2041 The Peoples' United States Read online

  Lexington

  “It’s going to be a cold camp tonight, Bobby Ray. That bourbon Spud gave us will sure come in handy. We’re too close to too many people to build a fire. Let’s find a good spot to curl up and hide.”

  Wouldn’t you know that just off the Westbound lanes of I-64 where it intersects I-75 North there was an old, abandoned limestone quarry with several small outbuildings. A small concrete block building appeared to have once been the Scale House for the quarry. The galvanized roof was in good shape and the windows and door were intact.

  “This concrete floor is going to be cold tonight.” Once again Junior balked at sleeping on a hard, cold slab as he figured he’d probably be doing that soon enough.

  Bobby Ray pointed toward a junkyard, “Look over yonder in the bone yard. There are some big cardboard crates under that tin roof.”

  “Good thinking, Bobby Ray.” Junior walked over to the large, empty, thick cardboard crates and cut out several roughly 6’ x 6’ pieces of cardboard.

  “Now let’s layer three of these under us and it’ll be much warmer and a whole bunch softer than sleeping on that bare concrete.”

  Junior and Bobby Ray swept the floor as best they could with a smaller piece of cardboard, then stacked three large pieces on the floor as an underlayment for their bed rolls. Junior wedged a short piece of 2x4 against the door from the inside making it nearly impossible to open from the outside. Then they sat down on the floor, sliced the summer sausage, opened the box of crackers, and enjoyed dinner courtesy of Spud. Afterwards, they broke out the bourbon and toasted Spud.

  Bobby Ray spoke up softly, “Darius, this morning you didn’t finish telling me about the War.”

  “I guess we were interrupted. What did you think of what we saw back on the road?”

  Bobby Ray stammered a little, but finally found the words, “How can people who claim to be against racism act this way? My family is gone because they were White. That Black man hanging over I-64 was killed because he would not be part of this craziness. How can this be?”

  “It’s a mob, Bobby Ray. A mob looking for someone to blame. That’s the thing about victimhood, there’s always someone to blame. You never have to accept personal responsibility. Their envy and hatred will gradually consume them as they turn on one another. It’s up to common folks like us do something. To stop it.”

  “What can I do? You’re RAMBRO. You’re a hero. I’m just Bobby Ray Skipper from Macon, just a kid.”

  “Bobby Ray, do you know anything about the Korean War?” “Not much. My Great, or maybe Great, Great Grandpa was in that war.”

  “Was his name Bobby Ray?”

  “How did you guess that? I’m named after him.”

  Junior reached into his pack and pulled out a wallet sized photo album. “Look at this.” Junior turned on a flashlight, shining the light on an old, somewhat faded photograph.

  Bobby Ray looked closely at the photo, “Is that you Junior?”

  “No, that’s my grandpa, that’s Pop-Pop.”

  Bobby Ray did a double-take, peering ever more closely at the old photo, “Who’s the other guy, the White guy? He looks like my Dad when he was young.”

  “Not your Dad, Bobby Ray, that guy was an army medic named Bobby Ray Skipper. He’s either your Great, or Great-Great Grandpa.”

  Junior then told Bobby Ray the Chosin Reservoir tale, trying to remember every detail from the stories Pop-Pop had shared with him. Bobby Ray was held spellbound as Junior recounted how Ike and Bobby Ray had stopped three Chinese infiltrators from murdering helpless wounded American soldiers.

  “Bobby Ray, Model 1950, stood up and charged three Chinese soldiers with nothing but a crutch and a bedpan. He was a medic, a non-combatant, and he showed up! I’m no fucking RAMBRO, just Darius from Louisville. We have to step up and man up. Do what we have to do!”

  Bobby Ray was trying to sort things out in his head, “Man, this is like that old Twilight Zone TV show, or something.”

  Darius replied, “This whole damned Collective bullshit is like a fucking horror show. After fifteen seasons, it’s time for us to cancel this show.”

  The Inflection Point

  Tasha set off to the Academy early that morning. A faculty meeting was scheduled for 7:30 a.m. The entire faculty were seated in the Lunchroom by 7:30.

  Member Academy Administrator started the meeting, “I believe we’re all here, let’s begin.”

