes caused strife in his home were his habit of keeping quite
a bit of canned food on hand. He eventually put together a mountain of dehydrated food,
enough to feed 6 people for up to a year, by his calculations. His wife didn’t understand
his preoccupation with storing ammunition, clothes, and medical supplies, either. Dave
finally told her all of the gory details of what he had seen in Africa, and she lightened up
on him, although she still bore reluctance to the idea that she was living above a supply
dump. Her mind would not allow her to believe that there was any real chance of famine
and social breakdown happening in her America.
Dave still shot as often as he could. It was at his local range he bumped into a man of
about his own age shooting a .45 into a bank of three targets. He drew from the holster,
fired six shots, reloaded, and fired six more. Dave recognized the el presidente drill, and
when the shooter turned around he was wearing a ball cap with the words Ranger across
the front.
“Hiya, ranger” said Dave by way of greeting, “nice speed on the el presidente.”
“Thanks” said the stranger, “you military?”
“I was in the 82nd for a few years. How about you?”
“I left the 82nd and went to Second Battalion, then to Fifth Group. Got out a few years
ago. What battalion you with?”
“Recon, 1/504th”
“Really? I was Recon, 2/505th.”
They fell into a discussion about when they had served and where they had deployed, and
it turns out they had been briefly introduced at Rough Terrain Jump School, when Daves
Platoon had arrived and the strangers platoon was leaving.
“Jim Bowen” said the stranger, extending his hand.
“Dave McGrath”, said Dave.
They talked for while, and found that they had run across many of the same people while
in service. Jim’s memory of names and places impressed Dave. Dave’s knowledge of
firearms impressed Jim. That afternoon they became fast friends.
Jim and Dave started their own social group. One of Dave’s friends from high school and
college, Scott, moved back to town after living and working abroad for several years. He
too was an avid shooter and a survivalist. Jim’s brother Rob often joined them, and there
were several other local shooters who joined them for shooting, cookouts, and weekend
camping trips. When Jim moved to New Hampshire to escape Connecticut’s ever
expanding socialist government, he urged Dave to move there, too. But Sandy was
adamant about staying in Connecticut, where her parents lived. Eventually most of Daves
circle made the move north, too. While Dave’s uncle had passed away while Dave was in
the Army, he had left Dave his small cabin where they had gone shooting
so long ago, along with all of his firearms. Dave wound up selling most of the guns to
provide a nice annuity which he presented to his widowed aunt. Dave kept the house as a
vacation retreat, and as he and Sandy had children they built on small additions. They put
on space for a larger bedroom and expanded the living room, as well as adding a one car
garage with a play room for the kids over it. Dave had his friend Steve assist with most of
the work. Steve was a local man who fit in nicely with the Connecticut crew that had
moved north. With his help, Dave dug the basements and poured foundations for the
additions. Also with Steves aid he completely enclosed the basement of the garage in
concrete, reinforcing the ceiling, putting in extra drainage, and actually drilling a well in
the far corner. There was a reinforced doorway going up to the garage, which was hidden
in the back of a small broom closet upstairs, and via a larger steel door in the basement.
Dave, over the next several years, moved most of his storage food up there, and kept a
number of guns, ammo, and medical supplies there. He bought as many off the paper
guns as he could afford, and put them up. He became a licensed HAM radio operator, and
through HAM flea markets picked up a good base station and several portable models.
He attended an EMT course at the local community college to improve his medical skills.
He had taken the Combat Lifesaver course at Bragg twice, but felt that the EMT course
would serve him for civil emergencies.
Daves sons, Thomas and Patrick, were born three years apart. They were typical boys,
and Dave and Sandy were kept very busy with them. They took frequent camping trips,
and canoed, biked, and hiked locally. The boys also played Little League and soccer,
neither of which Dave really knew much about. Dave and Sandy were both active as Cub
Scout leaders, and the children attended the school run by their local parish. Dave and
Sandy both agreed that public education was not acceptable in their area.
Dave watched to slow decline of Pax Americana for years. The steady slide of America
into socialism was unmistakable. Every year more money flowed out of the public coffers
and into the pockets of the lazy welfare recipients, who merely had to vote for the same
candidates to keep the payments coming. The virtual elimination of the southern border
with Mexico created a situation where millions of illegals entered the country and
funneled billions back to Mexico without paying taxes. The Southwest became flooded
with Spanish speaking persons who insisted that the American Southwest was theirs. No
politician with the courage to speak the truth was quickly branded a racist, insensitive
moron by the fifth column national press. The few true Constitutionalists in the House
and Senate were too few to stem the building tide of oppression that socialism inevitably
brings, but they battled boldly on, for as long as they could. As the US Government
funded its ever increasing programs-President Billary had finally nationalized health
care-it increased its reliance on foreign money. Foreign governments invested heavily in
US Government debt obligations, backed by “the full faith and credit of the United Stated
government’. This meant, of course, that it had the power to tax people dry to pay the
foreign governments back. He took comfort in the fact that he and his family could hole
up in their cabin and be warm, dry, and safe.
Dave and his friends had as many theories about what was happening than there were
stars in the heavens. Steve maintained it was an Illuminati conspiracy. Other plots
involved the Masons, the former Soviet Union, or punishment from God. Dave figured it
was laziness and a bad educational system. They all agreed upon one thing, that there was
something rotten in Denmark, and they weren’t going to abandon the constitutional
republic without a fight. They made group buys of stores, as well as individual buys.
They cached supplies all over their area, made plans for security, commo, and medicine.
They frequently trained as a military unit, and used local IDPA, three gun, and practical
rifle matches as a ground to test their performance.
