OUR HOME IN AFRICA

MAMBA!

It was the middle of the dry season as Carolyn and I sat in the shade of our thatched roof home reading, trying to escape the oppressive heat.  The nearby Indian ocean was bringing its humid air inland over the savanna adding to our discomfort. The only sound was the cooing of doves.  They sing their song of Africa from sunrise to sunset.  It's always there giving me peace and a feeling of home, like the southern cross does at night.
Our home is a round structure surrounded by a meter high wall with four cardinal openings.  Carolyn was sitting near one of the openings and I at the eating table in the middle of the house.  The floor is hard packed sand and there are reed mats around the perimeter that can be lowered to keep out the rain.

As I drowsily read a paragraph over for the second time, trying to stay awake, Carolyn let out a yell and in one step leaped from her chair to standing beside me.  Instantly awake I jumped up grabbing my double shotgun and found myself face to face with a black mamba.  He had slithered in the entrance under Carolyn's chair and at her reaction raised up a full five feet high.  As I tried to get a shooting angle he dropped back down quickly exiting through another opening in the low wall.  I chased it out side and killed it with a blast of 00 buckshot.  It was nine feet long.

A black mamba's bite is fatal.  Like the cobra they are very aggressive and will pursue an attack.   A bite from a mamba this size with kill the average person in about twenty minutes.  During the time we lived in Mozambique I had to killed many verminous snakes.  This was one of three times one of us came very close to being bitten.
That evening as Carolyn was collecting our clothes off the clothes line she said, "Hey, something has been eating our clothes, they're all full of holes."  When I went out to look I realized that the buckshot had bounced off the hard ground and blown holes in our clothes.  The snake had gotten his revenge.

Kim Warren

 THE YEAR OF THE BEARS

August 26, 2002.  It was our 40th wedding anniversary.   My wife had placed a lovely card next to the coffee pot for me.  I, being preoccupied with the coming hunting season, hadn’t been so thoughtful.  Before you judge me to harshly, bear in mind, I live in a small Southeast Alaska bush community.  I would have had to order something a couple of weeks in advance.  Now, I ask you, what husband can think that far ahead?  Fortunately, my son, who lives nearby with his family, came over and announced that we had reservations for dinner at a local lodge.  It was a gift from all our children.  That got me off the hook.

That evening, as we were walking out the door heading for the lodge, the phone rang.  An excited voice said, “There’s a bear in my garage ransacking it.  When I attempted to chase it away it charged me and tried to break in the front door.  Can you come quick and help us?”  Well, I told him to just shoot the bear.  “I don’t own a gun,” he said.  I agreed to come over.

This neighbor lives about a quarter mile away.  He’s a summer resident only from California and I didn’t know him very well.  I knew that if I had to shoot the bear out of season I’d have some explaining to do.  Never the less he was a neighbor asking for help.

 I gathered up my trusted .375 H&H along with some 260 grain Nosler bullets.  This rifle would later serve me well in Africa as a Professional Hunter and Game Ranger.  I then explained the situation to my wife and asked her to call the lodge and tell them we would be a little late.  Then I ran over to my son’s house and recruited him as backup.  He grabbed his Remington 870, a hand full of slugs and we jumped in his pickup.  Help was on the way!

We had been having an unusually large number of bear encounters this summer.  I figured that sooner or later something like this was bound to happen.  Because they were becoming less and less afraid of people we had had to chase several off our property recently.  My grandchildren had already been restricted to the house unless accompanied by an armed adult.  A couple of days prior to this another neighbor, that lives here year round, was confined to her house for several hours by a bear.  No amount of shouting would chase it off.  I suspected it was the same bear we were after.

We live in an area that has more black bear than brown.  The bears I am talking about are black bears.  Most of them don’t cause any trouble.  It’s easy to tell when one is just passing through, I don’t bother them.  But the other type, now that’s different.  They stay just inside the tree line watching you and the house.  When they don’t see any activity they start nosing around causing mischief.  I’ve opened my door and found them on the back steps. I’ve had them look in the window at us and even found them asleep in the carport.  Many times we’ve watched them look around the house trying to find something to eat.

