The Union Creek Journal

A Chronicle of Survival

Archive for the tag “U.N. troops”

May 25, 2015: Memorial Day

Today is Memorial Day.

I still can’t believe my dad is gone – that he gave his life for our freedom just a little more than two weeks ago on May 9, 2015.

He led the charge against the U.N. soldiers that wanted to take away our farm and put us in FEMA camps or kill us.  He was a brave man.

Sometimes I still cry when I remember him.  I think he’d be OK with that.  He was always telling me to be tough, not to cry, but I know he had a sensitive side too.  I know he was sad about what happened to our country.  He may not have cried on the outside, but I bet he did on the inside.

I think sometimes when he got mad on the outside, it was because he felt like crying but he needed to be tough.  He needed to be tough so we would keep believing that things would get better.

I think he wrote this journal because there were some things he just couldn’t say out loud.  Maybe when I’m older, I’ll do the same.  I hope the world is a better place when I’m his age.  The age he was.

Today we’ll decorate his grave with flags and flowers to honor what he did and what he fought for.  We’ll do the same for the other people from Union Creek that fought and died to keep us free from the U.N. soldiers.

They’re all heroes and we’re still free.

As long as we’re free, there’s still a chance that things can get better.

– D.J. Johnson

May 9, 2015: Death is Not the Worst of Evils

It is just after midnight and we are about to mount up.  The heat of the day has not yet dissipated.  I can hear the frogs singing their chorus down by the pond as the sweat trickles down my spine.  Is it the heat or my nerves?  Probably a bit of both.  I am more anxious about this battle than I have been about anything in years.  It feels … monumental … pivotal.  It is.

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Relief Pitcher

As Pitcher and his men crested a long rise, a fertile valley spread out before them.  Below were the signs of started crops, hillsides dotted with cattle and the pungent odor of hogs kept in confinement.  Although it reminded Pitcher nothing of his home in the Georgia swamps, it felt welcoming after more than 1000 miles over treacherous dirt roads.

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May 7, 2015: The Essence of War

In all likelihood, we only have hours until the forces spotted by Tanner’s men are within striking distance, but I needed a little time to think and plan.  So, I stuffed my shooting mat, spotter’s scope, a couple targets and 100 rounds of ammo in my Real Deal Brazil Manaus pack, grabbed my Remington 700 and headed over to the east end of the farm for a little target practice.  The gathering at Pete’s wasn’t scheduled until 10:00 a.m. and I had a feeling that sharpening my long-range shooting skills wouldn’t be a bad thing.

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May 6, 2015: Embrace the … New Normal

Two trucks left the farm today and one returned.

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Shock & Awe

The FEMA camp that had become General Wei’s headquarters was a hive of activity.  Wei sat on the rooftop of the former high school, an umbrella shading him from the warm May sun.  As he sipped a sweetened ice tea, Wei watched with approval as his own troops combined their efforts with the men under Lanigan’s command.  Surprisingly, despite the language barrier, the groups were working together quite effectively.  A handful of the Chinese U.N. troops were capable English translators.  Their abilities enabled the two groups to work together in a relatively seamless fashion.  None of the Americans spoke either Mandarin or Cantonese.

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The Musings of Wei

After Lanigan left his quarters, General Wei picked up his snifter and swirled the warm liquid, watching as the light played in the intricate colors of the 20 year-old bijiu.  Wei inhaled deeply and then took a sip allowing it to play over his tongue and then down his throat.  The general raised the glass, as if in a toast, and followed the first sip with another.

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The Beginning

Lawrence Lanigan gave Schmidt’s body a shove with his boot.  The body flopped over face up as Schmidt’s daughter screamed through the duct tape covering her mouth.  The girl shook free of the two men holding her arms, stumbled and then rolled over to her father’s body.  She put her head on his chest sobbing.

“Get her back in the Hummer,” Lanigan ordered the three men standing near the rear of the HMMWV.

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On the Nose

Wind rushed through the open cargo area of the Blackhawk as Manny accelerated away from the airstrip.

Pitcher attempted to shout over the noise, “We need to finish these guys off!”

Manny looked back over his shoulder, shook his head and tapped his ear.

Pitcher made a circling motion with his right hand, mimed a two-handed firing position in the general direction of his M240 and then pointed toward the cabin and mimicked the motion of firing rockets from the pilot and co-pilot controls.

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Midnight Requisition

The early spring night was unseasonably warm.  By Pitcher’s estimate, the humidity was nearly 100%.  Even the slightest movement caused perspiration to bead and trickle.  Pitcher’s shirt was soaked through.  Streaks of sweat had washed lines in his black face paint.  His eyes stung from the salt of the perspiration.  A mosquito landed on the back of Pitcher’s neck and began to gorge itself on his blood.

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