After a terrorist attack left Dave without power for a week, he convinced his wife just
how tenuous Americas hold civility was. The next time a power station was destroyed by
fire-it was held to be eco-terrorists; Dave was out of power for two weeks. Dave was then
able to convince his wife they needed to invest in a small generator that they could also
take north with them to power the cabin, as winter storms were known to leave their
mountain home without power, to. Dave managed to help his friends purchase a 300
gallon gasoline tank, which they all filled. The gas was rotated annually, and was also
treated for long term storage.
Resting against the pack, Dave looked at his watch, and set the alarm. He then drifted
into a light sleep. Waking to the beeping of the watch a little more than an hour later,
Dave again connected the little Yaesu to the improvised antenna, and pushed the third of
his preset frequency buttons. Today was a Thursday, and an odd numbered day of the
week, and he checked the frequency in his head, ensuring he was on the right push. As
Noon approached, he again put in the earpiece, and turned up the volume. Just as his
watched turned to 12 o’clock exactly, he heard squelch break on the frequency.
Marveling at the technology that could produce a watch that kept synchronized time so
well, he listened to the music playing in his ear. The gentle tune of Greensleeves broke
through, a version played by a folk group using words from the mid 1880’s. The female
singers soft voice called to him, “Away, away, come away with me, where the grass
grows wild, and trees grow free. Away, away, come away with me, and I’ll build you a
home in the meadow…”. Dave sniffed. It was a beautiful rendition in ordinary times, and
given his situation, very poignant. A voice came on the air. “Sua Sponte.” The
transmission ended. Dave leaned back is if a heavy burden had been suddenly lifted. Sua
Sponte, the motto of the Army’s 75th Ranger Regiment, was one of the prearranged code
words that indicated that all was well back at the ranch. He knew his wife and sons were
safe, and so were his friends. Sua Sponte, "of their own accord". The rangers other motto
was leave no man behind. If he was in serious trouble, sick, injured, on the run, he could
answer with codes of his own, indicating approximately where he was, and what was
wrong. They would monitor the frequency for a half hour after playing the message, and
the alert frequency was part of the retreats preset scanning. Hearing this his friends, some
of them, anyway, leaving behind enough staff to ensure the security of their families,
would come for him. Mutual aid was one of the things they had agreed upon long ago.
Can’t pay rent this month? We’ll help. Sick and can’t shovel your walk? We’ll be there.
It all worked out and in this case Dave’s investment was paying off.
Dave settled back, the camouflage painted rifle sitting across his lap. Looking at the rifle
he smiled to himself. What would old Sgt Chadwick say about this, he wondered, drifting
back to sleep.
“McGrath” the voice ordered.
“Yes Sergeant” answered Dave, his eyes on the ACU clad NCO at the front of the room.
“Since we are covering the basics, kindly explain camouflage, cover, and concealment to
the platoon”
“Yes Sergeant,” answered Dave, “Camouflage disguises something, to make it look not
at all like what it is. Concealment is something that hides you from observation, and
cover does the same and provides protection against small arms fire.”
“That’s right, college boy” said the Sergeant, “You win a cookie. Breaking up the form of
you or your equipment is camouflage. Take your rifle,” he held up his M-4 carbine, “It’s
just straight lines and all black. Pretty good color, but it still is a large black straight line
when all is said and done. What we’re going to do today is to rectify some of the
problems this presents to us in a tactical environment. Pratt” the Sgt pointed at a red
headed soldier in the front, “that box on the corner of your table, pass out the contents,
one color per two men.”
Pratt lifted the box and began passing out small spray paint cans to the assembled men.
“This is called “Bowflage”, and it’s a removable paint sold to hunters. We’ll be using this
today on our carbines. Hunters might need this to sneak up on Bambi, but your game is
harder-Bambi doesn’t use mechanical ambushes and RPG’s on Joe Sixpack. Later we’ll
be constructed camouflage for your rucks and your sorry asses. I don’t care much for
pretty equipment. When you put your ruck down in the field I want you to run a 70%
chance of losing it in the bush.” The platoon chuckled. Sgt Chadwick was a hard core
trooper. Having served most of his career in Special Forces, he was doing a three year
stint in a line unit to perfect his troop leading skills. The platoon was, for the most part,
glad to have such a colorful and knowledgeable NCO leading them. At the very least he
kept them interested-he came up with so many wild schemes the platoon would have
stuck around just to see what he came up with next. “I can’t train and lead a guerilla
battalion without having time training and leading troops” he had explained when he
reported to Lt Moore the previous spring. Lt Moore agreed, and was happy to have him.
An ROTC graduate, Lt Moore was also unique in that had served for four years a Marine
Infantryman before college. Also, he was smart enough to know his own limitations, and
had hence learned quite a bit more about leadership and command than any other Lt in
the Brigade.
After painting their weapons and receiving Sgt Chadwick’s approval (several men had to
redo their weapons to Chadwick’s standards), he had Pratt start passing out woodland
pattern ruck covers and four foot square sections of camouflage net. Using black
electrical ties and para cord, they attached the netting to their pack covers. They then cut
the net to size, and using strips of burlap from rolls (“I have the NSN for everything” Sgt
Chadwick had answered deadpan when Lt Moore asked him where it had come from),
they added detail to their new covers. This cover is what Dave had on his pack now,
although with slight modification.
