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As it was, just to the right of the bus drop-off, there was a small contingent of Brownshirts waiting across the field from us. At a glance, I counted fifteen to twenty individuals. All seemed armed; those in uniform had at least a sidearm in a black leather holster on their hips, while others carried rounded shields with the “othala rune” of the National Socialist Movement painted on the face of each, looking like crude vertical fish. The shields looked like someone had cut them out of garbage cans and I wondered how much good they would do against a baseball bat, let alone rounds from firearms. Each man carried a homemade truncheon, a thin wooden baton cut from a pool cue or a hoe handle.
A smaller group of rednecks stood loosely to one side, part of, but separate from the other group. At least three wore army-fatigue pants in a green camouflage pattern and matching t-shirts. Covering these, new flak-jackets that had obviously been bought from Amazon and had never seen action, but buffed up their chests while enhancing their beer bellies.
It was almost laughable. These lard-arses would never have been able to march across Europe—but I wasn’t sure about this field. Probably why they were not marching in the parade.
The group of losers milled in front of the barricades that kept the general public out of the park for their own protection. These guys were waiting for backup. Mack was right, no coward stood alone.
Torres and his partner appeared at my side. His eyes scanned the various uniforms within the collective group from the buses that had eventually settled into the areas that held our supporters. They filled over half of the massive park.
“There’s a good number of younger vets, but most here are closer to ninety years,” he said in wonder.
I chuckled. “I’m considered a young ‘un at ninety-five and I lied about my age to enlist. Quite a few centenarians out there.” Looking over my shoulder at him, sobering. “Most of these people will be gone in the next couple of years. And with them, the stories and the sacrifices they lived through.”
Torres had no glib remark, but I saw him studying the faces with more scrutiny.
“Just to let you know,” he said after a minute. “The parade is being delayed by Antifa. They’ve confronted the fascists at every intersection.” He raised his arm to the east.
I could see pale, white smoke beyond the barricades and the gathering crowds. I looked back at the police officer for further explanation.
“Tear gas. It’s been the only thing that has been effective in separating either group.”
I twisted in alarm. “You can’t start throwing that stuff around this group, you’re going to end up hurting more than you help.”
“Donald’s right,” Simon added. “Half of these people are on oxygen as it is.”
Torres cursed under his breath. “This is turning out to be a royal cluster-fuck!” He tugged out his portable radio. “Torres to Command Post Alpha...” We missed the rest as he strode towards the far end of the field, his partner, Nguyen, almost running to keep up.
Looking across the ranks of veterans and their companions, I saw, as I’d reminded Torres, the small cylinders either strapped to the backs of wheelchairs or sitting on their little rolling trollies by the feet of individuals. More than a few had compact portable oxygen-concentrators beside them, freeing them from cumbersome bottles.
The frailty of the group struck me, and I shook my head, realizing that, after all, I’m part of that same group. Even ignoring that I’m sitting in this damn chair, I constantly have to remind myself that I’m not capable of a tenth of what I could do, even twenty years ago, let alone in my younger days. Throughout my life, I get these wake-up calls that remind me I’m no longer looking out through the eyes of a younger man, even with my glasses on. It feels like I’m that same person inside, but this old shell has almost completely dried out. Yet it comes as a surprise every time I get a wake-up like seeing this sea of wrinkles in a mirror.
I think that we all see ourselves from the point in our lives when we are at our peak. When we are in our mid-twenties and don’t have a health issues and don’t require help to move around, or even in our forties when, so the ivory-tower set tell us, we are at the ‘peak of our powers.’ No matter how old we get or how broken we become, internally we see ourselves from that magical point and sometimes need the continual reminders of the aches and pains of age.
Any of those romantic fools that talk about the ‘grace’ of growing old hasn’t gotten up five or six times a night to plead for a release of a temperamental bladder. Nor for the burning in your gut to subside so you can at least function. “Age is just a number,” they say, but sometimes it is a big number.
***
THE FIRST INCLINATION that the show was finally about to start was a strange hush that had all of us sitting up straighter, more alert—ready for any surprise Russell might spring.
Obviously, I couldn’t trust the bastard. It would be like him to hit from concealment or from another direction while all our attention was somewhere else.
He had almost perfected a strategy of guerrilla warfare: striking where least expected, only to fade away before we could assemble any actual reaction to counter his attack. Like a feral dog, he darted in to snap at his prey, only to dash back before the desperate foe could bite back. Once his prey’s back is turned towards another threat, Russell, the mongrel, would attack again. Little by little, he wore his adversary down.
Death by a thousand cuts.
Like I said, I didn’t trust the bastard. My eyes kept roaming the field edges, looking for that gray hoodie.
However, part of me wondered if he’d even show up today. It was not his style to put himself at risk. In Houston, he had let others lead and risk, while he hung back waiting to see what kind of response might wait for him. He had allowed his men to die so he could escape.
Seeing as how there was so much law enforcement here and around the town, I could see him just not showing up, especially with every cop in the country after his ass.
In the distance, the barricade was being dragged back. A gauntlet of police officers stood on either side as the first of the fascists marched onto the field. Even from that distance, I could make out that some were decked out in the formal, black uniforms of the notorious Schutzstaffel, the SS. They used to be Hitler’s private army and were in charge of surveillance, security, espionage—and terror—in the Europe I’d risked my life for.
I shook my head, wondering who in the hell would ever want to identify with a group as vile as those vermin, especially with all the documented crimes they’d performed.
Feeling the warmth of the sun beating on my own neck, I hoped that those black uniforms were sucking a ton of heat and that they were suffering from it. I’d accept any advantage.
As a collective “Boo!” rose from the crowd, they goose-stepped towards us with an arrogance that was almost palpable. It was intimidating, there was no denying it. But knowing what they stood for and having seen the horrors their kind were capable of gave me a stiff resolve. Many in the crowd had stood up, raising their fists in anger.
Behind them marched a looser group of Brownshirts. Their uniforms were sweat-stained both from the heat of the day and from clashes with Antifa. Many boasted dried blood and torn shirts. A few hobbled with their comrades supporting them.
Finally, those wearing tattered t-shirts with nasty messages that shouted hatred of Jews and non-Whites or proclaimed “taking back America.” Many wore familiar red MAGA ball caps. Scattered through this last group were wannabe commandos sporting a mixture of military garb and standard automatic rifles slung menacingly across chests or beer bellies, showing everyone how tough they were, or trying to be. I could see these idiots standing before a mirror, brandishing weapons to ensure they looked tough. Or posting straggly bearded selfies to social media.
But I had seen grown men, as well as young boys, loaded with weaponry, soil themselves and cry for their mothers at the first barrage of enemy gunfire. Weapons don’t make you brave. What you do with the weapon when the world around you goes to shit determines your bravery. Even then, action is usually over before you can make a conscious thought. Either your training or instinct kicks in, or you fold.
My eyes flicked back and forth, searching for the one hateful face that had brought us here.
I looked over at Mack, but he shook his head, not taking his eyes off the approaching fascists.
Where the hell was Russell?