NOT THERE YET

 

Major Richard Blaine is about to pluck his latest Spartan from one of the eerie walls of water that border a stretch of dry sand upon the shore of Omaha Beach ...

much as Arthur pulled Excalibur from the grasp of the Lady of the Lake. 

NOT THERE YET

“You win by fighting one more round than you think you have in you. You win by getting up one more time than they knock you down.”

– Richard Blaine

 

There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow men. True nobility lies in being superior to your former self.

I had made some bonehead mistakes in New Orleans. It would be nice if I could counterbalance some of them right now.

But then, what had Marcus Aurelius written:

“Waste no more time arguing about what a good man should be. Be one.”

I decided to act.

I might be wrong. But I would be doing something. Besides, doing nothing always leads to nowhere.

A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing. The only man who makes no mistakes is the man who never does anything.

I ran up to the eerily moving wall of water, reached in, and pulled out a strangely dry man. I had expected a lot of resistance. 

I got none.

I smiled. I had never gone fishing. What had the poor fish ever done to me that I should end its life? Me having no money shouldn’t translate to the fish having no life.

But here, I had gone fishing for the first time and landed a man.

I recognized him.

He was the photographer to whom I had supposedly lost money on the USS Samuel Chase.

I could see why Ingrid Bergman had fallen for him. He would have given Agent Cloverfield a run for his money in the good looks department.

“About that money I owe you ….”

“Istenem! Keep the money. Just take me back.”

“No can do. I didn’t bring you here, so I can’t take you back. Talking about taking. We need you to take some of your infamous photos.”

He stiffened. “Istenem! My camera!”

He looked down at the camera around his neck and began patting his clothes.

“Kiszáradtak a ruháim!”

“Yes, your clothes are dry and so is your camera. Let’s put some muscle to the hustle before the Nazi’s ….”

“You speak Hungarian?”

“And Sanskrit and a dozen other languages. We have to get and get NOW!”

“Then, you know my name is ….”

“Is André Friedman for as long as you are with me and my Spartans.”

“Why?”

I ground my teeth and fought the urge to thump the man over the head with the butt of my Desert Eagle, throw him over my shoulder, and race towards the cliffs and what safety they afforded.

“Because that is your true name, and I refuse to deal in lies. That is the purview of the Army and politicians. Now, we have to run. It won’t be safe here for much longer.”

“No! I refuse to go with you. Take me back.”

Merde.

He chased anything in a skirt, but he refused to budge for me. Maybe Sentient should have sent Rachel to get him.

“YOU WHAT?”

André’s voice shot up three octaves. “Szar!”

I turned around. Merde, indeed.

The Angel of Death was hovering right at our face level. She had to have been fifteen feet tall if she was an inch.

Her face ….

I could speak fifty languages, and I still had no words for it … except it would have looked natural on the door of an African witch doctor’s hut.

‘You silver tongued devil you.’

For André, she oozed through the air until their noses actually touched. I heard a buzzing as when a fly is caught behind a wire window screen.

“Th-That is when I will die? So young?”

The Angel of Death smiled. At least that is what I thought she believed she was doing.

“OR NOW, IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW THE MAJOR.”

Despite his profession, he didn’t look suicidal, so when I took off towards the cliffs, I wasn’t surprised when he followed.

Making his living taking photos in war zones must have kept him in good shape, for André actually passed me.