“These covers have been treated by the esteemed Mrs. Chadwick,” said the Sgt. She was
always “The Esteemed Mrs. Chadwick”. Never a name, “with a water repellent, as has
the burlap. You nasty smokers had better not set the burlap on fire, boys, or I will make
you regret it” His malevolent smile reinforced his word. “We’ll be doing a smaller cover
for your boonie hats, too, so leave some burlap, Williams”. Looking at Williams, Dave
could see that he had a cover that looked not so much like a camo'ed pack cover as a
lump of burlap the size of a hay bale. Williams smiled apologetically and started
removing material. “That’s better,” said Chadwick, tying more burlap to his own pack
cover.
Their first field problem after the camo session proved the worth of the camouflage. They
were crossing an open area when they heard helicopters. “Down” yelled Chadwick. The
men dropped beneath their covered rucks and peered up at the Blackhawks coming in
from their left front. Flaring, the birds touched down and quickly disgorged their cargo of
heavily laden infantrymen. “Psst” hissed Chadwick, “we’re recon. No one fires unless
fired upon, pass it on.” Under the roar of the idling UH-60’s the men passed the word.
Suddenly the engine noise changed, and the four ‘Hawks applied power and lifted off in a
cloud of dust, leaves, and grass. The LZ soon filled with the sound of an infantry platoon
moving, the jingle of rucksacks being put on, the sounds of squad leaders issuing
commands for movement. Heading out through the tall grass, the squads formed into
wedges and moved out, right through the recon platoon. Even though he knew it was only
training, Dave felt tension as soldiers bearing heavy weapons and packs walked through
his platoon. After the platoon entered the woodline, Dave let out a sigh of relief. The
camo had worked. Over 40 men had just walked over and around 18 men lying in the
grass, and not one had been spotted. After calling in a report of the size and direction of
the just landed platoon, the recon troops split into their three teams and one command
group, and continued their mission. Camouflage, concealment, and staying still had just
made a great impression on Specialist David McGrath. It would one day save his life.
__________________________________________________ ____________________
Dave woke from the cold. The sun had set and he could see stars shining brightly above
him in the clear Fall air. He drank some water, and nibbled a Maple nut cake from an
MRE. Finishing, he took the cover off of his pack and reversed it. He had, some time ago,
had has wife, Sandy, sew green cotton onto the inside of the pack. He could then reverse
the cover and it would appear to be a commercial pack cover and not present an alarming
appearance to the gentler citizens of the hiking world. Dave felt that he would create less
of a scene if he were noticed walking through suburbia than if he had a large, burlap
covered tick on his back. He removed a cotton flannel shirt from his pack, and put it on
over his chest pouch to hide it from casual observation. His rifle would present more of
an issue. Taking his pack he left the little hiding spot and crawled out of the thicket.
Taking his bearings, he consulted his compass and set out. Before long he came to the
first of many houses. They were all dark, some with a little light showing through
curtains, but it was apparent that this was a no power zone. He made his way through
backyards, carrying his rifle on his left side, up close to the side of the pack. Eventually
he came to the cemetery he had noted earlier. Staying near the wooded edge of the
property, he paralleled a small stream and left the security of it only when he came to a
school. He paused on the embankment, and conducted what he had once called a security
halt. Listening for anything unusual, he only heard gunshots once, three of them, from a
very long ways off. What did give him cause for concern was the car that turned into the
parking lot of the school near the gym. When the door opened he saw it was a police
cruiser. The two officers in the car went to the door of the gym and knocked. Light
flowed forth as the door was opened, and the Officers entered the gym. Darkness returned
as the door shut, the sound of the metal fire door hitting the jam echoing across the ball
field like a bass drum. Dave was up and moving before the echo was gone from his ears.
He wanted to move now, while the cops were inside. He made his way along the edge of
the field, and then ran across the street and into a backyard. Taking cover behind a shed,
he rested for a moment to catch his breath. He then rose and continued through a
seemingly endless maze of backyards. Several blocks away he almost died of fright as a
shed door opened in his face. Stopping and backpedaling, he backed around the corner of
the building as a man holding toilet paper in his hand walked across the backyard and
entered the house. Dave slunk around to the back of the shed and was suddenly assaulted
by the ripe odor of human waste. “Outhouse” he thought to himself. Had things really
gotten that bad so soon? Well, he reasoned, if the water treatment plants were without
generators, water would be rationed. Only those with artesian water would have enough.
He skirted several houses that had dogs in the yards, and had to change his course several
times to avoid large stockade fences. He finally sought cover behind a house that was
somewhat secluded from its neighbors by trees, apparently being built near the center of a
large double lot. In fact, the house was large enough and old enough to have been here
before the area was developed into a tract of soul-less, cookie cutter colonials. Taking
shelter behind a garden shed, Dave dropped his ruck and drank the last of his water. This
was going to be a problem. If the water was being rationed, how could he fill up? The
sound of a door slamming sent his adrenal gland into overdrive. Grabbing the FAL, he
rolled over into the prone and aimed at the house. The door opened and slammed again.
The wind, he thought. He looked at the house. Several windows were open, with curtains
blowing gently out of them. The door itself, wait, the screen door was askew on its one
remaining hinge. Abandoned? Dave watched for a half hour, and then quickly opened his
pack to get the water bladder. Unclipping his buttpack, he slung it over his shoulder on a
length of para cord and headed for the house.