  The Administrator held up a multicolored booklet, “Members, this booklet is ‘The People’s Guide to Freedom of Sexual Expression and Identity’. In the fifteen years since the Revolution, the People have been liberated from Judeo-Christian, White, sexual mores. Discrimination based upon sexual orientation and gender is no longer tolerated. Jews have been eliminated. Christians are being rooted out of their hideouts to face the judgement of The Collective. Whiteness is being exterminated.

  “The next step in the liberation of the People is the sexual liberation of our children. Our Young Members must be guided and assisted as they explore their sexuality. This program will introduce our Young Members to various sexual experiences and help them develop their sexual identities. White, Judeo-Christian terminology such as beastiality, pedophilia, and sexual predator will be eliminated.

  “Our goal is to begin the liberation process in the next 4 to 6 weeks. Special cubicles are being constructed in which the Young Members can interface with adult volunteers of all sexual orientations who are skilled in a wide variety of sexual practices. Over the next week, study this curriculum and we will meet again next Wednesday morning to answer questions and formulate implementation strategies.”

  As Tasha cycled home that evening, she couldn’t believe this latest Collective crap.

  She wondered, “How can I use this to my advantage?”

  Ostensibly, she was a lesbian and that was a damned good starting point. Perhaps she could use her faux sexual orientation to get out in front of this and volunteer to serve as the “Sexuality Coordinator” for the Academy.

  “Hey, that sounds pretty good. I’ll run it past Beth this evening.” As she neared home, Tasha grinned at the thought of just how resourceful she was.

  Beth had just unlocked the apartment door as Tasha started up the stairway. As she opened her apartment door, Beth glanced down the hall at what had once been the doorway to Ms. Warner’s apartment. It was all she could do to hold back the tears.

  As Tasha climbed the stairs, she also glanced at that same doorway and thought, “Man I’m glad that old White lady is gone. Beth was headed for trouble playing nursemaid to that old White bitch.”

  Then another thought popped into her head, “Maybe I can use this as an opportunity to schmooze with my new neighbor.”

  Dinner that night was a special treat. One of Beth’s patients had brought Beth an old Tupperware container full of chicken & dumplings.

  As the two women scarfed down the dumplings, Tasha described the morning’s faculty meeting, “This could really be a good opportunity. I think I’m going to talk to the Administrator tomorrow morning and volunteer to act as Sexuality Coordinator for the Academy. What do you think?”

  Beth’s facial expression was a mix of disgust, anger, and complete disbelief, “Tasha, those children are your students. You do know what The Collective has planned for them?”

  “Look Beth, let’s not rehash this old argument yet again. Yes, I know what will happen. Can I do anything about it? No! So why not use the opportunity to our advantage?”

  Beth went off, “I think this is disgusting and criminal. You can do as you will, but I will have no part in it.”

  “Well, I’m going to go with the program and benefit as best I can. In fact, I’m going to step next door and visit with our new neighbor.”

  “Suit yourself, Tasha.”

  With that, Tasha stepped down the hall and knocked on Member Block Coordinator’s door.

  The Coordinator opened the door, “Good evening Member Brown.”

  “G
ood evening to you, Member Block Coordinator.”

  “How may I be of assistance, Member Brown?”

  “Member Block Coordinator, I’m certain you know that I am on the faculty of Youth Academy #7.”

  “Yes, Member, I recall seeing that in your profile.”

  Tasha then made her pitch, “May we set down, this may take a few minutes?”

  “I can spare a few minutes. Step inside and have a seat.”

  The Block Coordinator’s apartment’s layout was similar to Beth & Tasha’s place. The rear room was an eat in kitchen and the front room was a combination sitting room/bedroom. The Coordinator sat down at the kitchen table and motioned for Tasha to take the other seat.

  “Member Block Coordinator, I need your advice. Academy #7 will soon be introducing a new program to aid in the sexual development of the Young Members.”

  “Yes, Member Brown, Block Coordinators have been briefed on the Freedom of Sexual Expression and Identity Program. Block Coordinators will identify potential Volunteer Sexual Guides for the Young Members.”

  “Member Block Coordinator, would it be appropriate for a faculty member to volunteer as a Sexual Coordinator for the Academy?”

