A Major’s Trophy

The two squads slowly made their way down the hard pack dirt road, each man maintaining a proper distance from the one in front and the one behind. There was no sense in two guys getting hit by a guerrilla sniper for the price of one.

Their target for this late afternoon raid was a middleman in the Presidents “War on Drugs.” The man had a reputation for living like a peasant but he created roads and schools for his own village with the cocaine money he received from the killings he committed.

Doc was part of Team Two. His Team would back door the targets home and make the capture or kill, which ever was to come.

Both Teams used the hard packed roadway as much as possible only slipping back into the bush if there was the slightest chance of being detected. It took them nearly half an hour to finalize their approach on the small village.

It was set up exactly as S-2 Intelligence had said it would be.

“That’s a first,” Doc thought as he hunkered down along the ridge line overlooking the sleepy mud shanties.

The sun was setting as Team One moved off the ridge and towards the left and into the village. A dog could be heard barking in the distance. It was noise Doc found strange in this part of the world.

“There must be plenty to eat,” he said to himself.

There would not be after tonight if this raid went as planned, though. Team Two moved forward and off the ridge to the right.

Doc was in the number five position as usual. This time the two squads were accompanied by an interpreter by the name of Ruben and he was right behind Doc.

He had never met Ruben before this morning and he did not like the man. Ruben wouldn’t look Doc in the eye when he spoke.

It made the young medical Sergeant uncomfortable. But Ruben was assigned to the Teams and that was that.

“Okay,” the Gunny said, “We’re all in position. Let’s take the house.”

There was a sudden flash, followed by a loud bang. Smoke filled the air as a cacophony of voices raged.

This was followed by a burst of gun fire. Then more gun fire.

Before the Teams realized it, they were under attack from the household. The people inside the home were launching everything at them that they had inside the place.

The simple plan to raid and either capture or kill the target was falling apart.

Doc stepped inside to aid in the fire fight. Marines were being wounded but holding their ground without complaint, when a Corporal decided to toss a satchel charge inside the front door of the house.

When it went off, it had a devastating effect. There were dismembered humans and twisted and crumbled pieces of ruins scattered in a one-hundred foot circle.

The shooting stopped and many of the Marines slowly rose to their feet. Some looked on in disbelief.

Doc tapped three Marines and Ruben to move forward towards a portion of the house that still remained standing. It was under a stair way which was stronger due to the construction of the steps that lead up to the second floor which was now collapsed onto the first floor.

The front and right side of the house no longer existed. The satchel charge had found the weak point and destroyed the frame, causing it to heave up and fall back on itself.

In the distance the transports could be heard as they roared down the red hard pack dirt road towards the village and the Teams position. Quickly the four combat veterans and single interpreter moved through the wrecked house towards the lone door.

Doc signaled to two of the Marines to kick in the door and for one to cover them. They executed the plan with flawless precision, having done the same thing so many times before.

Once inside they discovered two women and three children. The two Marines who entered first attempted to coax them out.

They refused to move, frightened of the “Americanos.”

It was up to Ruben to talk them out of the nearly destroyed room. Instead of remaining calm, he started speaking loudly.

The look on the little girls faces was that of terror as they stepped behind the older lady. The little boy didn’t look much better.

Ruben started screaming at the top of his lungs. Doc suddenly recognized what he was saying, “Fuego, rapido, fuego!” or ‘Fire, quick, fire,” in his native latino language

Without warning the younger of the two women turned around with a pistol and fired it.  Her action was met with a blast from the two Marines rifles.

Doc pulled out his service pistol and cocked it. He calmly placed it against the back of Ruben’s head as he continued to shout.

He squeezed one round off.

By the time the melee’ was over Ruben lay dead. So did both women and two of the three children.

The three Marines staggered out of the room in shock, immediately falling down to their knees and vomiting over what they had just done.

Major Brownhorse wanted to know what had happened. As soon as Doc could composed himself he gave the commanding officer a brief statement and then offered him his sidearm.

“No, I don’t want that,” the Major said. “I want that damned traders’ ears! If he couldn’t talk straight in this life, I don’t want him hearing anything in the afterlife.”

The two Teams may have missed their target but Major Brownhorse got his trophy.