Pausing at the back stoop, he examined the door more closely. It definitely had been
broken in. Whoever did it may be inside, thought Dave, sleeping something off. Well, no
guts no glory he said to himself, and quietly climbed the concrete steps. He entered the
kitchen to find it untouched, except for wood splinters on the floor from where the jamb
had given way. The living room and bedroom were trashed however. In what was
apparently the master bedroom one section of wall had been exposed, plasterboard all
over the place, trampled by a number of feet. What the H??? thought Dave. The dressers
were open and the contents were scattered all over the room. Dave looked around. The
wall in the hall was covered with family pictures. A young man in a sailor’s uniform, the
same sailor in uniform with a young girl in her wedding gown, both smiling. Children
turning to adults, must be grandchildren, too. Returning to the kitchen, Dave noticed a
yellow paper attached to the table with a thumbtack. Using his red filtered light, and lying
on the floor to avoid exposing the light, he read the notice, all information on the
preprinted form. Dave saw that the details were filled in with the same block printed
handwriting, and the date was yesterdays:
Official Notice Department of Homeland Security
FEMA REGION 1, NEW ENGLAND
NOTICE OF SIEZURE
The property located at 13 Maple Terrace is hereby under seizure by the Department of
Homeland Security for the crime of (filled in) willful possession of unregistered assault
weapons.
List of items seized:
M1 Carbine, SN 1503117
Japanese rifle, S/N 456329
.45 pistol, US Property marked, S/N 67644 (stolen Gov’t property)
Ammunition, three cans
Unintended Consequences, seditious material
Patriots, Surviving the Coming Collapse, seditious material
Boston’s Gun Bible, seditious material
Various sedition material found on hard drive of iMac computer S/N AG 456E3410
All items seized as evidence.
IN ACCORDANCE WITH FEDERAL LAW SECTION 15, PARA 55, THE PREMISES,
MATERIALS, AND PERSONS RESIDING AT THIS RESIDENCE ARE REMANDED
TO THE CUSTODY OF REPRESENTATIVES OF THE INTERNATIONAL
ASSISTANCE FORCES, UNITED STATES REGION, FOR TRIAL.
PLEASE CONTACT YOUR LOCAL FEMA REPRESENTATIVE OR ISAF
HEADQUARTERS FOR THE RETURN OF ANY PROPERTY THAT IS NOT
LEGALLY HELD BY THE OWNER, RESIDENTS, OR REPRESENTATIVES OF
SAID PREMISES.
Dave crumpled up the form and dropped it to the floor. Well, they went and did it all
right. Rounding up old people for a few war trophies. Unbelievable. Dave sat for a
minute. Get some stuff and get out said the little voice in his brain. Dave got to his feet
and turned. He opened the frige and looked inside. His eyes were drawn to a bottle of
soda and a 2 1/2 gallon jug of spring water-almost full. He removed the jug and the soda,
and put them near the door. Finding nothing else of use in the fridge, he went through the
cupboards, finding some cans of tuna, beef stew, canned meat, and various veggies.
Justifying his actions by the fact that the Gov.org now owned the contents of the house,
he stuffed as much as he could into the buttpack, grabbed a few apples and bananas from
a basket on the counter, and knelt by the door. He heard crickets in the backyard, and
determined that it was safe. Leaving the shelter of the house behind, he quickly retrieved
his pack, donned it, and continued through more backyards.
Chapter 4 – Beginnings
Dave approached the highway cautiously. He went through the parking area for a school
bus contractor, the silent yellow buses magnifying the sound of his steps on the gravel He
had wanted to go around, but the way was blocked by a fence and a steep gully. He
approached the rear fence, and dropped his pack. Taking a moment to look around and
listen, he once again unsheathed his Leatherman and undid the soft aluminum ties that
bound the fence to the bottom crossbar. Propping the fence open with his pack, he
wriggled under the fence, then held the fence open and pulled his pack towards him.
Gently replacing the fence, he returned the ties to their spots and resealed the fence. He
took a moment to reverse his pack cover and donned an olive green BDU top. Rebuckling
his chest rig, he once again shouldered his pack and entered the woodline. About 75
yards into the woodline, he saw an open area to his front. Dropping his pack, he placed it
near the base of a large pine tree.
Pulling on a pair of aviator gloves, he removed a pair of small binoculars from the
ammunition pouch on the right side of his packs hip-belt and put them in his left cargo
pocket. Moving with as much silence as he could, he slowly approached the cut. As he
got closer, he dropped and crawled the last ten yards, winding up under a mountain laurel
bush. Below him the empty interstate stretched like a black snake in the setting moons
light. He was right where he wanted to be, about 75 feet above the road on a cutout, an
almost sheer granite face to his front. On the other side of the highway he saw a similar
face. To his left the ground gently sloped away, and he could just see where the highway
crossed the low area, resting on a built up berm that rose about 15 feet above the
surrounding terrain. He took the time to study the ground opposite him, straining for any
sign of an OP. Scanning the roadway, he saw no vehicles on the shoulders, and no sign or
sound of anyone. Remaining where he was for an hour, the only traffic was three
Humvees led by a State Police car heading East, from his left to right. The Humvees
towed covered trailers, and were running without light discipline. That meant, said Dave
to himself, that they do not expect ambushes or hostile acts, which meant that they would
not as observant as they would if they were fighting a guerilla war.
Moving away from the road, he checked his watch. Dawn was fast approaching. He
moved back and eventually found his pack (good camo, Sgt Chadwick, he thought as he
finally found it). The sliver of moon had set, and the light of the stars lit his way. He
moved to his right and dropped his pack again. Walking and kneeling frequently, he
finally found a likely spot. A large pine tree with broad sweeping branches close to the
ground, very near the edge of the cut, with a large fallen pine right in front of it.
Retrieving his pack he returned to the pine and crawled under the lowest branch. Using a
bit of para cord and some stout dead sticks he quickly set up his space blanket over him,
shiny side down. In doing so he hoped to avoid observation from any aircraft or road
bound vehicles equipped with thermal vision. Laying out his sleeping bag, he unstrapped
the waist belt of his rig, and pulled the magazines forward, allowing him to lie on his
stomach comfortably. As he settled in for a long wait the first rays of dawn streaked the
sky. He watched the road, and his thoughts drifted to the circumstances that had brought
him here.
