Keith A. Raymond MD 2227 words. lawien94@gmail.com Augartengasse 10. Muckendorf an der Donau. A3426, Austria, Europe Losing Control by Keith ‘Doc’ Raymond, Capt. (retired) Bucking Fronco cried out as two burly MP pulled him off the woman he was entertaining (by his shoulders). In the excitement and fear adrenaline, he spilled his seed on her belly. She tittered. Unclear, if it pleased her, because he was too soon done, or she enjoyed it. His cry was not in surprise but a warning, “Run, Lewy, run!” Because there were more boots thundering down the hallway behind him. Bucking Fronco heard the window thrown open next door, and a moment later saw his naked superior hightailing it into the night clutching his boots and clothes. He smiled as the zip ties tightened on his wrists. “Private,” cried the MP, “grab his uniform and the uniforms of the rest of his squad.” “Aye, aye, Sir!” The two burly MP looked at each other as Fronco squirmed, and the other one said, “Kid thinks he’s still a swabby. You’re in the Army now. And you, you’re coming with me!” “Aye, aye, sir!” Bucking barked, just to piss him off. The prostitute, a contractor, ran her finger through Fronco’s gift as they hustled him out. “Happy trails, BF.” “Love you, babe,” he answered. “Next time, yeah,” said the French-Algerian Sargent. “Ain’t gonna be a next time for you, Sargent,” the MP added, ominously. *** “And what do we have here?” the desk Sargent asked, staring at the naked and motley squad wedged between a group of MP at the FOB Endurance jail. “Drunk and disorderly, the lot of them,” said the burly MP holding Bucking up by his axilla. “Hey now, me and the boys are neither drunk nor disorderly. We were just getting our last ya-yaws in before…” “See what I’m saying. The Sargent here can’t keep his mouth shut,” the MP said. “Where d’ya want ‘em?” “That big holding cell two down on the left. Here, take these keys.” “C’mon boys. Looks nice and cozy in there.” “What about their uniforms?” the private asked, hands full with the wad of clothing. “Throw it in with them. Mebbe they’ll get dressed or not. Matters not to me. And hand me their dog tags for the desk.” “Yes, Sir.” “See, Maddox, the private can learn. I have high hopes for his future.” Bucking Fronco looked at his squaddies all standing naked with him in the cell. “Well, it was fun while it lasted.” “What happened to the Lieutenant?” Sanchez asked. “Made it out safe,” said Fronco. “I warned him.” “At least we have a lifeline out there,” said Washington. The big black private was physically impressive. Heavily muscled and hung. “How many of you got to finish up?” Fronco was the only one who raised his hand. The others dropped their heads and shook them. “This yours, Washington?” Sanchez asked, picking up a small BDU blouse. “You’re kidding right,” he muttered with a deep voice to match his size. They all laughed, breaking the weight of despair they felt. It was like a mail call, as Sanchez threw uniform bits around the cell, and the squad dressed. In no time, they were laying down under the forever fluorescent lights of the jail. Despite that, sleep came easily, especially for BF. *** Early the next morning, the base commander marched into the jail with BF’s lieutenant, Gemson, in tow, looking sheepish. The man marched down the line of cells all spit and polish, stopping when he got to Fronco’s cell. “These your men?” Colonel Murphy asked. “Yes, sir!” the lieutenant said, loud enough to wake them up. Bucking jumped to attention, seeing the Colonel on the other side of the bars. “Squad, Ten Hut!” Instantly, four men stood at attention, after briefly trying to straighten their sleep soaked BDUs. “Sargent, get yer butt down here and release these men.” “But, but, Colonel…” “Don’t ‘but’ me son. I’m the one that kicks the butts around her. These boys are going out this morning to fight while you sleep.” “Sir, yes, sir, Colonel, Sir.” The ring of keys jangled as he jammed them into the cell’s lock, spinning the key and opening the door. Fronco, seeing their egress, ordered, “Squad, single file, march!” Lieutenant Gemson directed them to the depot where the rest of the platoon was waiting. He pointed them towards their assigned Humvees. BF followed Gemson toward the second one in the convoy, with