Dear Readers: I am a writer, not a history major, but that is no excuse for the major error I have just discovered in my story. Ireland was a neutral country in 1942. There would probably have been no American or German troops in the country at that time. Please forgive the error and roll with the story as is, as as I beg creative license; since that sounds much better than total ignorance!

Btw, in answer to the reviewer concerned that I hadn't yet given a full song credit: The title of this song is actually "Tom Traubert's Blues: Waltzing Matilda" by Tom Waite. The version I use for my story is Rod Stewart's beautiful cover on "Rod Stewart, Unplugged and Seated"… I cry every time I listen to it…which is every time I sit down to work on this story! There is way more story than there is song, so I may add another song to the story… my muse is whispering ideas on that! Hugs! Kat

Also: A few Lakota words are translated to help out:

Wasichu—white man; Pahaska—long hair; Tunkasila—Grandfather; Cinks—my son; nagi tanka: The Great Spirit; Ciye-my brother; hoka hey hunkaschila!—Pay attention, young man!

And finally, yes, the dates in this chapter are out of order on purpose.

Chapter Four-The Ghost that Sells Memories

Hank's POV

15 May 1942

I have been fairly pleased so far. Other than some occasional bickering during rest periods, the men have held up well and all have done their parts. We're averaging 30 miles a day or better. We should be finding some sign soon. The kid has surprised me most of all. He has a hair-trigger temper, and he has been mostly sullen and silent, but he hasn't tried to pull much of anything, or tried to leave, although I have given him several deliberate openings. He is tough, as I expected, and seems comfortable in any situation thrown at him.

The only thing really worrying me right now is that he and my civilian guide do not get along at all. They butted heads from the moment they met. Being a marine, I would have expected some contempt for any civilian, but when Kelly immediately tried to take over the search, Gage showed how short his fuse really is, and went for the short, stocky Irishman. He growled something about not taking orders from a "mick civ." Kelly promptly replied he wasn't gonna work with a renegade savage, and then the fight was on. Problem is, they are both fast, and strong as hell! I finally got my arms around Kelly pulling him off of Gage, while DeSoto managed to pull Gage down and away.

The kid had gone totally berserk! He was screaming something in some Indian language, and whatever he was yelling, it was bloodcurdling! I think it shocked all of us as much as it did Kelly; who was sitting on his ass staring at Gage, his green eyes as big as saucers. It took a few minutes for the medic to calm him down. I still don't know how DeSoto did it or what he said, but he managed to calm him down faster than I could've. The glazed look left Gage's eyes, as he rested quietly for a few seconds in DeSoto's arms. I caught one more very soft Indian word out of Gage, and both men looked shell-shocked for a moment. Gage suddenly rose cat-like to his feet; brushed himself off and stood at attention. His face was once again a stony mask.

I have to admit, I was impatient to get to the Brainiac, so my normally cool temper was on edge, as well. The dressing down I gave the two bruised and still bloody men left no doubt as to just who was in charge of this patrol. None of the men were eager to cross me after that, so the patrol went smoothly enough. I just hope the bumps will work themselves out so we can become a team. Stoker doesn't need us at each other's throats.

Johnny's POV

8 May 1942

I can't explain what happened with the fight this morning. I just know I can't handle any wasichu civilian taking over…and the crack about being a savage... I just lost it. If he had any idea how many times I've heard that one. I know I shouldn't have called him a mick, it's just… I wanted a fight! It felt good! I hate it here.

Jail. Jail would've been better. Except in jail you can't see the stars. It would make these wasichu laugh if they knew I would die if I couldn't see the stars. They think I am so stupid. Wonder what they would think if they knew the reason I don't talk to them much is because I have to translate in my head every word they say? That I think in Lakota? That every word of English I have learned came only AFTER I joined the Marines. That I fooled the wasichu on the reservation by speaking phonetically, so they would think I understood and they wouldn't beat me so much? Hah! I understood more than they thought! I graduated from their wasichu school not understanding one word of their English, but speaking it perfectly!

I am not so against all wasichu now. I have a few friends. My father was wasichu, but he gave me over to my mother's care and ran from her just after I was born. He was afraid of his people. I am not, nor have I ever been wasichu to my people; at least not to the ones who mattered. My grandfather was Shaman. I was to be Shaman, until I found too much trouble in my path and shamed my people. Some Lakota said it was the wasichu in me after all. When the last trouble came, and Joseph Firewalker and I got arrested one too many times, it was jail or here for me. So, I am here.

The one thing I hate the most, is they cut my pahaska, my long hair at the fort where I became a marine. Many who saw it laughed that my pahaska was nearly to my knees. As was our custom, my mother had braided it for me into two braids before I left our home. I did not explain I had never had it cut in my life. They were wasichu. They deserved no explanation. The wasichu barber cut off the braids, and shaved my head in two minutes. They would not allow me to keep the braids, or send them home to my mother. I had broken a sacred custom, and this made me afraid…but I will never tell anyone I fear the wasichu for anything. That is the day I truly learned to hate.

Cutting my hair was the one thing I had always refused to do. I was allowed to keep my pahaska at the Missionary School because my grandfather had refused to allow me to attend otherwise. And he was Shaman after all. When he told me the story just before I left home, he grinned at me. "Laughing Crow," he said merrily, "do not grieve me, as my journey ends only here very soon. There is much more Beyond. Remember the path the spirits are leading you on. Your life is not here in this place. I knew the day I put you in the wasichu school you had your own path to follow. But I wanted you to learn their ways, even if you would refuse to give into their brainwashing. I threatened to curse them if they did not let you keep your pahaska. I told them you were to become Shaman, and if they stood in the way, the Missionary School would be destroyed in a horrible plague the day you became Shaman!" "Tunkasila!" I laughed at the thought of the old man before me turning one of the wasichu's favorite bedtime stories back on them so perfectly!

When I told him this, Tunkasila eyed me sternly. "You know, cinks, my son, your path to nagi tanka is not one to be taken lightly. I sense your path will be long and full of questions. But I also know there will be a wasichu you will someday call ciye – "my brother." Here, I nearly fell to the ground, my laughter almost too much for me. Tunkasila slapped me sharply. Respect of elders in our tribe is always expected. I sobered instantly, and lowered my eyes. He continued, "hoka hey hunkaschila!" His chocolate eyes, so like my own, softened. "You will have a difficult journey, cinks, because there will always be two sides of your heart at war with each other. The ciye of whom I speak….he will help ease the war within you. You will guard and guide each other. You will find him when you need him most. You will know him when you allow yourself to look in his eyes. And he, he will know you."

That conversation was the last I ever had with Tunkasila. More exhausted than I ever remember being, I address the stars:

How did you know, Tunkasila? And just how the hell did you know about ciye? And how did you know he would find me here, in this godforsaken hellhole?

Now, I don't want your sympathy

Fugitives say

That the streets ain't for dreaming now

Manslaughter dragnet

And the ghost that sells memories

Want a piece of the action anyhow

Go waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda

You'll go waltzing Matilda with me…

TBC