  “Interesting concept, Member Brown. Were you thinking about volunteering for this responsibility?”

  “No Member Block Coordinator. That would be ambitious and presumptive. But if such a position existed and I were assigned that responsibility, I would perform that role to the best of my ability.”

  “You are lesbian, are you not?”

  “Yes, Member Block Coordinator.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this concept in depth this evening and, if our discussions are positive, we can discuss this tomorrow with the Academy Administrator.”

  “Yes, Member Block Coordinator, that would be lovely.”

  Beth tossed and turned trying to sleep. Falsely denouncing a dead Jew was a victimless crime. Keeping quiet while friends and neighbors were persecuted could be rationalized as self-preservation. But the sexual indoctrination, exploitation, and violation of children? That was over the line, far over the line. What could she do?

  Then she thought of Yasmin, “Dear God, I’ve got to warn Doc Pham!”

  Tokyo

  Ike Johnson had never been in one of these “new-fangled” whirlybirds. He also never before had a chunk of metal in his hip. The term “Whirlybird” aptly described the Bell H-13 Sioux helicopter. By modern standards it was very primitive. It could only carry two casualties at a time, on stretchers strapped into pods on either side of the cockpit. No medical care could be rendered during transport. The upside was that casualties could be rapidly transported to a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital located a short distance behind the front lines.

  Upon arrival at the MASH unit, casualties were triaged. Those with critical, but treatable injuries were treated first. MASH units were staffed with qualified surgeons and equipped with surgical suites. Ike’s wound was serious, but not critical. He was treated and prepped. Several hours later, an irregular, dime sized chunk of brass was successfully removed from his hip. There were some minor complications with clotting and potential damage to the sacrum. The surgeons decided it would be best for Ike to be evacuated to the Tokyo Army Hospital for a period of observation and rehabilitation.

  Japan was still a disaster zone from the American strategic bombing campaign of 1944/45. When most people think about the bombing of Japan during World War II, the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bombs come to mind. Those two attacks were horrendous, but far more horrendous was the fire-bombing campaign devised by General Curtis LeMay.

  At that time, most Japanese cities were constructed of paper and wood. As the American island-hopping campaign slowly pushed the Japanese back in the Pacific, airfields were captured or constructed on islands ever closer to Japan. With the conquest of the Marianas, Iwo Jima, and Okinawa, America now had air bases in proximity to the Japanese home islands. Now, the US needed a bomber built to deliver heavy bomb loads over the vast distances in the Pacific.

  The Boeing B-29 Superfortress was that bomber. Most Japanese fighters couldn’t climb to the B-29’s 30,000+ ft operating altitude and ground anti-aircraft fire couldn’t reach that high either.

  The strategic bombing campaign against Japan started in the Autumn of 1944 with high altitude bombing of specific targets, typically aircraft factories. Within a few weeks, it became apparent that high altitude targeted bombing just wasn’t going to break the will of the Japanese people.

  In March of 1945, General Curtis LeMay switched strategies. The B-29s would now bomb Japan’s major cities at night from low altitude. Most defensive armament was stripped from the B-29s allowing them to carry a heavier bomb load.

  On the night of March 9, 1945, over 300 B-29s headed for Tokyo. 279 bombers arrived over target and released their incendiary bombs. The ensuing firestorm destroyed almost 16 square miles of Tokyo. Estimates of fatalities from that one raid range from 80,000 to 100,000. Until the Japanese surrender in August,1945, the B-29s systematically burned Japan’s major cities to the ground. Nagasaki and Hiroshima were temporarily spared as they were among a handful of Japanese cities reserved as targets for the A-Bomb.

  Ike spent a couple of months in Tokyo in a barracks not too far from the large US Army Hospital. Ike visited the hospital 2 or 3 times per week for physical therapy and observation. Ike was instructed to walk as much as possible.

  The average Japanese had, by now, seen many Americans and knew that the occupying GIs weren’t monsters. In fact, the Japanese quickly picked up many habits and customs from the GIs. Baseball had long been a Japanese favorite, but after the war, professional teams spread like wildfire.

