Chapter Three: Headquarters Is Attacked by Charlie Monsters
The mortar and cannon fire began shortly after one o’clock. Two o’clock. We had no clock so we weren’t sure when the enemy began his merciless artillery barrage.
Suddenly shells were falling all around us—mortars, bazookas, 83’s, 44’s. Charlie was throwing everything he had into this bombardment.
I heard the artillery shells falling in the distance but my sleeping mind tried to ignore them. I mean, my poor body was SO exhausted from overwork and lack of sleep and so forth, SO EXHAUSTED that it cried out and begged for just one more minute of precious sleep.
But as the shelling moved closer to our command post, I found it impossible and impossibler to ignore the obvious: that Headquarters had come under a withering attack. And when a shell from one of Charlie’s big 88’s ripped through a tree nearby, I was forced to leave the scented vapors of sleep and rally the troops for battle.
KA-BOOOM!
But just a word here about my use of technical military terms, such as “Charlie’s big 88’s.” I realize that most people and dogs aren’t accustomed to using such heavy-duty terms, which is fine because most people and dogs don’t have a need for such a complex and ultra-secret method of communication.
The fact that we do—WE meaning those of us who are involved every day in security work—the fact that we use these extremely complicated and secret words doesn’t necessarily mean that the rest of you are . . . how can I say this?
It doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re too dumb to understand, although . . . you’re just busy with other things, that’s all, so let’s go to the blackboard and learn some of these special words and terms.
First off, we have the word “Charlie.” Charlie is a common name, often used for people, horses, and even a few dogs. But when WE in the Security Business use the word, it means—pay close attention to this next part—it means The Enemy.
Exactly who is this enemy? We’re never sure. All we can say for sure is that the Charlies are the guys behind those big 88’s.
And that brings us to the next major term in our list of major terms. “88” is actually a shortened version of the longer version of the name of what it is, and what it is is a huge enormous gun.
A cannon. A huge cannon so big and awesome that the south end isn’t even connected to the north end. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration. I mean, it’s hard to imagine something so huge that the two ends . . .
It’s big, that’s the point, real big, and it shoots an arterial shell that is also very large, and we’re talking about something as big as, oh, a trash barrel. Or maybe as big as a pickup. Or a whole house.
In other words, really really big and huge and enormous, and that’s why those shells make such a loud noise when they come crashing down to earth.
Perhaps you think I’ve forgotten the most important part of this heavy-duty discussion of technical terms—what the number “88” means. No, I didn’t forget, not at all. I was saving it for last because, well, I get a kick out of tossing out those names and numbers which mean nothing to everybody else.
It gives me a thrill.
Okay, let’s go public with it. There are several ways of looking at “88,” and the interesting thing is that it looks pretty muchly the same whether you look at it right-side-up or wrong-side-down.
You don’t believe me? Try it. See, I told you.
Another way of approaching this mystery is that if you add the two numbers together, that is, 8 + 8, you get 17. No, scratch that. You get 16. 8 + 8 = 16. That sounds better. You get 16, and do you know what that means?
It means nothing. Charlie does this to confuse us, don’t you see. He knows that our intelligence officers are working day and night to break his codes, and so he does things to foul up our systems.
They’re very clever. Never underestimate the cunning of the Charlies.
They never sleep, those guys, but neither do we.
It’s a constant game of cat and mouse.
Where was I? Oh yes, the mysterious double meaning of “88.” We have shown that “88” has no double meaning, that it’s just another of Charlie’s tricks, which leaves us with just one stern untoned.
Stone unturned.
If “88” has no double meaning, does it have a single meaning? Good question, and the answer is yes. The complete technical term for this huge artillery piece is “Oldsmobile 88.” In the heat of battle, we shorten that to “88,” and there you are.
It takes a lot of time to explain all this stuff but we think it’s pretty derned important.
Anyways, the barrage had begun and the 88’s were falling like rain all around our bunker, and you never heard such a deafening roar. Perhaps I had drifted off into a light, uh, slumbering mode, not really sleep, and when the first 88 landed nearby, I leaped to my feet and sounded the alarm.