My son and I drove down a long driveway that had dense woods on either side.  We parked in front of our California neighbor’s house.  No sign of a bear.  The man and his 10 year old daughter were looking down on us from his upstairs bedroom window.  Loudly whispering he said, “The bear is right over there inside the tree line.”

The house sits in the middle of a small clearing and the tree line is like a wall around it.  By now, it was after 7:00pm and had started to rain.  Visibility was very limited in the wooded area surrounding his house.  We cautiously walked the 30 feet to the tree line and peered in.  Nothing.  However, we could hear the bear growling and biting something.  Both of us squatted down and duck walked about 20 feet into the woods.  Looking under the heavier brush, we spotted him about 40 feet away.  He was tearing up a 5 gallon plastic bucket.  We were afraid to yell and attempt to frighten it away.  If it charged, there was no possibility for a shot.  The brush was just too thick.

Suddenly, we heard growling and limbs breaking to our right.  “It’s a sow and two cubs”, my son whispered.  I glanced over and, sure enough, there she was.  Her ears were back and she was into heavy, aggressive posturing as she looked from us to the boar.  Of all the luck!  She had crossed the driveway behind us and blundered into our situation.

Fortunately, she decided the boar was the more serious threat and went for him.  Normally, that old boar would have backed down and left the area, but for some reason, he wasn’t about to leave his precious bucket.  While they growled, snarled and swatted at each other, my son says, “This is just too dangerous Dad, let’s get outta here.”  Those bears were only about 40 feet away.  This wasn’t a case of “discretion being the better part of valor”, we were plain scared!

As we started backing out, our movement caught their attention.  During the momentary lull in fighting, the sow retreated with her cubs as I did with mine.  We backed out to the relative safety of the open yard and discussed what to do next.

We decided to walk back up the driveway to the road and circle the wooded area where the bears where.  There was a clearing on the other side.  Maybe we would have better visibility from that vantage point.  As we walked down the road, the sow and cubs came running out and took off.  We were glad to see them go.

When we entered the clearing, we could see the bucket that the bear had been biting lying in the grass several feet from the tree line.  Apparently, he had headed out this side of the woods and dropped his bucket.  We walked toward the bucket and squatted down about 20 feet from the trees.We were scanning the woods and trying to figure out where the bear had gone when he decided to join our conference.  Suddenly, from right in front of us, he popped out of the tree line heading for us.  I remember thinking “Sight picture!” as I snapped off a shot that hit him where his neck meets his chest and he rolled back on his rear, spun around and in one lunge disappeared into the woods.  My son fired while the bear was in mid spin.

We sat there for a few minutes listening.  Not a sound!  We flanked the spot where he had re-entered the woods and quietly approached where we hoped he would be.  Sure enough, there he was down but not dead.  I made jelly out of his brains with a head shot and that settled the affair.

Back at the man’s house, I told him I was late for dinner and would take care of the remains the next day.  My wife, in the meantime, had driven up and watched the little drama unfold.  When I hopped in the car, she just smiled and said, “Happy Anniversary!  Are you about ready to go eat?

We had a wonderful dinner and were entertained by watching a bear harass a friend’s horse that was tethered in a meadow behind the lodge where we were eating.   When my son got home, he had had to chase a bear out of his yard before he could go in the house.

The year of the bears was caused by the failure of the berry crop and the salmon run was late and very small.  They started raiding houses looking for food.  Some people had freezers on their porches or in the carport and several were broken into.  The neighbor had left a 5 gallon bucket of food scraps in his carport and this had cost the bear his life.

