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  1. The Ordeal Donnie paused, leaning on his shovel. “Where are we?” “You're standing in a hole about two feet deeper than necessary. I'm sitting on a case of artillery shells talking to you.” Old Guy snickered. He always appreciated his own humor. “You know what I mean.” Donnie went back to his digging. “We're in Belgium. Not far from Mons, I think.” Old Guy produced a map. “Near a place called Florennes, unless that last MP was lying to us.” “Any chance of beer? Women?” “Beer is brewed everywhere, Donnie. And women seem to occupy at least half the Earth. Chances are we'll
  2. Out of Bondage Three days after the enraged infantry lieutenant had them tossed in the stockade (a much damaged warehouse in Carentan) the captain in charge released Old Guy and Donnie. He had too many POWs and not enough guards. “You two take a batch of prisoners down to the beach. Then you can return to your unit.” “What about the officer who had us confined?” asked Old Guy. “I don't want to run into him and have the bas -- uh -- have him think we escaped or something.” “Don't worry about him. He didn't charge you with anything. Just told me to hold you for a couple days and
  3. Evening twilight was giving away to true night as Old Guy and Donnie coasted to a stop at a road junction. Engines off, they sat listening. Distant artillery boomed fitfully. Nothing could be seen in either direction on the cross road. The road they'd come south on ended at the intersection. Old Guy dismounted and walked across the road where neatly lettered signs pointed left and right. “First signs I've seen,” said Donnie. “I thought the Frenchies tore 'em all down.” “German efficiency, Donnie. And they ain't sloppy knock-offs either. Neat black lettering on white paint. They pro
  4. Old Guy

    Scouts Out!

    Yep, our two heros -- and other Simians -- are still out there! The two motorcyclists rolled to a halt in front of a building sporting a hand-painted sign which read, 3rd BAT OPERASHUNS. Major Dude stepped outside and stopped to light a cigarette. He caught sight of his two dispatch riders. “How the hell did you get here so fast?” Old Guy made a vague motion that might have been a salute. “We came in by glider. Donnie got us a ride with some 82nd Airborne guys. He nearly got us killed to boot. So here we are.” Dude glanced toward the beach. “I guess you noticed the mess. Ever
  5. (This is a prelude to the previous story) “I don't remember volunteering for this,” grumbled Old Guy. He had to shout in Donnie's ear, wedged as he was between a strapped-down Harley-Davidson motorcycle, a burly paratrooper sergeant, and Donnie, his fellow dispatch rider/scout. “You didn't,” cried Donnie. “I volunteered us both. The alternative was going across in a landing craft. You know I get seasick.” The glider lurched and shuddered. Nobody breathed for several seconds. As the craft steadied the men huddling on troop seats relaxed ever so slightly. Somewhere below lay the Engl
  6. (A little story suggested by today's "This Day in ..." post) “I'm gonna buy one of these when I get home.” Donnie patted the gas tank of his Harley-Davidson motorcycle. He flipped a cigarette butt toward a puddle and immediately lit another. Old Guy glanced up from a map. He sat astride an identical motorcycle. Both men wore tanker jackets and paratrooper trousers, mud splattered and showing the effects of long use. Like Donnie, he carried a .45 Colt in a shoulder holster. An M-1 Garand rested in a scabbard mounted on the right side of the front fender. Various bags and ammo boxes w
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