This story is a work of fiction and is part three of a story that has been rattling around in my head. I apologize to those who feel the chapters are too short or too far apart. I write how I write and I have no control over how long it takes the editors at Literotica to review and approve it.
I am trying to keep the story as historically accurate as possible, but please bear with any errors I make as I did not live these events, I only pieced them together from vague recollections of others and whole cloth from my imagination.
This work belongs only to me and I retain all rights to it and any reproduction without my express permission is prohibited.
July, 1972 (Dallas, Tx.)
Case stepped off the Braniff Airlines flight from Chicago and walked down the long terminal wing as people flowed around him. He spied a young sailor about to board a flight, saying goodbye to his loved ones. He saw other people embracing for tearful farewells and welcome home's.
The airport was crowded by throngs of humanity of every description. There was even a group of chanting Hare Krishna types passing out pamphlets and flowers in the main rotunda. He saw a wide variety of young student as well, boys and girls in their late teens/early twenties, some of whom eyed him with disdain while most of the crowd just ignored him.
After picking up his Sea Bag from baggage claim, he walked out of the terminal at Love Field into a stifling heat that barely registered. His sole focus was aimed at acquiring three things, BBQ, Beer and Pussy. He realized with a smile that all three were easily within a short distance of his current location.
He held separation orders and was due to check in at the Naval Air Station (NAS Dallas) in Grand Prairie, but he knew he had plenty of time. His first stop, after hailing a cab, was Sonny Bryan's BBQ on Inwood Rd. It was a semi-squalid looking, no-frills BBQ joint and a Dallas landmark. He ordered two of their signature chopped beef sandwiches and stepped out of the stifling interior to the patio.
The smoky flavor of the chopped beef smothered in tangy sauce mixed with sweet pickle relish left a sublime smile on the young Marine's face. He savored each bite and chased it down with sweet southern iced tea that would have put any Yankee into a diabetic coma. As he watched the patrons come and go he reflected on his last year in the Corps.
Everything seemed to be going sideways in Nam. The U. S. government couldn't seem to make up its mind about what it was doing, nothing new there. As always, politics was like a cancer in every branch of the military and sapped the will of the men at the sharp end of the stick. South Vietnam had never been a united country so much as a loose conglomeration of factions rooting and squirming for American and European scraps like piglets on a sow. Their own government leaders were so busy buying and selling themselves (and each other) that nobody seemed to have the will to take a shit without American approval. As a result, they were blown hither and yon by the political windbags and their idiotic and nonsensical rhetoric that was taking place half a world away.
Case's final tour started badly and ended worse. He arrived in-country after two weeks at Po City in PI (Olangapo City, Philippine Islands) hitting every dive he could find, and drinking shots of Jose Cuervo tequila and San Miguel beer chasers with a few like-minded friends he'd run into. By the time he arrived in Saigon, he was sporting two new tattoos, three new scars, a busted lip, a black eye, and a hangover (along with a heavy dose of the clap).
He had re-enlisted as 21 year-old newly-minted Sergeant (E-5) who was pretty damn sure that he would not re-up again, just to chase that Staff Sergeant rocker. For someone so young, he was far-removed from the country bumpkin his DI had named "Hard-On" so many ages ago. Casey Hardin was still soft spoken, and still carried that East Texas accent that made people underestimate his intelligence.
Unfortunately for him, that was not the case with those who knew him in the Corps. His superiors quickly learned to trust his opinions, as well as his instincts, so much so that certain people affiliated with the government were beginning to take notice. Because of their attention, he was beginning to question some of the assignments he and his LRRP team were being tasked with. His future looked bleak, as he withdrew into himself with the knowledge he would soon be leaving the only real family he had.
Francis Casey 'Hard case' Hardin's final mission had ended with three of his 10-man team KIA and another three WIA, along with himself. The burns on his lower back and both legs were treated with skin grafts which got infected with staph germs and had to be repeated several times while both the left tibia and fibula were set with screws. All told, it took almost a year of rehab before his leg was well enough for him to walk without a severe limp, but he would never be returning to active service. Once he was released from Walter Reed, he was shipped home for early release with a Medical Discharge.
While watching the world pass by from the Sonny Bryans' patio, he noticed a couple motorcycles parked nearby. They were far from the typical machines he was used to as their front forks were extended and their frames were raked to avoid lifting the engine too high. Each bike had an extended banana style seat each with an elevated back pad along with a high chrome sissy bar to allow both the driver and passenger to lean back in relative comfort.
He knew they were called choppers, and having seen several Hells Angels movies, as well as Easy Rider he saw them as another extension of the growing 'counter-culture' that was sweeping the country as the 1960's merged into the 1970's. He had watched the effects as they trickled down into the newer recruits he had served with, as well as the younger and more rebellious icons he read about in popular magazines.
Case knew that many of the young people of America were adamantly opposed to the war, and by extension, they demonstrated that opposition through direct confrontation toward those who served in the military. Those people had the self-righteousness and youthful ignorance that allowed them to see everything as black and white. Despite their viewpoint, he was ambivalent toward them, the war, the government, and the counter-culture they claimed to represent.
He watched the two bikers fiddling with one of the machines, a flat head Harley or Indian that would not start. As he listened to them argue, he sidled over to offer a hand. When he approached, they each stood up and eyed him suspiciously. Case just held out a hand to the one holding a spark plug.
"Can I see it?"
The pair exchanged a look and the younger man handed it over. Case examined it then smelled the gap end.
"Carburetor's not pumping any gas. How far you need to go?"
"Just a few miles."
"You got enough tools to pull the carb?"
"Just a few wrenches really, but I have a bro with a pick-up I can call."
Case considered for a moment.
"You sure the gas is reaching the carburetor?"
"I prime it and can smell gas." was the reply.
"Got a flat screwdriver?"
The other guy handed one to Case, who turned the gas tank petcock to the closed position and started to unscrew the retaining clamp that fed into the aged Linkert carburetor. A small trickle of gasoline spilled out of the end of the fuel line until it was empty.
"OK. We know the line has fuel, let's check the carb."
Case took an open end wrench and began to remove the four bolts holding the carburetor between the engine heads. In a few minutes he had it off and was stripping it down. He found the problem in just a few more minutes and began reassembling the carburetor, wiping each part down with a gasoline soaked bandanna as he did so. He showed the pair the problem with the cork float that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since WWII and was so worn that it really needed replacing, but he figured it was good for a while if they weren't going far.
During this process, the three exchanged names and general conversation. Dave and Finn were cousins and avid riders who lived nearby. They were on the fringes of the biker scene in Dallas, but neither was affiliated with any of the clubs in the area.
After the parts were reassembled and reinstalled Case told Finn to, "Let 'er rip".
He primed the carb and came down hard on the kick pedal. After two misses the 74 cu. in. engine roared to life.
"ALL RIGHT!" the trio shouted.
Dave suggested that since Casey was not due to report until Monday, why didn't he let them buy a few beers as a thanks for his help. They mounted Case's green sea bag behind Finn and then climbed onto the back of Dave's bike.