David McGrath was a typical American kind of guy. Two kids, a wife, a mortgage. He
lived in a modest home in semi rural Connecticut, and attended church weekly. He had
grown up in a home broken by divorce, but had a good relationship with his father and
mother, who had not let the divorce destroy their relationship with their children. Dave
had a fairly typical childhood for his area. Growing up he lived in a more rural area of the
state, in a house surrounded by farmland. He spent much of his free time as a youth
roaming the neighboring woods, graduating from a bb gun to a pellet gun then, on his
16th birthday, a .22 rifle, the same one his grandfather and father had used. He learned to
camp through his father and the Cub and Boy Scouts, and developed a life long love
affair with wild places.
Starting summer during his 14th year he worked for Mr. Houston, the old timer who
owned and farmed the land surrounding Dave’s house. Mr. Houston was a good man, a
Swamp Yankee, as they were known locally. He had only left his farm for any
appreciable time once, when he spent three years in the Pacific babying the piston
engines of Marine Corsair fighters. Like many of his generation he had come home from
the war and married his childhood sweetheart. As far as Dave knew there had been no
children, no heir to pass on the trade of farming. Mr. Houston never spoke of it, and it
just wasn’t something you asked someone about unless they volunteered it. Mrs. Houston
was a little bird of a thing, always baking pies and cookies, and Dave and his sister had
been welcome guests in her kitchen since they were in diapers. She canned the vegetables
grown in her modest kitchen garden, and they raised both a pig and a calf every year for
meat. They were the closest thing Dave had to grandparents, as both sets of his had died
before he was born. When Dave turned 8 Mr. Houston was complaining about the
squirrels and crows destroying his garden. Dave suggested shooting them with the BB
gun Mr. Houston kept behind the kitchen door. Mr. Houston put him off, saying he had
too much work to do on the farm to play with rodents. Dave suggested he find someone
to do it. After considering and discarding several names, Dave finally suggested that he
be allowed to do the job. Mr. Houston agreed with a twinkle in his eye, and it wasn’t until
years later Dave realized that he was the man Mr. Houston had been looking for the
whole time. From that day forward, Dave was never outside without the BB gun. That
Christmas he received one of his own from Mr. and Mrs. Houston, and the next summer
he started getting rewarded for his efforts-three ears of corn per squirrel, and two for each
crow.
When he started working for Mr. Houston around the farm, Dave learned much about life.
The birth of dairy cows, how to tell if an udder was infected, and mechanics by working
on the battered Ford pickup that was the farms workhorse, and the several old tractors Mr.
Houston around the place.
During the school year he rose early and helped with the morning milking, and grew to
love the early morning smells and sounds. Every summer he did take a break, though. His
uncle Tom was a history teacher at a local Community College, and house sat for one of
his friends for 6 weeks every summer, when his old roommate took his summer trip to
Europe. Dave would go for one to three weeks to stay with his family, spending his days
at the loaner beach house swimming in the Atlantic and boating in Long Island sound.
Dave’s uncle was a major military history enthusiast, and collected many historical
firearms and replicas. He would take Dave to his cabin in New Hampshire once or twice
a year, and they would spend the weekend shooting them. Cap and Ball revolvers,
flintlock and percussion muskets and rifles, lever action Winchesters, and his uncles’
trapdoor Springfield. Dave’s favorite was the M-1 Carbine an old man had given his
uncle. Despite his uncle’s best efforts, Dave developed a taste for more modern,
magazine fed arms. Eventually his uncle gave him the carbine, saying it was about 50
years ahead of his interests anyway.
Eventually his uncle took a position with a large college in New Hampshire, and Dave
visited him as often as he could until his untimely passing due to the affects of Agent
Orange exposure. Dave graduated from high school at 18, and while not a stellar student
was able to get into the state university that was about 50 miles from his home. He
attended school for two years, and studied History and Finance, and joined ROTC.
During his summer camp for ROTC Dave received a taste of military life. All of the adult
males of his family had served in the military in one capacity or another, except for Uncle
Rich. Dave suspected his Uncles lisp and feminine ways were more than an act put on for
the draft board. In fact, Dave could trace military service from members of his family
going back the Mexican War, and he had relatives on both sides of the Civil War. For all
of his effort, Dave didn’t really enjoy college. He dated a couple of girls, but found the
majority to be shallow and vain, interested more in parties and social circles than
anything of substance. Dave started to think of dating them as "defiling infidels", and
started to reexamine his own life. This decision led him to enlist in the Army in the spring
of his sophomore year. He told his mother that weekend when he went home, much to her
surprise. She was counting on Dave going to school and becoming successful.
Mr. Houston was happier with his choice. “Glad to see you doing something useful”, he
said in his gruff way. Dave could tell he was bursting with pride, “sitting around all day
listening to panty waisted professors yakking about things they have no real experience
with is a good way to get a pedigree, but no way to learn about life. You keep your mouth
shut and do what they tell you and you’ll do fine. And drop Mrs. Houston a note from
time to time, she’ll be worried sick about you.” Dave smiled. That was the most affection
Mr. Houston had ever overtly displayed to him.
His semester ended but Dave’s thoughts were on the summer. He had two weeks from his
last final exam until he reported the MEPS station for his processing. He spent most of
that time working around the farm. Mr. Houston was getting long in the tooth, and Dave
had a lot to do around the farm before he left for Fort Benning and Infantry School.
