The Last Reflexive

By: Col. Brunhilda 'Iceberg' Buriman, ret.

Sorority Sister of Pi Loda Cum

Chapter Six: Death Hue

Harriette removed her arms from my chair, standing to flick the set off, suddenly concerned with me. I suggested she settle back into a chair before I began, but she needed to pace, because it helped her think. I suggested she not think too deeply and simply listen to my story, the truth about her father. After a wordless confrontation with herself, she finally acquiesced and positioned herself in the chair across from mine. I looked deep into her eyes and she returned a gaze of determination. At first her green eyes sparred with my blue ones, goading me to battle, but after a bit, they quieted. She didn't seem to doubt my sincerity, and I guessed the forty-five had something to do with that.

"I want you to know I admired your father," I began, and then stopped to start again, because I hadn't gotten it right. The truth was going to come to her in words she's yearned, needed to hear, and yet didn't wish for. I thought for a moment and began again.

"Actually, I loved your father, and along with every soldier under his command idolized him as a soldier and insatiable libertine. There was no greater honor for a soldier than to be a DOG and live in the compound known simply as THE POUND. Sort of a cliché I know, but that's the military. It was located far outside the perimeter of U.S. Marine headquarters, Da Nang, between HQ and Hue. Far away from humanity. The only true oddity was the fact the POUND was cared for by maids," I said, with a wry smile, myself still awed by the way that man arranged things so effortlessly. Harriette looked at me with a twisted lip. "Surprised? Your dad found maids added a nice touch to the compound, and kept the men relaxed yet wound up, and if maids were good enough for the air force bases in Japan, they were good enough for him and his men."

"Trust Sarge to find a sliver of paradise, Shangri-La, in the middle of a war," Harriette murmured with a shrug of her shoulders, gulp of beer, and long drag.

"Yes, amazing. Even to this day I'm amazed at what he'd built out of that jungle hide-away. Our unwritten law was, if you have time to war, you have time to fuck. It was that simple."

"I remember that saying from somewhere..."

"Your father's command was never more then one hundred one strong, and due to the nature of our encounters, often numbered less. We were technically part of the 1st Calvary Division, ferried on demand by the 7th Calvary, but outside of everyone's jurisdiction. Our unit was classified, Top Secret." As I spoke Harriette listened with a growing intent, which made my words come easier. For some reason, maybe an unconscious need, I'd begun with her dad's home away from home.

"The POUND was brutally Spartan, and the maids were expected to make it more uncomfortable when possible, rather then feminine. They would place stones under our beds, and sometimes snakes, and they'd take the beer out of the fridge when we were on maneuvers so we returned to really warm brews, and they always made sexual encounters a challenge. In fact, one day those little sirens watered down your dad's bourbon." Harriete's mouth dropped open to that, so I looked at her and smiled wickedly, with a shake of my head. "Someone got a spanking that evening!" Then Harriette smiled, almost giggled while shaking her head in understanding. "So you see, a man had to really want to be there!" I could tell she understood what I meant when a real smile shimmered across her lips, for a moment. "If you succeeded and made it into the unit, you not only wanted to be there, you'd earned the right."

Harriette sat riveted to my story, and I could tell she was engrossed, mulling my every word.

"Our unit took orders from a General George Sequoia Smith, whom I've subsequently learned never existed, technically. It turns out all our upper-echelon were known as Smith. The General reported directly to both the President of the United States, when appropriate, certain members of Congress, and the Organization," I said. At that, Harriette gave me a funny look. "Yes, Harriette, believe it or not, there are several members of Congress not driven by greed nor a need for power, and who are working to restore the Constitutional balances in the face of the Democrat and Republican siege."

"The Organization," Harriette muttered in sudden wonder.

"I'll get back to that," I told her, wanting to continue with this part first. "Whenever security issues dictated, colonels delivered our orders in person. It didn't happen often, because all communication was via satellite, and secure, but it happened that one fateful day."

"It was 0100 hours, Friday the 14th, 1968. We were meeting with a Colonel Smith, whom I had the opportunity of entertaining as his documents were checked. He said his name was Sadu Subara Smith. I commented about the odd name and asked its nationality, but he just smiled and I thought sure he said, 'coming soon'. Two years later I was shown evidence suggesting his name was Saduj Subarab and he didn't really exist. Rather, I should say he doesn't exist and never has, as far as the army's concerned. But investigators from the Organization found the name Saduj Subarab scribbled on bits of carbonized paper. The small charred scraps were left behind in an office used by this non-existent colonel. But anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself."

