Cold War Spy Story: Part Drei

STAGING AREA: SAFE HOUSE ECHTERNACH GRAND-DUCHY OF LÜXEMBÖÜRG

A refresher: Auf fröhlichem Weinachten eve, Strike Team Bravo successfully raided the terrorist bomb-making factory of the scheißessen Helmüt and his evil sidekick Klaus, who literally had the shit beaten out of him.

The Team, in case you forgot.

  • Botendaddy – Second Lieutenant – Attached to 1st Armored Division.
  • Emmanuelle Francoise Delacroix – Captain – Transportation Officer V Corps Vilseck.
  • Röchibäüld Sächse-Heütélîér – Leutnant – Deutschen Bundeswehr.
  • Milton Holmes – MSG – Transportation Chief – V Corps MP’s
  • Jim Jones, Sergeant – USMC

My team sat around in a circle on the floor. We were passing around a bottle of Bailey’s ™. The little building was nice, with all the old European accouterments. When in walked a hellish apparition: General Percival Q. Fraünifaisce! The general looked insaner than ever. If possible, he was even leaner. He was roaking a filterless Cigaaraat, a fine healthy tobacco from Frisia. He looked around the room as my men were eating Strüdel.

Axiom 7: The People you Work for may Actually be Insane

“Listen up shit-heads! f4990t5! I don’t know how you slimy c0ck5uck3r5 (and this icky girl)  pulled that off. And worst of all, you were led by…” (His face turned 50 shades of purple) “A shit-covered sub-human NATIONAL GUARDS’!” The general shuddered orgasmically at the mere thought of a hot young National Guards’ officer. His arms up and outstretched as if beseeching the gods to destroy and humiliate the National Guard.

(The irrational, erotic hatred, disdain and bizarre sexual attraction of senior Army Officers to young, juicy male National Guard officers is so profound that they can’t even bear to say National Guardsman, so instead they say, as the Cajuns said in the movie ‘Southern Comfort’: “You National Guards don’t you come around here and fuck with us, this our home!“)

“I know this sexy red-hot Punk Botendaddy. AH THE SMELL OF MAN FLESH! He had no plan! He ad-libbed a major raid with no training or rehearsal! Look, people, he does every operation like he’s seen on TV! He doesn’t listen! He doesn’t follow orders! (The general’s voice was strained, he was almost weeping) And yet… he succeeds. I am truly perplexed. Every National Guards’ officer is damaged goods! Low-quality! Bottom of the gene pool!”

He walked very close to your Botendaddy and inhaled deeply in an erotic creepy manner.

The general continued, leaning in close, his tongue trying to lick my face: “Ah the smell of it! If it were up to me, I would take my red-hot. turgid, muscular U.S. Army flesh-pole and bust your 455h013 wide open… Yes! And fill it with delicious, red-hot spermatozoa! Ah the taste of it! But instead, I have to give you worthless shit-heads the Soldiers Medal. My soul weeps for America!”

He threw a box containing the medals and orders on the ground.

“Too bad the mission was classified and you pathetic losers can’t ever tell people why you got the medal!”

The team looked at the General with shock, except for Leutnant Röchibäüld who winked at the psychotic officer while licking his lips.

“Well I’m not in charge of you fucktards any more. Good luck! {I hate you Botendaddy, I love you Botendaddy}” He muttered under his breath.

The General stormed out.

“What an asshole!” Said Captain Emanuelle.

“I ain’t saying shit.” Agreed Sgt Jones.

“Did that just actually happen?” Asked Holmes.

Your Botendaddy stood up.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here ASAP. That idiot just blew our cover. I know a curator of a military museum near Hamm Cemetery, he will let us stage out of an old woodsman’s house.”

As we grabbed our gear, I tried to explain to MSG Holmes:

“The general must have been a good officer at one time, but somewhere between Korea and Vietnam he probably went completely insane.”

“What about the other thing, sir, the man-on-man thing, isn’t that a little off-kilter?”

“What’ya gonna do? But those odd predilections for red-hot plump man-flesh, I’m afraid have nothing to do with the United States Army. He may in fact be… (dramatic pause, as Röchibäüld looked on intensely, almost drooling) a big red-hot, tasty, glistening musculoso hØmΘ.”

I looked out the window at the serene, snowy scene.

