The Annual Assault
I live in what is basically a compound. Oh, we don’t have sandbagged gun emplacements and ferocious dogs patrolling the perimeter, nor are there spotlights sweeping the area for any signs of clandestine activity. But we do have a fence surrounding the grounds, and gates that are locked at night. Presumably to keep the residents from escaping in their slippers and nighties. At least that’s what I conjure up when the PTSD kicks in.
We’re well within the city limits, which should afford us a level of security, and that special warm feeling which we otherwise don’t experience unless we have an incontinence issue. So living as we do, under the steely gaze of our ever-vigilant law enforcement agency, we shouldn’t have to worry about bombardment from the neighborhood alien nations. Or should we?
Did I mention that we’re well within the city limits? That doesn’t seem to stop the marauders that set up their artillery outside our perimeter on Independence Eve, and other such festive occasions. They then commence their shelling on our compound. I know they’re using live rounds in their tubular, mortar-like weapons. But their armorer must be selling them a lot of defective ammo, because we notice that the remnants, in a variety of shapes, sizes and hues, fall harmlessly to the grounds, and sometimes into the pond, where they fizzle their way into oblivion. But occasionally a round hits the buildings and/or lands on the roofs, where they continue to burn until they extinguish themselves with a final flareup. And these periods of bombardment will continue well into the late-night hours, while the petrified residents huddle in hallways and bathrooms, wrapped in sheets and blankets and trembling uncontrollably, as they await their impending doom.
All levity aside, on these nights of firecracker festivity we often wonder if there’s anybody out there enforcing the law. We who once lived the life of combat soldiers can’t help but have flashbacks to the bad old days when the rounds were live and the razor wire around the compound was in constant danger of being breached by suicide squads with Bangalore torpedoes and satchels of grenades. Then the memories come washing over us in a brief, hideous flood of body parts and blood. When it’s all over and the idiots out there have expended all their toy munitions in their faux assault on us, the helpless octogenarians who have briefly served as an enemy that must be conquered annually, they retreat back into the jungle and spend the remainder of the bight drinking Singha beer and boasting to each other of magnificent deeds done, and missions accomplished.
It’s all so reminiscent of Mussorgsky’s “Night on Bald Mountain,” which became a Disney animated classic in “Fantasia.” One can really envision the night creatures receding into the crags and crevices of their lairs, where they must lie dormant until next year’s call to arms. And their allies, the arms dealers, retreat to the hinterlands, to resupply and plan the next forays.
Back at the compound, we treat the wounded, many of whom have suffered from shell shock, as well as some vicious scalp wounds from falling down stairs in their haste to make it to the bomb shelters. But we’ve all survived, happily, and will live to confront the faux enemy again. And yet again. Because we’re the Senior Home Guard, and we’ll remain ever vigilant, ever ready.
George Thatcher/July 2023
George is an American Bad Ass. He grew up in Jersey, flew B-52s in Vietnam, taught English, Spanish and other languages to children around the world, makes his own salsa, has been known to enjoy a beer or two and has called Lubbock home for a few years, just to entertain the locals. Welcome to Raiderland, Major. We are going to feature some of his writings going forward. Some new, some old. Some rhyme, some don’t. When it comes to George, there’s no box. So… enjoy our friend and enjoy his writings! – Hyatt