I stopped for a moment and caught my breath. I looked down and then back to Harriette, and returned to a story only I knew. I was destined to close a painful chapter in her life. It was not something I'd looked forward to, nor felt comfortable with, but I'd been given orders and a mission to complete. I saw no way around this, so I exhaled and continued.

"Our outfit was ready for a break, and the orders were for two days of R&R at a regular brothel on the outskirts of Saigon. That morning everything looked like a go, by the book and totally legit. Every required and mandated coded exchange took place, and papers thoroughly examined. There's no way those orders didn't originate from the top. I can never forgive myself for being fooled by this guy, and having been horny is no excuse. I'll never forget his face. Sure your dad and the others were also duped, being they were always ready to fuck anything that moved, but since I survived I'm left to ponder my failure. I will dwell on that until I die, agonizing over why I'd become so damn horny I overlooked something..." I stopped the moment I'd realized where I'd gone. "Sorry again, Harriette," I acknowledged. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes which she blinked and wiped away, to another swig.

"We landed 0136 hours, in an open field, less than one hundred yards from the roadhouse, from which we could hear music. The Doors were playing, their music wafting by under the whirring blades. We came in on five helicopters and proceeded to the shelter quickly, but carefully, unable to let our guard down completely, even with the blessing of upstairs. The copters took off and Morrison got louder. We came in leading with our hard-ons, and were confronted by enough pussy to feed an army. I saw naked women with open arms, legs, and mouths everywhere, in every corner, every nook, and even hanging from the ceilings, flying on make-shift swings. We prided ourselves in knowing where the enemy and pussies were before they became aware of us. The fastest DOGs buried themselves balls-deep immediately without discarding a bit of clothing, or surrendering their piece, neither of which we do when in the throes of passion, whether nasty or deadly."

Everything was going well, many of us lost to delicious sexual abandon, lost to the most delicious styles of voluptuous debauchery ever witnessed, that continued without end. The entire place soon became a steam bath of sexual aerosol, with the wooden floors made slippery from over-filed, over-flowing pussies. Our goal was to penetrate and ransack every orifice, and everything continued to go favorably, the steaming jungle becoming cooler than the brothel."

"The men were reaching their targets when explosions ripped through the structure. The shelling came in a swirling storm, covering all other sounds. The attack came out of tunnels suddenly, without warning, and lasted ten minutes. Harriette, we'd been destroyed, assassinated, by an elite group of Viet Cong guerrillas. Your dad and his lady had taken the brunt of an exploding grenade which landed between their legs. Shrapnel tore through their bodies in so many places they were unrecognizable." Harriette shook her head and wiped an eye.

"He always said he'd die making love or not die at all," she whispered, through a sniffle.

"You realize your father was also our father, my father," I asked, without waiting for an answer. "He was the only father I'd ever had, and I'll tell you what he did for a living." I hesitated and looked away for a moment. I heard Harriette shift in her chair, and sensed the interest. "I swear your dad was as impervious to pain as he was full of sperm. Some men are full of shit, but not your dad. He was full of sperm, enough to choke a horse," I continued, while reaching under my coat to retrieve and hand Harriette the butt-end of the weapon.

Without a sound Harriette took the weapon and clasped it between her legs, forcing the material of her short skirt in with it. Then she squeezed the handle until its quiet buzzing filled the room. Without thinking she pressed her father's forty-five deeper, till it danced against her clit, and closed her eyes. Through a shrouded gaze her fluttering green eyes betrayed much of what she was feeling and thinking. I stood to leave Harriette alone with the weight I'd left in her lap, hoping vibrations of truth helped. She looked at me, through heavy lids, smiling most strangely.

"Harriette, I'll leave you for now. I'll be staying at the Four Seasons Hotel. Suite 1369. Phone me as soon as you can. We have much to discuss." She nodded, then tilted her head back and gazed at the ceiling, legs trembling.

"Oh myyyyyyyyyy," she managed to whisper as I turned to leave. Alone with her old friend, she looked down into her lap and noticed it, the saying engraved in tiny letters along the barrel of the forty-five: If you have time to war, you have time to fuck.