Kim Warren

THE MOOSE HUNT CONTINUES

Several days ago I was sitting under a spruce tree a couple of miles from my house hoping to call in a legal bull.  At about 4 o'clock I began to hear a pack of wolves moving my way.  The howling  got louder and suddenly 2 black wolves came running into the bushy clearing I was watching.  I fired at the one nearest me dropping him in mid stride.  When I came down out of recoil the second was disappearing back into the woods.  The forest became dead silent.  After waiting a few minutes I went to check on the wolf.  It was a nice male that would weigh over a 100 pounds.
He was much to heavy for me to pick up, so I gutted him, made a shoulder harness and tied the other end to the wolf.  I began dragging him back to my vehicle.  At about the half way point I started talking to myself.  "Pacemaker don't fail me now."  I finally arrived at the van and with much difficulty picked it up and put it in.
Back at the house everyone was excited and had to come look at the wolf.  This was a rare event.  Lindy, one of my grand daughters, age 17 said she just had to have a crack at the wolves.  Another grand child, Jesse age 15, allowed as how he did to.
Early the next morning Jesse climbed a spruce tree for a better few and Lindy and I hunkered down where I had been yesterday.  Sure enough here came the wolves.  They were running back and forth on the other side of the clearing just out of range.  As we sat there trying to figure out why they were acting so strange the answer manifested itself right in front of us.  Out of nowhere appeared this big brown bear.  I dropped down on one knee and fired.  The .416 Taylor I was carrying anchored him.  We thought it was an instant kill when suddenly it reared up and started roaring and clawing the air.  WOW!  I quickly fired again and this time he was down for good.
Jesse came running up.  We were all excited and talking at the same time.  Jesse said he had seen everything from his perch in the tree.  The wolves were all stirred up because of the bear.  He said he saw them chase the bear back into the woods.  Then after a few minutes he heard someone walking toward his tree and thought it was me, so he stared to climb down and nearly stepped right on the bears back.  What an adventure to share with 2 of my grand children!  A wolf and a brown bear!
For my friends that don't live in Alaska the bear measured 71/2 feet from nose to tail.  Standing on his hind legs he would be close to 9 feet tall.  That's a lot of teeth, claws and fur.
That afternoon Lindy, my son Dev and I skinned the bear and packed it home.  Then Lindy skinned the wolf for me.  Now the work starts, fleshing the hides.
Still no moose, but what wonderful memories this old man has.

Kim Warren

THE LITTLE GREEN PUMP

Once there was a very poor village, I forget its name, but I do recollect that it was in the country of Anywhere.  The little village had a general store, which doubled as the Post Office and a blacksmith shop.  There was also an old schoolhouse and a small church building.  It had a community water well with a hand-drawn bucket and a trough for the animals to drink from.  The blacksmith had the job of keeping the trough full.   The Pastors' wife was the school teacher and of course, the Pastor tended to the spiritual needs of the few people that attended the Sunday and Wednesday services.  Farming was the chief industry that kept the dusty village alive, but the land was poor.
The community well was the focal point of activity for the women.  Fetching water was difficult, but it gave them the opportunity to catch up on the latest gossip if there were any and a break from their domestic chores.  The water had a slightly unpleasant odor and taste to it and the people seemed to suffer from a sense of unwellness.  From time to time someone would wonder about the quality of the water, but the well had been there for generations so the thought would pass.  Life just idled along as it always had.
One afternoon before suppertime two large wagons rolled into the village and stopped in front of the Pastors house.  Hearing the noise he came outside and greeted the men.  “What have you here?” he asked.  The men replied that they had been instructed by a certain man of means to drill a well in front of the church.  Of course, the Pastor and his wife heartily approved.  However, there were naysayers in the village that wanted the men to just put a pump on the old well.  Nevertheless, the new well was dug and a fine looking little green pump was mounted on top. The workmen then loaded their equipment back on the wagons and departed as they had arrived.
The Pastor and his wife were the first to taste the water in the new well.  The little green pump was a marvel and the water, oh my, it was wonderful.  It was crystal clear with no odor and absolutely the most refreshing water they had ever tasted.  Because the church building was a bit too far for most people to use for their daily water the few members of the church were the first to use it regularly.  They would bring all their empty containers to Sunday and Wednesday services and fill them.
The Pastors sermons seem to take on new life and the members started noticing changes in their lives.  The sense of unwellness left them and relationships began to improve.  They felt happier and more at peace.  The other villagers noticed the changes and gradually started coming to the little church for water.  Membership grew until they had to add on to the church building.  The feeling of well being spread throughout the village and relationships improved.  The land became more productive and everyone began to prosper. New people moved to town and as the population increased so did church attendance.
As time passed the Pastor and his wife retired and some of the original membership died.  The new people decided they needed a larger building.  The little green pump was in the way of the parking area so they dug a new deeper and larger well with a tall windmill to pump the water.  The little green pump was taken off and the well capped. The area was turned into the needed parking lot and in time the little green pump was forgotten.
A generation passed.  The windmill had been torn down and replaced with a modern electric pump and a filtration system added because the water had a slightly unpleasant odor and taste to it.  The rains had become erratic and farming less profitable causing jobs to become scarce.  The people suffered relationship problems and some complained of an odd unwell feeling.
At first, just an occasional family would leave.  Then gradually more and more people moved to the cities for better job opportunities.  The town could no longer afford to pay the Pastor so he and his family moved away.  For the few families that stayed the corner drugstore was the local gathering place.  As time passed people talked about the old days and complained about how all the people were attracted to the big cities.  Some would occasionally wonder about the quality of the water, but that would soon pass.  In the end, they decided as how the economic collapse of their town was all part of the natural cycle of life.   And so their lives continued to idle along as it always had.

