.45 Caliber Soul
Chapter 2 – SamuraiThe Army tries to prepare you for everything, but nothing I'd studied in ROTC or Basic or Command School had taught me how to face an angry Japanese samurai in single combat in a ruined European church.
The samurai was less than ten feet away. He had his sword at the ready. I had no doubt he was fast, and if he came for me I'd be within the arc of his sword in no more than a couple of seconds. My M-16 was back in Afghanistan, where I'd set it when I crawled down the spider hole, so if he started to move toward me, all I had to defend myself with was my trusty old .45 Model 1911A1, in its holster behind my back, and a utility knife. Against that armor of his, the knife would be a joke. If I evaded him and drew the .45, and aimed quick enough before he got another stroke in and if the .45 punched through his armor, I might get out of it alive. Maybe.
If it came to that. I knew that we weren't supposed to be fighting. Don't ask me how I knew, I just knew.
I held my hands out so he could see they were empty. "I'm not your enemy!" I said. I couldn't speak Japanese, but maybe the combination of gesture and tone would get the point across.
"What is this place? Where is this?" he shot back, his voice a combination of fear and defiance, in perfect English. I didn't really find that surprising; I guess I was relieved that he and I could at least talk to each other.
"I'm not sure either."
"You did not bring me here?"
"No. How did you get here?"
He relaxed his stance, lowered the tip of his sword. "I was in battle, in a village. I entered a house . . . I saw—"
"Something red and shiny," I blurted.
"Yes, like a blood-red jewel. I reached for it and—"
"Suddenly, you're here." He nodded. "Me, too, and no, I can't explain it either."
He shook his blade, then sheathed it with a single smooth motion. His expression was much calmer. "You are right. We are not enemies." He took a step forward and bowed. "I am Heishiro Mitsurugi, a captain of Lord Yabu's retainers."
I returned the bow, careful to bend as far over as he had. "I am Seamus Patrick O'Malley," I said. I almost gave my full rank and MOS, but I decided it would be too complex to explain. "I'm a lieutenant in . . . Lord Rumsfeld's retainers."
"Lord Rumsfeld? I do not know of him."
"I've never heard of Yabu, either. I have a feeling that my home and yours are a long way apart."
"But yet you speak my language!"
"I'm speaking Japanese?" He nodded. "Well, to me, it sounds like you're speaking . . . my language."
He looked up at one of the undamaged stained glass windows. "Perhaps we have been given the gift of tongues."
I nodded. "It would make sense. If we're supposed to cooperate, we have to be able to communicate." I started looking around. One end of the church was partially collapsed, and through the holes in the wall, you could see the buildings of a nearby town. I walked over to get a better look.
The architecture was definitely European, late middle ages or Renaissance period: two-story half-timbered rowhouses. It looked like there might have been a medieval wall around the town at one time, but the town had grown a few blocks outside its perimeter. That made it post-middle ages, at least. Some of the buildings I could see were damaged, and a couple burned out. There was debris in the streets, maybe even bodies, I couldn't tell at that distance, but no movement.
There was no sound. No cannons or gunshots; no horses or marching feet; no sounds of life or commerce. It was cool enough, high forties or low fifties, that people should be building fires for warmth, but there was no smoke coming from any of the chimneys. "The town looks abandoned," I said, partially to inform Mitsurugi and partially to break the silence.
"The Blessed Sacrament is gone!" he said, almost shouting. I turned my head to look. Mitsurugi was standing before the altar, staring at the tabernacle.
I trotted over to him. The altar was the old fashioned kind that faced away from the pews—which fit in with the time period of the local architecture. The tabernacle was open, and empty, except for the dust and little pieces of stonework that had fallen inside. There was debris all over the altar, but no altar cloths, no candles, no chalice. "Looks like everything was removed before the attack," I said. "They must have had some warning."
"Yes," Mitsurugi said. He took a deep breath. "It is sad to see a church destroyed. Perhaps it can be rebuilt and reconsecrated."
"Hold it," I said, realizing something. "Mitsurugi, you mind if I ask you something personal?"
"What do you wish to ask?"
"Are you Catholic?" It seemed a silly question.
"Yes."
"Oh. Me, too."
He sort of half-smiled. "I was baptized three years ago. If Lord Yabu were to learn of it, my life would be forfeit." I half-remembered something from my old Lives of the Saints book about the Martyrs of Nagasaki from the year 1600-and-something. Imperial Japan wasn't big on freedom of religion back then, and they used Christians for sword-practice. To live in a place like that and keep your faith . . . this Mitsurugi was one tough dude.
So here I was, doing a battle-damage assessment on a ruined Renaissance church with a Catholic Samurai. I didn't think my day could get any weirder.
It did.
There was a . . . I don't know what to call it. A sound, but not really a sound, more like . . . oh, heck with it. I can't describe it. You had to be there.
About five or six feet away from Mitsurugi, where no one had been before, there was a petite teenage girl. She had black hair and dusky skin, and she was dressed in light clothing. She had what looked like a long knife, or maybe it's a short sword, in each hand, and she was probably as disoriented as Mitsurugi and I had been a few minutes ago.
Mitsurugi held his hands out to show that he had no weapons. "You do not need to fear," he said, firmly but nonthreateningly. "We will not harm you."
She held her stance for a second to two, then relaxed. She put her weapons in their sheaths with a smooth motion; she, too, was a trained martial artist.
Mitsurugi looked at me. I was about to say something along the lines of "hello" when Mitsurugi's eyes went wide. He started going for his sword. I spun around instinctively, reaching for the .45.
There was a big blond man charging at me. His clothing looked European. He had a big four-foot rapier in his left hand. He'd just started a forehand swing, and his blade was on course for my neck. There was no way I was going to evade it. He had me.
. . . to be continued . . .
Yeah, yeah, I know, the official issue pistol of the United States Army is the Beretta M92 automatic, caliber 9mm. But, like a lot of officers assigned to the back country, I had acquired a non-standard-issue Colt M1911A1, caliber .45 ACP, just like Grandpa might've used in WW2. I had my issue M92, too, and I kept it tucked safely into my footlocker back at base so I wouldn't lose it. Most of us never took the M92 with us on a mission. The 9mm round just doesn't have the stopping power of the old .45. If some crazed turban is coming after you with a knife at close quarters, do you want to tickle him with a nine, or smack him down with a real gun?