Sanchez climbing into the gunner's seat up top. They put on their headsets, and Gemson looked up and down the line. “Radio check, everyone sound off by position in line.” After the roll call, Gemson ordered, “Launch the drone, and take us out, Chief.” Engines started, and the warrant officer led the way off base and beyond the wire. The drone hovered about a hundred meters in front of the convoy, checking the terrain ahead and below. The technician sat in the first vehicle, controlling the drone, sending a copy of the image to Gemson. Patrol underway. *** Years before, Fronco was in Algiers teaching driver’s education. His students were future cab drivers in the city and beyond. This was more about vocational training than getting around. His hair was longer, and he felt frustration with his life. He swore to his parents he would give this all up and join the French Foreign Legion. They would disinherit him if he did. So he was stuck. He taught one trick no other instructor did, how to control a car in a skid. Nowadays, with traction control and anti-lock brakes skidding was much reduced, particularly on the dry roads in Algeria. But there is sand and gravel, which made the roads tricky. So the first step was to teach them to detect when a car is skidding. Once that’s done, he tells them to ease off, either de-clutch or take their foot off the pedal, and not brake. Finally, avoid looking in the direction the car is going. Rather look and steer in the direction the driver wanted to go, and ideally into the skid. It wasn’t as easy as it sounded, and he’d take them to a test spot and practice it. Few mastered it, but most developed some control. And control was the key to survival and avoiding a roll over. That’s where Bucking Fronco got his name as he made the car jump and buck as he demonstrated the technique. Of course, most thought it was just the juxtaposition of the first letters of each of his names to keep it clean. When he found that out, he laughed. It also added to his reputation in the sack. Besides, the squad couldn’t pronounce his real name. “So why didn’t the frogs let you join the Foreign Legion?” A cadet asked BF during boot camp. “No need for drivers. They ride camels!” The whole cabin burst out laughing. This was modern times, and Fronco kept his own counsel on the subject. “Besides, maybe after this, I can become an American citizen and marry a blond bimbo!” More laughter. “Like that’s going to happen! And look, you ended up driving camels in the desert, anyway!” Gemson and Washington were in hysterics when he finished the story. Sanchez up top stuck his head inside the cab and demanded, “Hey guys, let me in on the joke!” *** The Humvee leaped in the air, like the one before him. Looking in the side mirror, Bucking watched the rest of the convoy down the line do the same. Must have been a poorly buried power cable. Thank goodness it wasn’t an IED. The village they passed to their right stayed quiet as they drove by. Even the kids in the street stopped playing soccer to watch the convoy roll past. It always felt eerie. Like the locals watching djinn in the dust devils. And maybe the American GIs were. Not every one returned to base. “Spooky… that’s what I say,” Gemson muttered, staring out the window. “We’re fighting for them, and they freeze when they see us.” “Same thing everywhere, sir. Saw it in Algeria. Locals don’t trust the military. Anyone with weapons could turn on them,” Fronco said. The lieutenant nodded and pointed the way forward down the road. The area outside of Mosul was trying to stay green, but it was a losing battle as the heat set in. Soon the landscape would turn brown. The drone churned overhead. It filmed mostly goats, some shepherds herding them, or trying to anyway. Then what happened, happened fast. The lead Humvee rose on all four wheels, airborne in front of Fronco’s eyes. Flame erupted beneath it, like a volcano. He slammed on his brakes, then turned the truck sideways in the skid to avoid the blast. It came to a stop with his front wheels teetering on the edge of the roadbed. The 50 cal opened up, Sanchez sending tracers down range showing where the bullets struck. Gemson and the others leaped out, looking for targets. The other vehicles in the convoy slid