The team packed up and headed for the shitty Hitler-era VW minibus.

From Wikimedia Commons cc-by-2.0 courtesy of Northamerica1000, transferred from Flickr via Flickr2common

IN THE VW VAN ON THE WAY TO LE GRENGEWALD

We headed off down the road like a bunch of 1960’s hippies. All we were missing was /were (no-one really knows the grammar for that, be honest) flower decals on the side. Whoever owned the van left the 8-track for Jesus Khufu Superstar so it kind of gave it  a hippie van commune going to Woodstock feel.

“Botendaddy, why do you hate Active-duty unit evaluators so much?” Asked Emmanuelle as she ate a bag 💼 of Gümmî Bärenen (Not sugar-free).

“There is a Top Secret SCI [caveat 7] associated with this, but it’s compartmentalized so I can only give you generalities. Back in the days of Jim West and Artemis Gordon, who were real people, mind you. The glorious President Ulysses S. Grant hated two things: evil, rotten, thieving, devious, cheating, Yog Sothoth-conjuring, live-human-sacrificing, carpet-bagging Jews!

I shrieked.

“I just örgäsmed when you said Jüden!

Said Röchibäüld apathetically. Emanuelle moved conspicuously away from the creepy Deutscher Leütnant.

“And even more than that, he hated militiamen, particularly the National Guard, named in honor of the beloved Marquis de Lafayette’s Garde Nationale. So the beloved General Grant came up with General Order Number 11 kicking all Jews! out of the War Zone and coming up with a plan to discredit and destroy the National Guard. Now only the Jew! part of General Order Number 11 survives to public view, the last page is caveat number 7 and is stored in a secret Masonic vault under a monument in Washington, D.C.”

I continued, narrating as I drove.

Rule Number 6: Nothing is a Coincidence

“So wait, you’re telling me there is actually a standing order to destroy the National Guard?”

Asked Holmes.

“We had a National Guard Artillery Battalion with us in Vietnam and they did a pretty good job. I’m a maintenance guy, but if we were running a maintenance contact team out of the wire, within range of any of their firebases, they came to the rescue. All the TRP’s were pre-plotted.”

Holmes continued.

“At any rate, the evaluators are specifically trained at Ft. Bragg, to set up impossible scenarios, fail every National Guard Unit during annual training, put the kibosh on any mobilizations and feed bad information about them to the press and encourage man-on-man homosexual rape of substandard fat sexy National Guard Lieutenants by rigid virile Active-Duty Senior Officers. You’ve all seen the movie ‘First Blood’ and ‘Southern Comfort’ They make the Guard look like fucktards. Those movies are planned and approved by the Pentagon at the highest levels… the highest levels.

They don’t show:

  • The National Guard landing at Normandy Beach with the 29th ID Virginia-Maryland-DC National Guard, or
  • The Harry Truman’s Kansas 35th ID National Guard in WWI, or
  • The Thunderbird 45th Brigade in Korea.

I said, actually speaking with bullet points.

“I’ve said too much. All I’m saying is it’s not coincidence.”

I thought about how shitty my army socks felt. What the fuck were they made out of? Some kind of pre-historic wool? Who designs this shit?

“We don’t eat our young at the USMC. It’s all one Corps, Active or Reserve.”

Said Sgt Jones.

“Vas ist mit aller den Jew!-hating, yon Botendaddy? Aren’t you Jewish! yourself?” Asked Röchibäüld.

“Look are you telling the fucking story or am I telling the fucking story?”

I replied.

The snow came down harder. We entered the Wald, then inevitably, the van broke down. It was a blustery snow about 22 degrees Fahrenheit.

We got out, and Holmes, the mechanic went to look at the engine.

We heard someone walking towards us through the snowy wood…

It was Lieutenant Otsego!

“What’s up Blay?”

I asked, giving him a pre-2009 era non-homosexual man-hug.

“It’s all good. You won’t believe what I’m about to tell you, but it seems that General Fraunifaisce got a call from the Gipper himself, congratulating him on the successful mission. He mentioned that your mom was the Old Cowboy 🤠 ‘s archivist in Sacramento. Now the General wants to claim you guys as his own. Like WTF, over? That dude is a psycho. What happened at Ft. Indiantown Gap? He’s obsessed with you.”