Dave eventually graduated from Infantry School and went directly to Airborne School
across post. Jumping out of planes was as exciting and as awesome as he had hoped. He
got his orders in his first week of jump school-Korea! He was both intrigued and
apprehensive. He spent the next two weeks trying to find out what Korea was like, but the
rumors that floated among the initial entry soldiers contained more false information than
a Clinton press release. Service in Korea turned out to be better then he expected. Here
was real soldiering. As part of an Air Assault Battalion, Dave spent much of his time
humping a large rucksack up and down the numerous “yammas”, or hills, in the Land of
the Morning Calm. Dave eventually wound up as a machine-gunner, by his own
insistence. He loved firing the big 23-pound M-60, and being an important part in his
platoons organic firepower. Also, being able to hump the “Pig” while heavily burdened
and in a country with little flat ground gave one a little more bragging rights than the
ordinary guy had.
Two months before his tour ended he got new orders-Fort Bragg. “All right”, said Dave
to his roommate, “82nd Airborne, here I come.” Dave was excited about the prospect of
joining “America’s Honor Guard”. They had a reputation as a fierce fighting unit, and
certainly he stood a better chance of seeing some interesting deployments.
When Dave arrived at Fort Bragg and checked in at the reception station, he talked to a
Sergeant who was waiting, like Dave, for orders to a unit within the division. “It’s like
this” the Sgt. began, “when you get to your battalion you’ll be assigned to a company.
The day you get your orders, take a walk to the battalion area and talk to the guys, find
out which company has the best reputation, then talk to the first shirt or the CO, and let
them know you’re being assigned to the battalion and due to the company’s reputation
you want to go to them. When you get to battalion HQ the next day, they will usually
send a runner up to grab you from the staff pogues, and you’ll get the assignment you
want.”
Dave took the advice heart, and when he got orders for the 1/504th Infantry he did just
that. Putting on his best BDU’s and his newly issued Maroon beret; he walked over to the
Battalion headquarters, and asked the CQ where he could find the Scout Platoon. The CQ
took Dave to the door and pointed out Recons area to him. Dave thanked him and smiled.
Looked like where he wanted to be. Above the door was a large, hand painted sign, a
black field with a gleaming white skull grinning down at him. The sign boldly
proclaimed “Where Mortal Man Fear Tread, Recon Leads the Way!” He knocked on the
door and a smiling black face soon opened it. “Watcha want, troop?” asked the soldier, a
Specialist by his collar insignia. “I’d like to speak to the Platoon Leader or Platoon
Sergeant’, said Dave. The soldier grinned “Looking for a job?” Dave nodded. “Well, this
is the place. Lt. Moore and Sgt. Chadwick are really cleaning house. If you aren’t squared
away and STRAC as Audey Murphy you won’t stand a chance. You just in from
Benning?” Dave shook his head, “Alpha, 1/503rd, Second ID.” The smile grew broader
“First Rock! I was in Charlie Company in ’92. I’m Williams, c’mon, the Platoon
Sergeant will want a guy used to humping the ROK.”
Dave was promptly introduced to Sergeant First Class Wesley Chadwick. Dave was
slightly intimidated by the Sergeant. He had more patches on his uniform than Dave had
ever seen. Drill Sergeant, Pathfinder, Jump Wings with a star, indicating a combat jump,
CIB, Special Forces combat patch on his right shoulder, Ranger and Special Forces tab.
“Pfc. McGrath requests permission to speak to the Platoon Sergeant”, said Dave from his
best parade rest. “Speak”, rumbled Sgt. Chadwick. “Sergeant, I report to battalion
tomorrow, and I would like to be assigned to the Scout Platoon.”
Chadwick looked at him. Jump wings. Reasonably fit. Didn’t sound like an idiot. “You a
college boy?” asked Chadwick. “No Sergeant, I’m a soldier”, replied Dave. “But I did
attend college before I wizened up.” Chadwick considered him again. “Troop, that makes
you a college boy. Can you type?”
“No sergeant, no more than hunt and peck.”
“That’s the right answer. Where you coming from? Benning?”
“No Sergeant, Alpha 1/503rd, Second ID, Korea.”
“What’d you do there?”
“Walked point in the Z, then humped a ’60.”
“Why’d they let a cherry walk point?”
“I grew up hunting and am good in the woods.”
“Country boy?”
“As much as a Yankee can be.”
“You use a radio?”
“Yes, Sergeant, I was an RTO for a short time, but I really wanted the ’60, so my Platoon
Leader squared me away.”
“What’s your GT score?”
“125”
“Last PT score?”
“322”
“Can you swim?”
“Yes Sergeant”
“How well?”
“I spent a few weeks every summer at the beach, so well enough.”
“Like jumping?”
“Well, Sergeant, the first five were pretty cool.”
Williams laughed “Cherry”, he said, a derisive term for new jumpers.
“That’s enough, Williams,” said Chadwick, “you were a cherry not to long ago yourself.”
Williams looked away, embarrassed to be chastised by his well respected Sergeant.
“Come by before you report to battalion tomorrow. I’ll ask Lt. Moore to go up and grab
you before the staff wienies make you a commo section chief. We’ll look at your file and
make sure we want you, but based on what I’ve heard we’ll try you out. If you can’t hang,
or you’re an idiot, or if the platoon doesn’t like you, you’re gone to a line company. got
it?”
“Loud and clear, Sergeant”, answered Dave. His face glowed. Recon! Better not screw up,
boyo, he thought.
“Get out of here”, said the sergeant.
Williams walked him to the door. “See you tomorrow. You’re going to love it here, this
platoon is kick ass. It’s a lot like the Rock-we train hard, but they give us less B.S. and
more high-speed training. The platoon is going to rough terrain jump school in six weeks,
you’ll get a couple more jumps before you go. In four months JOTC in Panama, and
we’ll be in the field pretty much the whole time until then, except for RTJ School.”
