The Mudcat Café TM
Thread #14194   Message #305128
Posted By: Little Hawk
25-Sep-00 - 01:38 PM
Thread Name: Sgt.Kat and Her Howling Mudcat Commandos
Subject: RE: Sgt.Kat and Her Howling Mudcat Commandos
Little Hawk here, volunteering for duty. You definitely could use an Indian scout. Not that I don't have grave reservations (no pun intended) about allying myself with any branch of the US military...I still have distinct memories of Sand Creek...the blue-coated bastards, murdering, raping, and pillaging...and of Wounded Knee, and a thousand other shameful occasions...

However, Kat's Commandos are mainly women, and that gives me some confidence. It was not the women who persecuted us. Plus, I am willing to help anyone against those damned Taliban fanatics...may they rot.

The scene:

Little Hawk crept silently to the edge of a jagged, rocky ridge. There was no one to be seen, but he had a distinct feeling that the enemy was near. His soft mocassins and buckskins were perfectly suited for stealth, and he carried only a bow, a quiver of arrows, a mirror for signalling, a skinning knife, and a medicine bag around his neck. In the medicine bag were certain sacred objects...a little stone from the Black Hills, a lock of hair from Little Crow Woman, some tobacco and Sage, a tie of sweetgrass, and a card entitled "Little Miracles". If you opened the card, it read inside..."Each person represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by our meeting that a new world is born." - Anais Nin

Now ensconced securely in a shadowed nook at the peak of the Ridge, where he could take in the entire Eastern approach, Little Hawk considered those words once again. Indeed, the women were the heartbeat of the nation, and the teachers of compassion. It was almost beyond comprehension what these wretched Taliban fanatics were doing to their own women. And yet, one must respect his enemy. Hate the evil that is perpetrated, but hate not the perpertrator, because he no doubt imagines that he is defending what is normal, proper, and even sacred in his own terms. So he would respect the Taliban fighters...and he would kill them...until their women were free.

Does the fight against oppression ever end? Not on this Earth plane, this sacred place of the four directions, because it has been provided that we might have a chance as wandering spirits to put all our great theories to test in the crucible of physical experience. Oh ye gods and spirits...how far you have journeyed from the unity of the One into these dramatic and tragic realms of limitation...and yet how beautiful a realm it is.

Little Hawk's musings were interrupted by a faint glimmer of light that flickered for a moment in the first beams of dawn. It was the sun glancing off metal. A moment later he heard the sound of boots scraping on stone, and he saw them. A whole column of them, making their way up the slope. Taliban.

First, the signal. Moving to the rear of the ridgline, Little Hawk flashed three bright flashes with the mirror to Kat's commandos back in the village. They were no doubt still recovering from their celebratory excesses of the night before. Typical yanks! Hopefully their hangovers would not ruin their marksmanship. In any case, thought Little Hawk, with the amount of firepower that they customarily carried, they could hardly miss. He grinned at the though of it. In Vietnam so much ordinance had been expended that it cost upwards of $50,000 (in the money of the late 60's!) to kill each Viet Cong. They could have just paid them all not to fight, instead, he though wryly, and there would have been no war. But that would have been too easy, and it wouldn't have sold any weapons, would it?

When my people found the paper money on Custer's men, he thought further, we used if for what it was really good for...starting fires, and making little folded fans and toys for the children. What a foolish people, to worship little pieces of paper...and then there was their constant addiction to pointless swearing and various macho demonstrations of that sort...very immature behaviour...

But here were coming the Taliban. Time to delay them. Little Hawk crept back to his former postion, calmy fitted an arrow and let it go, exhaling as he did so. He sent a spirit hawk to guide it.

The arrown ghosted down in almost complete silence, just a tiny hiss of air, and took the first climber in the heart. He went down with a shriek of dismay, as Little Hawk vanished behind a boulder.

All hell broke loose. The Taliban were firing wildly at the entire ridge line with everything they had. If the mirror signal had not been seen, it hardly mattered now.

It was really an amazing amount of noise...enough to wake the dead in Peshawar, in all probability, thought Little Hawk. Not that the dead needed waking...they are in general more alive than the living, particularly if the living are to be found in the suburbs of Los Angeles or places like Mimico...

These silly Taliban are far too reliant on heavy firepower as well, thought Little Hawk. Time to show them the value of simplicity.

He took up a new position. Fire was slackening now. He could faintly hear someone yelling orders to the West. Kat's Commandos must be on the move.

The Taliban were moving forward warily. Little Hawk fired two more arrows and nailed two more of them, ducking out of sight even as the arrows struck home. The Afghans uttered cries of rage and astonishment, not having expected an assault by such ancient weapons. They surged forward in a concerted charge, making for the ridge line.

They do not lack courage, thought Little Hawk. Indeed, they thirst for a warrior's death in their chosen paradise. So much the better.

It was time to abandon his postion, but he took out two more of his opponents before doing so, and then ran like the wind down the reverse slope, dodging northward all the while, to take up a new postion and hopefully flank them from there. Just like Crazy Horse did to Crook at the Rosebud, bleeding them from ridge to ridge, until they finally lost heart and took the long and weary trail back home.

Ah, hah! Here were Kat's commandos, forming up on the following rise. Every kind of firepower imaginable did they have ready to hand, and their red-rimmed, slightly psychotic eyes were glaring across the void, fingers ready on oiled triggers. Little Hawk whooped to them gaily, and gestured to the East. God help the wretched Taliban.