A Scripta

Jack sat in the idling truck, listening to the rain pattering on the canvas. He banged on the window to the cab - the passenger pulled it open. "What?"

"Wha's goin' on out there?"

"Truck in'a mud, cain' getter out."

Jack hoisted his gun and started to the rear of the truck. The men yelled at him, but he didn't care. He undid the canvas, splashing them, then he jumped down and rezipped the canvas. It was time.

He squished through the mud, walking by three, five, eight trucks to get to the one in the North Carolina mud. Come to find out it was more than one truck - it was a truck, and a tow, and another truck was spinning its wheels to get the tow out. He glanced around, walked over to a man with captain's bars. "Sir, Captain, sir, request permission to pull the trucks out of the mud, sir!"

The captain turned to look at the man standing in front of him. A little older than most recruits, Jack had honed himself since the joining. Jack had barely passed the physical on entrance into the Army, and now had broad shoulders, a large chest, and stunning abs that made most of the men in the barracks green with envy. Jack understood for now to keep his ability under wraps. Until today.

He had read in the paper that heroes were forming their own brigade, and Lou suggested the idea of hooking up with them. It would be better than slogging in the mud with the rest of the GI's - but he would have to work much, much harder. His expectations would be much, much higher. Was he ready?

The captain regarded the young man. "And what do you think you're gonna do, private? Pull 'em out?"

"Sir, yes, sir!"

Trying not to laugh, the captain said, "Sure, son, you go on ahead."

Jack saluted, "Sir, thank you, sir!" Hoisted his gun up higher and headed toward the truck in front. A lieutenant watched him. "Sir, tell the men to get out of the truck." Then he handed over his gun.

"What the fuck?"

"Sir, do it, please?"

The lieutenant took the gun, and studied Jack, who looked very serious. "Hey! Boys! Get outta the truck!"

The GI's leaned out and jumped down. Jack walked over to the front of the truck and took a hold of the tow hooks. He squatted. Our footing - he felt himself get heavier, more centered - he felt himself sink into the mud. He took a deep breath and pulled.

Stuck. He sunk deeper, pulled harder. He took a step back, sunk in deeper, pulled again. He felt something ease. Took another step back, pulled again.

He could very well have given a good yank and pulled the truck out like pulling something out of gum - but then it would have gone over his head and he wouldn't have any control over it, and for all he knew it would fly into some general's car. He eased the vehicle out, until it rolled gently onto the ground. Then he got behind it and pushed it by putting his shoulder to the back. He saw someone out of the corner of his eye jump into the cab to steer.

After he got that one out, he returned to get the tow. Again, he centered himself and sunk deep into the mud and pulled. In twenty minutes, all three vehicles were out. Then came the pontoons, which he picked up like they were pieces of plywood and placed down over the mud. As the traffic began to flow again, the lieutenant gingerly came over to him with the gun. However the captain intercepted him. "What's yer name, son?"

"Private Jack Simon, sir."

"Sergeant Jack Simon. Get this man stripes, lieutenant. An' call Statesman. We got us a hero here."