It was a no name French village. He was a no name GI. The young girl was huddled with her brothers and sisters in a corner of the basement. Cold. Dirty. Starving. His squad had learned the bitter combat lesson to leave no stone unturned. Snakes can come out to bite. Hidden enemies bypassed kill; they don’t meekly surrender. Many comrades would not be going home who failed to watch their A double Q and, when time permitted, everyone diligently looked for snake dens in their rear. So, his squad found the parentless family led by a strong heroic young woman. A camp stove started warming up the hole in the ground. Calling it a basement implied there was a house over head. What do you call a hole covered by debris? They called it home. Precious blankets were distributed. The gift would warm the men’s hearts more than mere cloth. They’d get replacements; there were always replacements. Food was easy. Rations were always in large supply. Not gourmet, but they prevent starvation. As the squad moved out, the “old” beyond her years girl said: “Bon ami, nous allons vous rembourser!” (“Good friend, we will pay you back.)

+++++

It was a no name village in America. She was a no name French girl. In her proud blue beret, she was there to save the Americans from themselves. World leaders agreed. Troops moved in to quell the violence after the collapse. And, to collect debts long owed. Like the police restoring order to a fraternity party of consumption that had gone on for sixty years. It was not fair. Three per cent of the population consumed half of the world’s stores and wrote bad checks to pay for it besides. Always a proud country, the Americans had shoved their brand of “freedom” down everyone’s throat. But, now the UN was in charge. Sort of. The guns had been collected by the Obamaites. Part of making America safe for politicians, bureaucrats, and criminals of color. So for the most part, her mission was just tax collection and “peace keeping”. Peace was what the masters defined it as. Collecting wealth was easy. The Sheriff of Nottingham had a lighter hand. Time these Americans learned to bow to their European betters. Her squad was surveying the village for resettlement to a reeducation camp. It would be cleared soon. And the ground returned to the Global Ecological Trust. The small young boy was found huddled with his even younger brothers and sisters in a corner of the basement. Cold. Dirty. Starving. Her squad had learned the bitter combat lesson to leave no stone unturned. Snakes can come out to bite. Hidden enemies bypassed kill; they don’t meekly surrender. Many comrades would not be going home who failed to watch their A double Q and, when time permitted, the squad diligently looked for snake dens in their rear. So, her squad found the parentless family led by a strong heroic very young boy. A camp stove started warming up the hole in the ground. Calling it a basement implied there was a house over head. What do you call a hole covered by debris? They called it home. Precious blankets were distributed. The gift would warm the hearts of the gallant squad men and women more than mere cloth. They’d get replacements; there were always replacements. Food was easy. Rations were always in large supply. Not gourmet, but they prevent starvation. As the squad moved out, the children rushed them. Thinking they were going to get hugs of affection and pleadings not to leave, the squad was surprised. Murphy got them. Improvised knives plunged into breasts and slashed throats. Some caress. Some hug. Weapons were seized and a new guerrilla squad would soon be armed. The blue beret-ed squad would not walk away that day. It was essential that the revolution not leave any survivors to report this devastating tactic. Soon, too soon, the “young boy” would either be killed, or too old to slip beneath the radar. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. As the “family” moved out to deliver their arms booty to waiting men, they would then once again make themselves “unarmed” and vulnerable; setting another deadly ambush. Living to fight another day. To kill. How many more tyrants? How many more ambushes? Before their luck would run out? The “young boy”, now an “old man”, old beyond his callendar thirteen years, said to the many cooling corpses: ‘Récupération de la pute, salope!” (Payback’s a bitch, bitch!)

# # # # #