off the road to left and right. IED in front, anti-tank mines on both sides of the road. The explosions were intense, shock waves buffeting their vehicle. Only one other Humvee stayed on the road. The rest blew apart, scattering men and material. Bucking looked through the windshield as bullets pinged off it and the sides of the vehicle. He saw the drone spiraling out of control, one or two of its props gone. He followed it down, and it barely made a dust cloud. Gemson and the others returned fire. The Humvee barely deadening the roar. Fronco yelled into his mike, “Lewy, we got to get out of here! We’re in a kill box.” The rattle of automatic fire grew louder as Gemson answered. “Call in coordinates and air support, Sargent. Only way we’re going to make it out of this ambush.” Gemson’s voice controlled, but fear leaking in on the sides. Most of the platoon were dead or dying. BF wasn’t used to calling in an air strike, and he was shaking. “Grid coordinates, Sargent!” Fronco checked the GPS, then called it in. “Copy that, Strike Team November delivering the package in two minutes.” “Danger close acknowledged. Roger, out.” “Ninety seconds, Lewy,” BF sent over his comms. “RPG!” Sanchez screamed. Fronco ducked and opened his mouth as the smoke trail shot from behind a boulder. Glancing up, his eyes tracked it hit the Humvee in front of him. The vehicle rolled over on its side and exploded. He heard Washington and Gemson cry out as they were on the side of the explosion. The passenger door opened, and Washington, bleeding from multiple shrapnel wounds, pushed Gemson in unconscious. Bucking helped pull him inside, as Washington turned cursing, slamming the door, and returning fire. They felt more than heard the A-10 Thunderbolts whistling in from the east. First, they opened up with their Gatling guns, sounding like sky-borne sewing machines stitching the ground, then they rose straight up, did a hard right and let loose with cluster bombs. Beautiful. The explosions ripping the enemy to shreds. When the A10s exited the theater, Fronco, Sanchez, and Washington listened for enemy fire. It was dead quiet. After all the noise, the sound of the desert wind seemed like a whisper. Sanchez climbed down out of the gunner’s stand on the fifty cal and slumped in the seat. Washington climbed into the back behind the still unconscious Gemson, and Fronco belted him in. “Don’t get blood on the upholstery!” Bucking yelled behind him, starting the engine. Washington grinned. “Now, where did I put my little bird? Oh, there it is!” Corporal Sanchez ordered, “Times up. Let’s get out of here, Bucking.” “Where to…” “Back to the FOB. How’s the Lieutenant?” “Still out of it. But breathing.” “Whose left?” Sanchez asked. “Dunno,” said BF. “Well, get on the horn, Fronco,” Washington demanded, wiping blood from his face, his sunglasses broken. As Fronco did a three point U-turn, he heard a few mines popping off, as he spoke into the mike. The answer came back, which he relayed to Sanchez and Washington. “Only three from six squad.” Sanchez shook his head. The rest of the platoon was gone. Good day turned bad, real bad. They rode back in relative silence, listening to Gemson gurgling when he breathed. There was no medic left to check him over. When FOB Endurance bounced into view, the Lieutenant lifted his head and coughed. Blood sprayed over the dash on his side. Fronco grumbled, pissed off. He looked into the side mirror to see the other Humvee struggling behind him. It shimmied on the road. “Where’s the rest of them?” the gate guard asked, at port arms, as BF paused so they could open the gate. Fronco shook his head, “Gone.” The guard kicked the dirt and cursed, spitting a wad of tobacco. *** Gemson suffered a severe traumatic brain injury and returned to the US once he stabilized. Sanchez re-upped, and eventually became a mustang, earning his gold bar. Washington, after spending time in the hospital with Capt. Raymond, had enough shrapnel removed for a metal sculpture, although some remained in him. He served out his tour and returned home, teaching in a junior high school in Georgia. Bucking Fronco, aka Badri Fodil (name changed), received a Bronze Star, his citizenship, and is teaching driver's education in Michigan to this day.