Bear Boys
The Arizona sun was shining upon our helmets, faces and shoulders with it's all
disgusting, hot, summery glory as our battalion was moving through the desert towards the
Longist frontlines. It was this kind of heat that doesn't even make you thirsty, it just hurts. Sitting
on boiling hot metal of the armored car didn't help. There were five of us on top of a car, the
higher ups were really scarce with handing out equipment or transportation and crowding up the
vehicles was rather common.
We left the San Francisco mobilisation office two days ago and this horrific ride through
the desert made everyone even more homesick than a two week long course at the bootcamp
where we were shown from which end to hold a rifle, told how to attach a bayonet and march in
a formation. We weren't taught much besides these basics and at this point every guy which
wasn't as dumb as a box of rocks or so consumed with a fable book desire for fame and glory
thought that we are just going out there to get slaughtered. This was the only thing the guys at
the hospital would say. "War is hell little dudes" or "Don't even try to be a hero." Really shatters
any kind of illusion one may have about the war, when the guy with half of his face blown off
tells you that you're fucked. To be frank, I'd be willing to bet that every single guy here had his
own little plan of desertion. I did have one too of course. When we get to Tucson and stay there
overnight, I wanted to sneak out of our camp and run as fast as I can towards the Mexican
border in hopes that I'd find a way to cross into a safe country that hasn't yet been consumed by
this madness. After entering Mexico, I wanted to try to find a way to get into Canada,
somewhere free and safe.
There were a couple hundred of us; I didn't really keep count as we weren't allowed to
disclose this information to anyone besides our army superiors, so naturally I did not bother
myself to remember such things. Probably not the smartest decision on my part, but what did i
know back then. All of the boys in my troop were from the coastal states, all in their early
twenties and all of us were draftees. Being a draftee these days meant that the California
National guard knocks on your door, takes you outsider under the gunpoint and tells you to get
in the truck with about ten to fifteen boys from your bloc and you get shipped off to the boot
camp.
This is how most of us wounded up here. I for instance was caught in the moment of
performing my morning tasks of shaving, washing and shitting. A knock on my apartment door
and I see two guys about as young as me if not younger that tell me to get my belongings and
head for the truck parked downstairs. Of course there were a few young and passionate boys
who came "To fight for America" but despite what the Pacific Globe may try to tell you,they were
in the minority.
"Funny thing!" Said Luca Brazzi, a young Italian boy who was sitting next to me on the
armored car reading his week old issue of the "Globe" for about the hundredth time since we
left. "Do you guys really think that we have a shot at winning this one?The president said that
we are going to take Washington back by January. It's May now and we have barely moved into
Longie territory. Is it even possible to pull such an operation off?"
"Of course not, and you know it!" barked Colin Smyth, another draftee from San
Francisco, just like me . "The two months from now, Longist troops will chase us back to San
Francisco, hang the president in front of the state Capitol and send me and you to labor camps.
Now can I please just nap in peace?"
"Well I'm sorry I am fucking curoius and afraid, 'kay? If you want to go ahead and die
already you're more than welcome to shoot yourself right now. I on the other hand want to get
home safely."
"Well you yapping your mouth off isn't gonna save anyone! Okay? " I said loudly and spat
on the ground to signify that I am being serious. "All of us are scared, all of us want to go home.
Your case isn't so unique, asshole"
"Wow wee, look at you tough guy, come over and spit in my face if you so tough. See
what happens!" Luca replied, staring me dow n.
I couldn't tell if he was being serious or not, so I tried to be cool and play it off.
"I would, but my spit would only clean your face and make you finally look like a white
man, you fucking guido"
Everyone including Luca laughed. Alright, so the fight is avoided.
"Aight, I get it, you guys hate me. I get it, I get it. I will just fuck off and die then" said
Luca smiling "By the way, since when do we have blue planes?"
"Since never, what are you talking about, you guinea degenerate?" Blake replied. He
was my high school acquaintance who got lucky to be in the same squad as me who was sitting
on the edge of the car. "Our planes are not blue. Longist planes are. What did you do at the
bootcamp?"
"Well guys, we have a Longie Plane heading our way from right over there" said Luca
and pointed his long and thin finger towards the sky on the left side of the road.
Indeed, he was right. A lonely recon biplane painted dark blue was heading right in our
direction.
"Stop the fucking column. We've got recon on us" I shouted, but by that time everyone
had already noticed the little guy and my attempt had not only gone unnoticed but also looked
as a pretty pathetic attempt to be significant. We stopped and all of the guys that were walking
or sitting on the top of the armored cars jumped behind their side that wasn't facing the plane
and began waiting. We unfortunately had no means of shooting the plane down as we weren't
armed with any anti-air machinery and none of us had any kind of a grenade launcher which I'm
not even sure would help against a plane. Those things were rare and were given to only elite
anti-tank squadrons.
The plane was approaching.
It gets closer.
"What do you think he wants?" Luca had whispered to me
"Probably just recon, I reckon." I rhymed chucking to myself. How silly. "Wants to see
how many of us are here maybe? But what is he doing here? The front lines are at least 300
miles away."
"Well buddy boy, we just have to see"
Few moments and the plane was so close that I thought I could make out the face of the
pilot. Could've been my imagination of course, but believe me he was very close. The plane was
lowering, seemingly starting to get ready to attack.
Then the weirdest thing happened, we saw a pair of hands stick out of the back side of
the pilot booth and started dropping something on us. Just a bunch of small rectangular objects.
We panicked, could've been grenades or bombs. We were told in the boot camp that both sides
are using civilian planes and biplanes as bombers just tossing grenades out at the low height.
As we all scattered the plane flew off.
The objects thrown on the ground from the plane turned out to not be bombs or
grenades. They were books. Two kinds of books actually. About a half of them were bibles
cheaply printed on rough newspaper like paper.
The other books were fancier. They've clearly dedicated a lot of funds on printing these
ones. Small, dark blue book wrapped in something that was at least fake leather. It read;
Longist Path; Quotes and Aphorisms of Huey Long.
"Are they fucking serious? I thought I was dead for sure and they're dropping these on
our heads expecting us to like read them and get inspired? What a bunch of bullshit" said Luca
and threw one of the Longist books on the ground. "I could use the bible though. My momma
always told me to put Jesus first, above all. Deus, famiglia, patria"
"I don't think this was a propaganda technique my man" I said thinking to myself out
loud. "I think they're trying to intimidate us. They're letting us know they can get us at any time.
With their guns or their ideas"
"You're reading too much into this man" said Collin from the top of the car "Just get back
on"
"Up on the trucks!" screamed the corporal that was in the third car in the column. "And
get rid of these books for fucks sake. Anyone caught with one will be disciplined"
"Right on" , I thought to myself climbing on top of the car with help from my friends. "Right
on"
The sun was shining upon our helmets and heads, burning our noses and shoulders. If I
didn't wear a helmet, the sun would probably bleach my hair and give me a heat stroke. We
were driving away, moving further into the desert, I was sitting on top of the car and trying not to
pass out softly and slowly patting my pocket which had the little blue book hidden inside of it.