“When did this happen?”

“While you’ve been flat-heading all over Luxembourg 🇱🇺. Like four hours ago. You’ve got carte-fucking blanche!”

The Al Hirt 8-track blared ‘Sugar 👄 lips’ from the defunct VW.

“Cool. What about the van?”

“You’re like 200 feet from the barn. I already contacted the maintenance contact team on my walkie-talkie. It’s a four channel. Latest technology.”

A USAF team came out of the barn into the swirling snow and moved the VW into the barn. We all got into the barn. The door closed and the entire floor moved down on some sort of elevator into a special strike force command center. Weird Bundeswehr soldiers were playing the Ladi Geisler version of ‘Java’. It looked like the bad guy HQ in  James Bond movie 🎥.

Otsego had a Kahlua coffee already prepared for me. Some Bert Kaempfert was playing now.

I introduced Strike Team Bravo to Otsego.

“Listen. I spent several years running around Central America with the U.S. Navy Security 🚨 police 👮  from ’78-81. I don’t need to listen to that douche-bag Major operations guy tell me how to conduct a fucking raid.”

“Botendaddy, lighten up, he’s not here. It’s all you. The only senior guy is some Naval Intel guy who says he know you from Nicaragua 🇳🇮 (pronounced Nick-a-rag-you-ah) and Peru 🇵🇪.”

“Ah Commander Rivera.”

“Captain Rivera, USN.”

“No shit. What day is it?”

Otsego looking at watch ⌚️.

“It’s after midnight so it’s the 26th.”

“I’ve got to brief the team and get into position in the Brasserie tomorrow night. I’ll need a sniper.”

“You have a sniper. That Marine if yours, Jones is a force recon sniper. Served in that Lebanon 🇱🇧 disaster.” Deadpanned Otsego.

“Why do you get a mug of Kaluha and I get this shit-worthy plastic cup ☕️. And who are my team? Were they pre-selected so I just happened to adopt them?”

“1. Because I’m a physician and a General’s aide and you are a cunty National Guards.” Said Otsego mocking Fraunifaisce’s voice. “And 2. Now you’re catching on to the way things work.”

They had a staging area underground for my team. I pulled everyone into the conference room.

“OK everyone listen up. We are going into position tomorrow. It’s pretty fucking simple. We are going to check into the Hotel du Parc at 18 hundred hours. We will be dressed as a Deutsche brass band. Then we will get drunk, walk the city and see if we can spot the remaining XRAF kill team. If we spot them before 0800 on the 27th we are going to neutralize them on the spot. Do not pass Go do not collect $200. And I were you Captain DelaCroix, I’d be looking for a little fucking payback. Their kill team is a four man squad. Shooter, backup shooter and two observers. We are looking for the following:

1. George Schultz XRAF Hamburg 6’3″ 180 blonde/blue. He’ll stand out most Luxies are short – shooter

2. Helga Steinbeerg from Karl Marx-Stadt DDR 5’8″ 130 blonde/blue – shooter

3. Akhbar Al Ghaniaque 5’10” brown/brown African Socialist Revolutionary faction , scar on left cheek – lookout may pretend to be a salesman

4. Vittorio Ghiacchiarello 6’1″ blonde/blue Tyrolean – Team leader and lookout. He’s very slick. Tyrolean. Fluent German, Italian and English.

We are going to bring it to them and sanction them before you can say Jack Somethingorother. Questions?”

“Lieutenant, the General said you never listen or follow orders.” Said Holmes with a nervous look on his face.

“Jones, how do you tell where a sniper is located?” I asked.

“You only pay attention to the first shot, sir.”

“Correct. Holmes, I get a mission and I only pay attention to the mission statement, signal and service support. Everything else is echoes. The active-Duty Army gets caught up in details, fill in the blank, while we’re out here playing whack-a-mole with the Häader-Beinhöff Gang. Fuck their useless out of date planning. This isn’t fucking Stratego!”

“You are not who they think you are, meng Häär Botendaddy.” Alsö Sprach Röchibäüld.

I let the team get to sleep. We would move out at 1500 hours in the height of the blizzard 🌨.

TO BE UPDATED ALL WEEK (Warte hier eine Weile meine sehr geehrter Damen und Herren!)

 

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