15 Aug 6:25 AM
Circe
It was still raining cats and dogs outside and the wind was blowing pretty hard. I stretched away the sleep of my nap and the light of day was breaking. Swinging my legs off the bed I padded over to the window to get my bearings as to where I was and the view that met my eyes was a gloomy one. Well it was definitely out in the country and appeared to have been a working farm. Fields as far as the eye could see, broken by rolling hills and patches of trees. Then a movement below me caught my attention. It was one of the military people and he, or she, was out in the rain getting soaked. It had to be miserable. Then I saw more scattered around the property, not moving much but being very alert and watchful. This wasn't right for them to be out in the elements. Slipping on the jeans and shirt that had been provided for me, I went down the stairs to see if I could get these people out of the nasty weather.
There were a number of people around the house and I ran into one of the females that I had been talking to before I went upstairs.
"Mornin' ma'am. Hope ya' had a good nap."
"Yes I did thanks. But could you please not call me ma'am? It makes me feel old."
"I don't think I can ma'am. You are very important to our boss and our boss is important to us, so that makes you important to us."
"Okay, okay. You win. But what should I call you? I don't see any nametapes on your uniform."
"Well my last name is Zombeek but if you need to find me you need to ask for Zombie."
"Zombie? What's that all about? Why can't I use your last name?"
"It's a long story ma'am but basically lots of people in the military get nicknames for one reason or another. And those names stick so well that people often forget the real name. Sometimes the name is just while you are in a particular unit, and sometimes it follows you through your whole career."
"So you got yours because of your last name?"
"Well sort of. It really comes from how I get when I drink too much. I kinda' become a Zombie. It isn't pretty. Usually there is an inside joke that we don't share with outsiders. See that guy over there? His last name is Emerson, but he's called Bigguns."
"Is there something humorous about that? I guess I don't get it."
"So here's the deal. You can't see it really well under his uniform but he's ripped and has these monster pectorals."
"I'm still lost Zombie."
"Haven't you ever heard a guy say, 'Them are some big ones' when he sees a woman with big breasts?"
At the mention of the word 'breasts' there was a male snicker from the other room. Maybe my soldier who had gotten an eyeful when I leaned out the window had told all his buddies. Not so deep down inside I was hoping that he had. Some of Tillman's exercises had helped me to discover that I was a bit of an exhibitionist and the during times that I should have felt embarrassment I instead was experiencing sexual excitement.
Now before some of you ladies get all incensed and preachy at me for being okay with him seeing my tits, I want to point something out. For at least this century and the last one, fighting men have carried pictures of their girls all over the world. They've adorned their lockers with pinups and painted them on the sides of aircraft. Their existence is a raw, harsh, demanding life that is far from the creature comforts of home. There are no flowery smells, soft beds, or home cooked meals. Theirs is a world of the smell of sweat, gunpowder residue, diesel, dust, armor steel plate, a sleeping bag on the ground, and a pre-packaged ration that is capable of staying 'fresh' on the shelf for thirty years. They are burdened with instruments of death and the sounds that go with them. So they hold on to the one soft thing that evokes strong feelings deep down inside that the rumble of artillery cannot displace. That soft thing is a woman. And what's the softest thing on a woman? Many of you might say lips. But ask any guy and if he says anything other than breasts he's lying to you. Why would he lie? There are two reasons that come to mind. One is that it's not socially acceptable to say that in polite society. The other is that he wants to get into your pants and doesn't want you to think he's a sex maniac. In either instance the guy will deflect and try to think of some non-erogenous zone to throw out there. In any case, if seeing my breasts gives some poor sap, who's risking his life for me, some sense of comfort - well I'm okay with that.
Oh, and one other thing before someone calls me slutty for being okay with him seeing my breasts. What's the difference between that and how some of you dress when you go out to a club? You might say, "Um Angel, they aren't seeing my nipples!" Okay, but with that low cut halter top they saw all of your breast except for the nipple. Really ladies? You buy short-shorts that end right at your ass cheek and you pick ones that show just a little cheek when you walk just right. You buy leggings and yoga pants that might as well be sprayed on. And why do you do it? One is the competition with other females, and the other is to catch the eye of a guy you might be interested in. And please don't tell me that you wear the short-shorts, with a tight low-cut tank, push-up bra, and wedgie shoes out to the store because they are comfortable. I call bullshit on that. So let's not point fingers at me for wanting to give a decent bunch of guys a little eye candy. You do it too. Anyway, back to Emerson...
"'Them are some big ones?' I guess I'm just daft Zombie. I still don't get it."
"Say it real fast ma'am, and slur it like someone from the south."
I did as directed and said it over and over a few times.
"Them r some big ones."
"'em r sum big ones."
"'em r sum big 'uns."
"Oh ha! I get it! Emerson Bigguns! I'm sorry I was so slow in getting it."
"No problem ma'am. We prefer that outsiders don't get it because we are a close-knit team and want to keep the inside joke."