  Black GIs were uncommon and the sight of a large, black, soldier strolling alone down the street sparked the innate curiosity of the Japanese. As Ike walked through the remains of Tokyo, he too became very curious. The cleanliness of the Japanese people impressed Ike. He watched as the people worked to rebuild their city. Never had he seen such discipline and cooperation. It was the politeness of the Japanese that Ike most admired. Just a few years earlier, Ike would probably have been killed on the spot by these people. Their entire country was destroyed by Americans and hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, were dead. Ike could not hate these people. Then Ike thought about the Chinese that he had killed. There was no longer any hatred there either. They were doing their duty and Ike did his.

  On Monday of Ike’s sixth week in Japan he was ordered to report to GHQ on the 6th Floor of the Daiichi Seimei Building at 2:00 p.m. that upcoming Friday for an “awards ceremony”. The Daiichi Seimei Building was located next to the Imperial Palace. General Douglas MacArthur’s office was located on the 6th Floor.

  Ever the showman, MacArthur was entranced by the story of Ike & Bobby Ray as it made its’ way up the chain of command. MacArthur saw this as a perfect opportunity to showcase the recent integration of Negro soldiers and to follow up on the notoriety of Desmond Doss, the hero of “Hacksaw Ridge” fame, with the story of another conscientious objector hero medic.

  Ike was ordered to wear his dress uniform and to be prepared to interface with “high ranking officers”. He had no idea he would meet “The American Caesar”.

  Ike got a shave and haircut, polished his High Gloss Oxford Shoes to a mirror shine, and brushed his teeth until his gums bled. That Friday morning, he took a taxi to GHQ. He was almost as nervous getting out of the taxi as he had been in that foxhole at Chosin. Ike arrived at the Daiichi Seimei Building at Noon and strolled the public grounds around the Imperial Palace until 1:30 p.m. He then made his way to the checkpoint at the main entrance of the Daiichi Seimei Building.

  The Master Sergeant on duty asked to see Ike’s ID and Orders. After examining Ike’s orders, the Master Sergeant directed Ike to take a seat in one of the chairs along the wall. The Sergeant then made a phone call. A few minutes later, A WAC Sergeant appeared and escorted Ike up the elevator to the 6th floor and into a small brie
fing room.

  Ike couldn’t believe his eyes. Standing all alone in the back of the room was none other than Bobby Ray Skipper. Bobby Ray had been kept in the dark about this ceremony just as much as Ike.

  “Ike Johnson, what are you doing here?”

  “Man, I don’t know Bobby Ray, I’m just following my orders, but it’s great to see you.”

  “Are you all healed up?”

  “I think so. The doctor told me I’ll probably be out of here in a couple of weeks. I might be going home.”

  “Me too. Man, Macon will sure look good to me.”

  An Adjutant appeared along with a dozen reporters and photographers in tow. “Corporals Johnson and Skipper?”

  “Yes Sir, Captain Sir.” Bobby Ray and Ike simultaneously stood and saluted.

  The Captain returned the salute, “Your seats are on the front row. Do not be distracted by the reporters and cameras. The General will be out in about a minute. Remember military etiquette. When the General speaks to you, answer briefly, honestly, and respectfully. This is your day, gentlemen.”

  Ike and Bobby Ray looked at each other, “The General?”

  Just then, Douglas MacArthur entered the room puffing on his trademark corn cob pipe. The flashbulbs were popping like the Fourth of July as the Big Chief stepped up to the podium. At the sight of MacArthur, a Japanese reporter a couple of rows back whispered to his friend, “Gaijin Shogun”.

  Bobby Ray heard the remark and translated for Ike, “That means Foreign Warlord.”

  “We are gathered here today to salute the bravery of two unlikely heroes, one a Negro cook and, the other, a medic who is also a conscientious objector.”

  As MacArthur spoke and recounted the deeds of Corporal Isaiah Johnson and Corporal Bobby Ray Skipper at the Chosin Reservoir, their hearts began to swell, not in self-importance, but in the satisfaction of a job well done.

  “Two years ago, the President integrated our armed forces. Some critics argued that Black Americans can’t fight. Tell that to the Chinese invaders at Chosin. Some Americans, with deep moral convictions, cannot take human life. Yet those very same men risk their lives daily saving the lives of their fellow Americans and, amazingly, saving the lives of their enemy. Corporal Johnson and Corporal Skipper, please step forward.”