IN THE DAYS OF CYRUS
Having spent the last six months on the island of O’ahu, Notah had become accustomed to smelling the salt from the sea in the air.
Although he was in the Sahara desert at the moment,
Notah knew what he was smelling.
His left hand was currently pulsating like a second heart in his body. Notah looked down at his hand. Where his pinky used to be was now a bloody stump.
The large german had battered him for several hours. They surprised him though by tending to his hand shortly after his finger had been savagely cut off. His best guess was that they needed him alive a little bit longer. Notah had picked up on the friction between the Germans and the Moroccans. About the third day out, the agreement had soured.
There was some sort of dispute or discrepancy with regards where the three moroccans would take himself and the small group of german zealots. It had all boiled over a day ago. The morrocans decided to take their leave but
the germans weren’t having it.
The fatal mistake of the moroccans was underestimating the deceitfulness of these pale skinned men in their charcoal grey wool uniforms.
The german officer shook hands with each man giving them their agreed upon gold in three separate leather pouches. The colonel had personally counted the coins for each leather pouch, in an attempt to show that the conclusion of their business arrangement was amicable.
The morrocans took their gold and headed down the dunes to retrieve their camels, and return home to their families. In the brief moment before the germans opened up on the three men, Notah made a decision.
After being thrown down on the ground to be used as a human sandbag, the stout soldier began to shoot at the three morrocan men as they drew close to their camels.
The hot brass casings had landed intermittently on the back of his neck. “Ahhhh,” Notah cried out with each shell that had found its mark.
“Shut your filthy mouth little man,”
the soldier barked as he shot the last moroccan in the back.
The soldier suddenly stood upright leaving Notah on the ground as he charged down the sand dune toward the three fallen men.
The mountainous soldier did not realize that his .45 Colt pistol had become dislodged from his holster. Notah grabbed it quickly off the warm sand, sticking it in his waistband.
The battle weary infantryman had taken the pistol off a dead
US Army paratrooper
from the 82nd Airborne.
He had shot the greenhorn Lieutenant a couple of weeks back.
Notah watched as the giant german confirmed all the moroccans were in fact deceased. They were low on ammunition so he quickly cut their throats. Colonel Arnhold and his attaché, stood at the top of the dune. Notah slowly sat up and looked down on upon the carnage.
“Excellent work Sargeant. Be sure to get our gold. Join us for coffee when you have completed your task,” Colonel Arnhold said beaming.
“Jawohl Colonel,” the grim faced Sergeant replied. Apparently the one secret airfield Colonel Arnhold had hoped to rendezvous at had been bombed by the allied forces.
If Colonel Arnhold was to deliver their prized Navajo Code Talker back to Germany he knew he had no other alternative, but to alter his course and go by sea.
It was their hope to break the Navajo soldier on the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean en route to Germany. It was imperative to convince him to betray the US intelligence community, and it’s allies by translating for the Third Reich.
It was Hitler’s last ditch effort to turn the tide of the war. With a little hail Mary full of grace thrown in for good measure, Adolf began to feel hopeful. Being a devout Catholic, Hitler felt it had the blessing of God, and he would ultimately succeed.
Notah watched as the large german climbed up toward him. The bitter lipped german had a propensity for violence. He had punched and kicked Notah on several different occasions since being kidnapped. The germans had now demonstrated a willingness to increase the level of torture in order to coerce the young man from Rough Rock, Arizona into submission. Notah glanced over at the german officer. He seemed to be whispering in the other man’s ear. He also had a handful of the smaller mans buttocks. Notah heard the smallish man stifle his laughter just as he reached for the pistol under his shirt. Although Notah didn’t particularly care if these foreigners were two-spirit or not, he intended to kill all three nonetheless, starting with the big brute. He raised his arm up and pointed it at his tormentor.
The soldier had stopped midpoint of his return climb of the dune, winded and thirsty. Notah waited for him to raise his canteen upward in order to expose more of his torso. As he raised his canteen to his lips Notah shot the man in his lower left rib cage, barely missing his heart, then in his stomach, and then finally Notah shot him right below his belly button.
The soldier looked upward, confused. He fell to his knees dropping his rifle in the sand.
Notah stood up to kill the two other men, when he was clubbed in the back of his head, and fell forward, unconscious.
A few moments later,
the slight built attaché akwardly poured water on Notah’s face.
Notah opened his eyes and immediately began a gasping reflex. Colonel Arnhold peered at Notah who had yet to get his senses back in working order.
“Code talker….. Code talker…..
wake up code talker,”
Colonel Arnhold spoke in a playful but menacing tone. The words continued to echo in Notah’s ears as he slipped back into the darkness of his unconscious mind.
A large shadow cast itself over this treacherous skirmish in the desert.
The silent black eagle circled four times in perfect rotation, looking from on high upon the pitiful men of mankind.