              Marshall Kimbrough-Warren 

The Last Supper

To The Church in Gustavus,
We have set aside the first Sunday of the month to celebrate the sacrament of Communion.  Therefore I think it appropriate that I write you this letter concerning the circumstances surrounding the instituting of this sacrament.  I write this for the edification of those hearing it for the first time and the joy of those who know it well.
Almost 2000 years ago, in the Roman province of Palestine, in the town of Jerusalem, it was the Passover season.  The Passover commemorates the night God delivered His people Israel from the destroying Angel in Egypt.  They had to kill a flawless Lamb and cover their door frames with its blood.  Any house without the blood would suffer the death of their first born.
 Jews from everywhere were arriving by the 1000’s to celebrate the Passover meal and festival of unleavened bread that followed.  Among these was a very unique person.  God rode into Jerusalem on a donkey colt accompanied by His disciples.  God in the man Jesus had come to celebrate what He knew would be His last Passover meal and He had a great longing to celebrate it with His disciples.
                                             

 People lined the streets waving palm leaves and tossing their cloaks before Jesus.  All were yelling their praises and declaring Him Lord and King.  To them, as with most of His followers, Jesus was all about what He could do for them.  Heal their sick bodies, feed their empty stomachs, drive out demons and deliver Israel from the Romans.
I was very much the same way.  I came to Him for forgiveness; to rid me of the sins I had been convicted of and create in me a new person.  I didn’t really think beyond that.  I just wanted to be saved.  Like the people of Jerusalem it was all about me.  Only after the Holy Spirit indwelled me did I understand the truth.  It was and always has been all about God.  He wants me to spend an eternity in loving fellowship with Him, starting now and in a new heaven and new earth and a New Jerusalem that He is going to create for me.  A place where He will be my food and my drink.  Where His presence will illuminate everything.  I will be living a wondrous loving relationship with King Jesus, our heavenly Father and all the Saints.  And Jesus was about to lay down His life in order to give me that opportunity.  He was about to become the sinless Lamb of God to be sacrificed so His blood could cover the door frame of my heart, delivering me from Death.