"Then why are you sharing this with me? I don't understand."
"Because you are a part of our team. As I noted before, you are important to our boss so you are important to us."
I nodded thoughtfully but was taken aback by the depth and nuances of the inner psychology of people in the military. I noticed that one of the men had a patch on his vest that said "Sheepdog" and had an outline of a dog. I have to remember to ask about that sometime.
"Thanks for the inside scoop Zombie, but the real reason I came down was to see if we could get everyone inside and out of the rain. It looks miserable out there. Can we do that?"
Zombeek looked at me quizzically with a slight amusement in her eyes. Thankfully she was kind in her response to my ignorant question.
"No ma'am we can't do that and yes it's miserable. But if everyone comes inside then nobody will be outside watching."
"Watching for what? I'm just so confused."
"Watching for more assholes like the ones that took you ma'am. I can't really say any more than that."
"You mean they are out there in the cold rain in order to protect me?"
Zombeek simply nodded.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I was truly stunned. Then the realization set in that what had happened the previous days was not a training session. Just a few moments went by while my brain connected the dots. Tillman's fiancée and her kidnapping, torture and eventual murder. The terrorist who came into where I was being held just yesterday and his chilling words, 'We will begin tomorrow.'
"So...does...that...mean...they...were...going...to...ki...?"
That last word wouldn't come out of my mouth.
Zombeek just sadly nodded.
At that realization my stomach filled with a flood of bile that decided it was leaving my body via the shortest route possible. And it was leaving NOW! I ran to the kitchen sink and retched violently in a most unladylike fashion.
True to female form, Zombie stepped over and held my hair for me, which is another side note to the difference between the sexes. Women will empathize and comfort, and hold the other's hair. A guy throws up and his friends just laugh hysterically. The outward manifestation of male friendship is to roll your passed out buddy onto his stomach so that he doesn't choke on his own vomit.
But back to my puking. It turned into dry heaves and I started crying, partly because dry heaves hurt, but mostly from the fear of just how close I'd come to dying. Zombeek poured a small glass of water which helped settle things down. She stroked my hair and held me while I cried it out and eventually regained my composure. And now I was presented with another strange contradiction. Here stood this soldier, who by all accounts looked every bit an expert war fighter, yet she was looking at me with compassion and every bit a woman. I'm sure she could nurse a baby in the one arm and at the same time kill a terrorist with the other. My eyes were being opened to a world that I never knew existed.
On the counter behind Zombeek there was a thermal jug full of coffee. I grabbed it and some foam cups and headed for the door.
"Hey hold on ma'am! Where are you going?"
"Those people out there are cold and wet and I'm taking them some hot coffee and you aren't stopping me." And with that I was out the door. From behind me I heard Zombeek talking.
"All radios, all radios! This is Zombie. Hotel has left the building and will be wandering the perimeter. Please don't do anything stupid like shooting her. And guys, please try to keep your eyes above shoulder level."
With the greatest of intentions I stepped off the porch and slipped in a mud puddle. Fortunately I didn't fall flat on my face but instead went down on my hip, determined to protect the coffee and the cups. Regaining an upright position in a most ungraceful fashion I must have looked a mess. My hair was wet and I had mud all over my jeans and top, but I figured if these people could be out in the weather all day on my behalf then I could walk around all muddy for a few minutes.
The first one I came to was laying on the ground behind a hedge with some sort of big gun with a telescope on it and the end of the was poked into the hedge. He heard me coming (how could he not) and partly turned his head but didn't get up.
"Hello ma'am. You need get back inside. This weather is way too nasty for a lady to be out in."
"What's your name soldier? Or Marine, or whatever you are..."
"In my case ma'am it's sailor and my last name is Burkhardt. And we really prefer you to go back indoors now."
"Okay sailor Burkhardt, while I appreciate your concern regarding the weather and my status as a lady, I am hell-bent on getting you something warm to drink since I can't get you all back in the house. So I don't want any more fucking backtalk from you. Is that understood?"
"Aye-aye ma'am. Loud and clear."
"Good. Now I have creamer and sugar packets in my pockets but obviously they are useless now so I hope you can drink it black?"
"Black is how I take it ma'am."
I pumped out a cup for him but it was raining so hard I'm sure it was colder and diluted by the time I handed it to him. I was very frustrated and starting to get upset. All I wanted to do was something nice and it was all going wrong. Burkhardt must have read my mind or my body language.
"It's okay ma'am. I like mine diluted and usually put an ice cube in to cool it down."
I knew he was lying but I was so touched by his concern. Here he was laying on the cold wet ground for hours and yet he was concerned about my feelings. I had spent all my life just thinking about myself and now I had run into a whole group of people that seemed to always be thinking about others. And from what I understood they didn't make much money. To top it off, if it wasn't for these people I would be dead or being tortured by now. So not only were they concerned about me, they had risked their lives for me. Tears came to my eyes but the rain washed them away as quickly as they left my eyes.