Dave thanked him, and headed back to the reception barracks. One more day to kill
before the fun started.
The next morning was spent out-processing the reception company, and he reported to
Battalion HQ with seven other men at about 11:30 A.M. He managed to get over to
Recon by saying he need to hit the latrine, and he told Williams he was going to battalion
HQ. As he stood in line, a short 1st Lt. Came out of a door to their right.
“O.K., O.K., I’m Lieutenant Castner, and I’ll be assigning each of you men to the unit.
Any NCO’s?”
One man, an E-6, raised his hand. Lt. Castner pointed, “Go on in, Sergeant, and Specialist
Gomes will take care of you.”
The Sgt. nodded and picking up his small backpack left the group. Lt. Castner called the
remaining junior enlisted men to attention.
“You men are about to join the 82nd Airborne Division, the most powerful force
projection organization in the United States Army. Before I hand out your assignments, is
anyone here not 11 Bravo?” (11B is the MOS for Infantryman-Willard)
No hands went up.
“OK, anyone here type?” Again, no hands. “Anybody have college?” No hands.
The Lt. Looked at the man next to Dave. “What’s your GT score?” he demanded. (GT
score is like a military IQ test-Willard)
The man swallowed, his Adam’s Apple bobbing like a dangled orange, “109.”
“109 what?” asked Castner.
“109 SIR!” barked the soldier.
“And yours,” he said, turning to Dave.
“86, sir,” lied Dave. He didn’t want to type for anyone.
Castner went down the line, asking every man the same questions. He then had the men
turn in their records, which they were carrying from their last post. He handed them to a
clerk behind a desk as Sergeant Chadwick walked in. “Can I help you, Sergeant?” asked
Castner in a condescending tone.
“I’m all set, L.T.” he said, pronouncing each letter of the abbreviation separately. “Just
picking up my new man. McGrath, grab your sh*t and come with me.”
“Wait a second, Sergeant,” ordered Castner, “I’m not through with that man.”
“You’ve got his folder, you’ve tried to steal him for your office staff, you’re done” said
Chadwick, “we’ve got to get him settled, the platoon is jumping the day after tomorrow.”
“Why was I not informed of this jump?” asked Castner. He tried to get on as many lifts as
he could, and was not beyond screwing up a training mission just so he could get in one
jump.
“It’s a training jump for the platoon, sir, and you are not in the platoon.” Answered
Chadwick honestly, “and you are not in my chain of command, so I have no reason to
inform you, sir. Let’s go, McGrath.”
“You stay right there, specialist,” ordered Castner. Dave stopped. “This man goes where I
say he goes, and when. Sergeant, step into my office.”
The lieutenant turned on his heel and walked away. Chadwick turned to Dave and said,
“Grab your stuff and go to the platoon CP. I’ll get this straightened out.” And he followed
the young Lt. Through the door.
Dave heard the shouting start as he left the HQ building. He collected his bags and went
down to the CP, where he introduced himself to Lt. Moore. He told Lt. Moore what was
happening, and Lt. Moore hustled over to battalion to see what he could do.
Dave wound up spending 5 years at Fort Bragg, all of it in the Scout Platoon. He left as a
Sergeant E-5, and would have had Staff Sergeant had he re-enlisted. He had decided the
Army wasn’t for him after deploying to a peacekeeping mission in a squalid third world
African nation. As had played out so often in the past, order was restored soon after the
arrival of American troops. But as the Democratic administration in Washington
vacillated on its policies, the rebels grew bolder, stealing food convoys and murdering
civilians with almost free will. As the situation deteriorated, the Americans were finally
pulled out-having been prevented from accomplishing anything of substance by an
administration fearful of any risk to American lives or European sensibilities. Dave and
the platoon discussed the operation at length during the months following their stand
down, and all of them agreed that they would have risked their lives to fight for the poor,
starving wretches they had seen on the roads and in the refuge camps. A person would
have to have lost all his sense of humanity not to be touched by the misery and suffering
they had born witness to and they all felt let down that they were not encouraged to
unleash their anger on the savages responsible for it. They were ashamed, too, that their
government would build up the hopes of so many innocent people, and then abandon
them to almost certain death.
Dave returned home and got a small apartment, and started attending college at night. He
worked full time in a hardware store, and visited his Mother and the Houston’s nearly
every weekend. He eventually returned to a normal school schedule, and finished his
degree. He started working for a large insurance company, training new employees. He
liked the work, it was a little like dealing with new soldiers, and he had a lot of freedom
in his job. He eventually was promoted to a management position, and it was interesting
enough that he didn’t feel boredom creep up on him very often. It was through this job
that he met his wife, Sandy, a computer programmer at his firm. They dated for a few
months and kind of drifted apart, and drifted back together nearly a year later. They
married when they were both 33 years old. She was the child of a lawyer father and
homemaker mother, and had three brothers and two sisters. She was a little more liberal a
woman than Dave had ever envisioned marrying, but other than politics they enjoyed
many of the same activities and were very compatible, and very much in love.
Dave’s activities that sometimes caused strife in his home were his habit of keeping quite
a bit of canned food on hand. He eventually put together a mountain of dehydrated food,
enough to feed 6 people for up to a year, by his calculations. His wife didn’t understand
his preoccupation with storing ammunition, clothes, and medical supplies, either. Dave
finally told her all of the gory details of what he had seen in Africa, and she lightened up
on him, although she still bore reluctance to the idea that she was living above a supply
dump. Her mind would not allow her to believe that there was any real chance of famine
and social breakdown happening in her America.