The Passover was several days away, so Jesus used His time to do some house cleaning in the temple by chasing out the merchandisers and also in teaching.  He wasn’t very popular with the establishment.  In fact they were plotting to kill Him. The women of Jerusalem had been spending their time cleaning their houses as well.  The houses were spotless and there was not a hint of leaven to be found.  The husband would ceremonially search the house with a candle just to be sure.  When Preparation day arrived, the day the lamb is prepared and the meal cooked in anticipation of sundown, when Passover officially begins and the meal is eaten, Jesus had had a large upper room rented and preparation made for Him and His disciples to eat the Passover meal.
While they ate He tried to explain to the 12 what was about to happen and why, but they just didn’t get it.  He then said, “One of you will betray me.”  John, who was sitting next to Jesus, asked who?  After Jesus quietly answered John, Satan entered into Judas and he left the room leaving the 11 disciples behind wondering where he was going.   When they finished eating Jesus gave thanks and breaking a bread loaf passed it around, saying “This is my body.  Eat this in remembrance of me.”  Some of the disciples must have remembered the day they were being followed by a lot of people and Jesus had told the crowd, “I am the living bread which came down from heaven.  If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever; and the bread that I shall give is my flesh, which I shall give for the life of the world.  Unless you eat of my body and drink of my blood you cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”  Thinking this a hard saying most of the people turned back and went home.  Sadly Jesus then asked His disciples if they were going to leave also.  Peter replied, “Lord, to whom shall we go?  You have the words of eternal life.”  Even though they understood little about Jesus’s mission on earth they knew He was their only hope.
After eating the bread Jesus, giving thanks again, poured a cup of wine saying, “Drink this all of you.  For this is my blood of the New Covenant.”  The blood of the Lamb of God!  With these acts He instituted the sacrament we now call “Holy Communion or the Lords Supper.” With this sacrament we declare we will never forget the price He paid for our redemption and by partaking of His body and blood we are one with Him, our Heavenly Father and each other.  And we declare that He is the way and the truth and the life and no one goes to the Father apart from Him.
Then something happened that is rarely talked about in today’s church. Jesus rolled up his sleeves, got a pan of water and a towel and to the shock of His disciples started to wash their feet.  Peter says, “Not so Lord.”  Jesus replied, “Unless I wash your feet you can have no place in me.”  Peter, being Peter, then said, “Then wash my hands and head as well.”  But Jesus said, “When a person is clean, as you are, Peter, only the feet need washing.”  God washing a man’s feet!  What an act of love!  And what an example for us to follow!  To wash each other’s feet in loving unity.  Jesus may have been remembering how Mary, out of the depth of her great love washed his feet with her tears and dried them with her hair.  She asked nothing of Him, only to show Him how great was her love.
  Not long ago I was being prayed for when the Holy Spirit come over me and I was so filled with humility and joy that I began to sob.  Tears flowed down my face.  From some hidden place deep within me my spirit rose up and said, “All I want is to wash my brother’s feet.”   There was silence for just a moment.  Then the Spirit said, “In my Kingdom foot washers are held in the highest esteem.”  I knew we weren’t talking about my going around and literally washing everyone’s feet, but never the less, my attitude toward and my feelings for the body of Christ was changed.  I felt His love more perfectly and saw others in a different light.  It’s a wonderful feeling.
After the party praying for me hung up and I had recovered my composure, I asked the Lord how to be a foot washer in the body of Christ?  I don’t mean to sound flippant, but He said, “The washing instructions are in 1 Cor. 13.”
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal.  And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.  And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it profits me nothing.   Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Love never fails.
Now compare the attributes of love with that of the flesh as given in 2 Cor. 12:  contentions, jealousies, outbursts of wrath, selfish ambitions, backbiting’s, whisperings, conceits, tumults, uncleanness, sexual immorality and lewdness.
A Pharisees once asked Jesus which is the greatest commandment in the law?  Jesus said to him, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and all your mind.  This is the first and great commandment.  And the second is like it:  You shall love your neighbor as yourself.  On these two commandments hang all the law and the Prophets.”   He was saying that all the Old Testament laws and the words of the Prophets were summed up in these two commandments.
On another occasion Jesus was talking to His disciples.  “As the Father loved Me, I also have loved you; abide in my love.  If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I kept my Fathers commandments and abide in His love.  These things I have spoken to you, that My joy may remain in you, and that your joy may be full.  This is My commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. “Scripture says that if you say you love the Lord but don’t love your brother you are a liar.
I encourage all of you to humble yourselves and become foot washers.  Every time you wash a brothers feet with your tears and dry them with your hair you have done this to Christ.  Being on your knees at some ones feet is the most wonderful feeling in the world.  It is like kneeling before the throne of our Lord and Savior.  The foot washing I speak of isn’t literal, but rather the attitude of a loving heart toward others, which comes from the Heart of Christ in you.
This then is what the Last supper was all about.
Signed,
You’re Brother in Christ,
Kim Warren