Actually, I ran into the angle iron leg of the gas tanks and did some pretty serious damage to the old nose, but then I began shouting the alarm.
“Drover, Battle Stations! Red Alert! They’re coming, they’re on the outskirts of the city! Headquarters is being overrun by thousands and thousands of little green Charlies!”
Drover flew out of his gunnysack and began running in circles—squeaking. “Oh my gosh, help, murder, monsters, where’s my leg!”
Just then, there was a blinding flash of light and a window-rattling explosion. And Drover went down.
I rushed to his side. “Drover, speak to me. I think you’ve been hit.”
“I can’t speak, I’ve been hit!”
“That’s okay. Save your strength. Don’t try to talk. Where does it hurt?”
“Well, let’s see. Here and here and here, and there too.”
“Sounds pretty bad, son, but of course I can’t see all those wounds because it’s very dark. Can you be more specific?”
“I’ll try, Hank, I’ll give it my best shot, but the pain’s terrible.”
“I understand but don’t try to talk. Just tell me where the pain is located.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know, Drover, just pick a pain and tell me where it’s located.”
“Well, it seems to be coming from . . .”
“Yes, yes?”
“The pain, the terrible pain seems to be . . . in my leg.”
“Uh-oh. That’s the very worst kind.”
“Yeah, and maybe we’d better rush me up to the machine shed.”
“Hmmm. You could be right. Can you make it on your own or do I need to carry you?”
Another incoming shell lit up the night and shook the earth. KA-BOOOOOOM!
Drover squeaked. “Well, I can try to make it, but I may have to limp.”
“That’s okay, soldier. Out here on the front lines, nobody would dare laugh at you because you have a limp.”
He limped around in a circle and . . . for some reason, it struck me as funny and I found myself . . . laughing, you might say. I know. It was crazy, but I couldn’t help it.
He gave me a hurtful look. “Are you laughing at me?”
“What? Laughing at . . . don’t be absurd, Drover. I’ve already ha ha told you that hee hee nobody would dare ho ho . . .”
KA-BLOOOOEY! KA-BOOM! KA-BAM!
The roar of incoming artillery pretty muchly took care of the funny business, and to make matters even worse, the wind was rising and rain was coming down in sheets and buckets.
What lousy luck, to get a rainstorm right on top of an Enemy attack. All at once this was no laughing matter, no matter how ridiculous Drover looked limping around, and the time had come for us to run for our lives.
“Drover, we’ve got to make a run for it. They’ve stormed headquarters and now it’s every dog for himself!”
“Oh my gosh, which way’s the machine shed?”
“Forget the machine shed. We’d better retreat to the house and sound the alarm. Come on, son, to the yard gate!”
“Oh my gosh, what about my limp?”
“Bring it along. You might need it.”
And with that, our sad little column abandoned Command Post One and staggered up the hill, against wind and pouring rain and incredible odds. No ordinary dog could have led his troops up that hill, but somehow I managed to do it.
We halted at the yard gate. Shells were exploding all around us. The yard gate was shut.
“Drover,” I yelled over the wind and rain, “this gate is shut. Can you jump the fence?”
“I don’t think so, Hank. This old leg is just barely hanging on.”
“Okay, here’s the plan. I’ll jump the fence and make a dash for the porch. You hold this position as long as you can, and if you get captured by the Charlie Monsters . . .”
“You know, it’s feeling a little better now. I’ll give it a try.”
“Okay, trooper. See you at the porch, and good luck.”
I coiled my legs under me and went flying over the fence, landed on the other side, and sprinted across the yard to the safety of the porch. And I’ll be derned, Drover was already there—dripping rainwater and shivering.
“Nice work, son, but we don’t have a minute to spare. We’ve got to sound the alarm and warn Sally May and Loper. I’ll bark and you moan. Ready? Let ’er rip!”
And with that, we threw ourselves into the very dangerous task of moaning, barking, and warning our friends that the Charlie Monsters had invaded our ranch.