Dave still shot as often as he could. It was at his local range he bumped into a man of
about his own age shooting a .45 into a bank of three targets. He drew from the holster,
fired six shots, reloaded, and fired six more. Dave recognized the el presidente drill, and
when the shooter turned around he was wearing a ball cap with the words Ranger across
the front.
“Hiya, ranger” said Dave by way of greeting, “nice speed on the el presidente.”
“Thanks” said the stranger, “you military?”
“I was in the 82nd for a few years. How about you?”
“I left the 82nd and went to Second Battalion, then to Fifth Group. Got out a few years
ago. What battalion you with?”
“Recon, 1/504th”
“Really? I was Recon, 2/505th.”
They fell into a discussion about when they had served and where they had deployed, and
it turns out they had been briefly introduced at Rough Terrain Jump School, when Daves
Platoon had arrived and the strangers platoon was leaving.
“Jim Bowen” said the stranger, extending his hand.
“Dave McGrath”, said Dave.
They talked for while, and found that they had run across many of the same people while
in service. Jim’s memory of names and places impressed Dave. Dave’s knowledge of
firearms impressed Jim. That afternoon they became fast friends.
Jim and Dave started their own social group. One of Dave’s friends from high school and
college, Scott, moved back to town after living and working abroad for several years. He
too was an avid shooter and a survivalist. Jim’s brother Rob often joined them, and there
were several other local shooters who joined them for shooting, cookouts, and weekend
camping trips. When Jim moved to New Hampshire to escape Connecticut’s ever
expanding socialist government, he urged Dave to move there, too. But Sandy was
adamant about staying in Connecticut, where her parents lived. Eventually most of Daves
circle made the move north, too. While Dave’s uncle had passed away while Dave was in
the Army, he had left Dave his small cabin where they had gone shooting
so long ago, along with all of his firearms. Dave wound up selling most of the guns to
provide a nice annuity which he presented to his widowed aunt. Dave kept the house as a
vacation retreat, and as he and Sandy had children they built on small additions. They put
on space for a larger bedroom and expanded the living room, as well as adding a one car
garage with a play room for the kids over it. Dave had his friend Steve assist with most of
the work. Steve was a local man who fit in nicely with the Connecticut crew that had
moved north. With his help, Dave dug the basements and poured foundations for the
additions. Also with Steves aid he completely enclosed the basement of the garage in
concrete, reinforcing the ceiling, putting in extra drainage, and actually drilling a well in
the far corner. There was a reinforced doorway going up to the garage, which was hidden
in the back of a small broom closet upstairs, and via a larger steel door in the basement.
Dave, over the next several years, moved most of his storage food up there, and kept a
number of guns, ammo, and medical supplies there. He bought as many off the paper
guns as he could afford, and put them up. He became a licensed HAM radio operator, and
through HAM flea markets picked up a good base station and several portable models.
He attended an EMT course at the local community college to improve his medical skills.
He had taken the Combat Lifesaver course at Bragg twice, but felt that the EMT course
would serve him for civil emergencies.
Daves sons, Thomas and Patrick, were born three years apart. They were typical boys,
and Dave and Sandy were kept very busy with them. They took frequent camping trips,
and canoed, biked, and hiked locally. The boys also played Little League and soccer,
neither of which Dave really knew much about. Dave and Sandy were both active as Cub
Scout leaders, and the children attended the school run by their local parish. Dave and
Sandy both agreed that public education was not acceptable in their area.
Dave watched to slow decline of Pax Americana for years. The steady slide of America
into socialism was unmistakable. Every year more money flowed out of the public coffers
and into the pockets of the lazy welfare recipients, who merely had to vote for the same
candidates to keep the payments coming. The virtual elimination of the southern border
with Mexico created a situation where millions of illegals entered the country and
funneled billions back to Mexico without paying taxes. The Southwest became flooded
with Spanish speaking persons who insisted that the American Southwest was theirs. No
politician with the courage to speak the truth was quickly branded a racist, insensitive
moron by the fifth column national press. The few true Constitutionalists in the House
and Senate were too few to stem the building tide of oppression that socialism inevitably
brings, but they battled boldly on, for as long as they could. As the US Government
funded its ever increasing programs-President Billary had finally nationalized health
care-it increased its reliance on foreign money. Foreign governments invested heavily in
US Government debt obligations, backed by “the full faith and credit of the United Stated
government’. This meant, of course, that it had the power to tax people dry to pay the
foreign governments back. He took comfort in the fact that he and his family could hole
up in their cabin and be warm, dry, and safe.
Dave and his friends had as many theories about what was happening than there were
stars in the heavens. Steve maintained it was an Illuminati conspiracy. Other plots
involved the Masons, the former Soviet Union, or punishment from God. Dave figured it
was laziness and a bad educational system. They all agreed upon one thing, that there was
something rotten in Denmark, and they weren’t going to abandon the constitutional
republic without a fight. They made group buys of stores, as well as individual buys.
They cached supplies all over their area, made plans for security, commo, and medicine.
They frequently trained as a military unit, and used local IDPA, three gun, and practical
rifle matches as a ground to test their performance.
After a terrorist attack left Dave without power for a week, he convinced his wife just
how tenuous Americas hold civility was. The next time a power station was destroyed by
fire-it was held to be eco-terrorists; Dave was out of power for two weeks. Dave was then
able to convince his wife they needed to invest in a small generator that they could also
take north with them to power the cabin, as winter storms were known to leave their
mountain home without power, to. Dave managed to help his friends purchase a 300
gallon gasoline tank, which they all filled. The gas was rotated annually, and was also
treated for long term storage.