THE ILLUSION

Since Cain slew Abel, peace has been an illusion.  War (violence) has been the reality that defines us.  During peace time we fill the need for battle with competitive sports, hobbies, shopping, competition in the work force, the movies we watch, the computer games we play and even religion.  We compete with new car models and decorating our houses for Christmas.  Because most of us don’t kill to get what we want, it’s called peace time.
Nearly every one that has been in the military will tell you the experience was a defining point in their lives.  Simply put, peace and war are irreconcilable.  The soldier and the civilian strive to exist in the same body.  In order to deal with this dichotomy a sailor that survived the sinking of the Indianapolis goes for midnight swims in the ocean. I pick up my favorite rifle and tell my wife I’m going for a hike in the bush.  In my mind I’m going on patrol.  Search and destroy.  “A soldier’s duty is to close with and kill or capture the enemy by any means available.”  This sign was over the door to my platoon bay, as was the military Code of Conduct, I knew it by heart.
I was raised, as are most people, by a biblical moral code.  We have laws to enforce this code so we don’t make war on each other.  The Ten Commandments are the backbone of the moral standards that we are trained from birth to live by.  If we break these rules we are punished.  Get in a fight at school and you are punished.  Tell a lie and your mom or dad my spank your bottom.  Steal something and you go to jail.
Then I joined the army.  Forget what mom and dad said; now I’m taught to kill or capture anyone my government says is my enemy.  I am trained for months, even years, to be the best killer in the world.  Now it’s my duty to spy, lie, steal, ambush or shoot’em in the back.  I learn to kill with one shot from 800 meters away or kill quietly with a knife.  And when we destroy whole towns killing civilian men, women and children we call it “collateral damage.”   There are no innocent civilians, just non-combatants that got in the way.
So the dichotomy.  The sailor that survived the sinking of the Indianapolis goes for midnight swims with his old shipmates.  Life had a purpose then.  To him they are the fortunate ones.  He wants them to understand it isn’t his fault he didn’t die.  That he is sorry he isn’t with them.
In time he swims back to the shore and I go back to the house, once again to hide the warrior and follow the civilian Code of Conduct.


Kim Warren

THE CROSSING, A WAR STORY.

Sweat ran down his face burning his eyes and blurring his vision.  His mouth felt like the time he had eaten a green persimmon.  The burning on his side where the NVA sniper bullet had torn a hole in his gillie suit and sent pieces of dirt and rock into his skin had been replaced by the sting of ants and who knows what else crawling around on him.  His spotter was safe behind a termite mound about twenty yards back, but he, although well camouflaged, was exposed to incoming fire.   He lay absolutely motionless as he waited  for the next round he prayed wouldn't come.   It had been about an hour since the NVA sniper, thinking he saw something,  had fired a spoiler into the green wall of jungle trying to provoke a reaction.  The shooter knew that the slightest movement could be his last.

At first light the shooter and his spotter had taken up  position on a high point about two hundred yards from this river crossing.  An  aerial photo had revealed this trail branched off the Ho Chi Minh.  Because they had known the distance would be close he had brought his scope mounted M-14 and one hundred twenty rounds of ammo instead of his thousand yard Winchester M-70.  The spotter had his M-16 and nine magazines, frag and smoke grenades, plus two claymores to cover any pursuit.   They hoped to catch some NVA troops and supplies trying to make the crossing.  Apparently the NVA sniper had set up to protect the crossing.  The fact that he had fired without confirming his target told the shooter the guy was a rookie.

The day had been long and hot.  No wind and by mid afternoon not a sound , except buzzing insects.  Seeing nothing for hours the spotter had slid back from their firing position and moved behind the termite mound to take a break.  This movement had brought the shot that nearly hit the shooter.  It was two hours until sundown, their pickup time.  His mind raced trying to come up with a plan to get out of the mess he was in.

The spotter was doing the same thing, trying to figure what to do.  He didn't dare communicate with his shooter.  Their coordination and cooperation was going to have to be mental, based on experience and training.  The spotter knew his shooter was trapped.  Any movement on the shooters part would be a death sentence.  So it was up to the spotter.

They waited.  It was as if the sun was stuck!  The shooter was miserable.  Every muscle screamed at him to move.  Discipline and training kept him frozen.  At least they had the advantage of  the sun at their back. He knew if they waited until dark to E&E they wouldn't make their rendezvous with the Huey and that the place would be crawling with NVA soldiers. He decided while there was still enough light, the spotter would have to open up with his M-16, hopefully drawing fire or movement from the rookie NVA sniper.  That would give him a couple of seconds to find and smoke the bastard.  He mentally sent the plan to his spotter.

As the spotter sat safe behind the termite mound he decided what he would do.  They had to be back at their pickup point by dark.  He knew from experience that at dark the NVA would probably make a crossing in force.  They had to be gone in time to make the pickup and avoid Charlie.  He knew his shooter knew this to, so he would wait as long as he could and then expose himself  just long enough to fire a couple of rounds across the river.  Hopefully this would draw fire or movement from the NVA sniper and give his shooter enough time to find and eliminate him.  If, however, his shooter was already dead  he would hall ass outta there and come back later with reinforcements to recover the body.

Finally, as the sun began to touch the tree tops the spotter checked his weapon, took a deep breath and muttered "here we go."  Stepping from behind the termite mound he cut loose on full auto.  Instantly a bullet tore into the mound by his head and as he started to fall back another hit his M-16 almost tearing it out of his hands.

As the spotter fell behind the mound he heard the M-14  fire.  The moment his spotter fired the shooter raised his rifle and put the cross hairs on a small reflection across the river.  Resisting the temptation to hurry he squeezed the trigger and the reflection vanished.  He then emptied his magazine into the area.  Rapidly back crawling and rolling, his muscles protesting every move, he made it to the protection of the termite mound and there sat his spotter breathing heavily.

Without a word they grabbed their gear and ran as fast as they could, breaking bush, staying off the trails.   When they were sure no one was following them they took a break, emptied their canteens and headed for their pickup point.  Hopefully the Huey would be there.

The operation would soon be forgotten.  Most of the missions would become blurred, hard to remember one from another.  As the years passed their memories would get mixed up with their buddies stories until they weren't really sure what happened to who.


Kim Warren            

SMITTEN

I went moose hunting again yesterday afternoon.  In my area of southeast Alaska, we have a month and are allowed one bull.  So far I had seen five bulls but no shooters.  As I approached the willow covered muskeg I had chosen to hunt I saw a cow watching me from about three hundred yards away.  She continued to watch with mild curiosity as I settled under a spruce tree, levered a round in my Winchester Model 71 and got ready to start calling.  I sat still for about fifteen minutes to let things settle down.  The cow lost interest and moved on grazing on the willow tips.
I started calling, doing my best to mimic a lovesick cow in season.  After the second series of calls, a bull stepped out of the woods on the other side of the clearing, paddles flashing in the late afternoon sun.  He was looking around trying to locate me or rather the cow he thought I was, so I did another series of calls.  Immediately he zeroed in on me, looking right at me.  At over three hundred yards away I couldn't tell if he was legal and he couldn't see me, as I was all decked out in my cammies.
Slowly I picked up my binoculars and watched him as he came around the perimeter of the clearing moving obliquely in my direction.  When he reached a point closest to me, which put him about seventy-five yards away, he turned and headed across the clearing straight toward me, never once taking his eyes of me.  By now I could tell that he wasn't a legal bull, so I just sat still and watched him come.
At about one hundred feet we made eye contact and he kept right on walking casually toward me making low grunting sounds.  Almost a cooing sound.  He was sweet-talking me.  At fifty feet I began to get a little nervous.  At twenty feet I started talking to him.  "That's far enough.  You don't want to come any closer."  I began waving my hands and continued to talk to him.  "Don't make me have to shoot you!"  He just kept coming ignoring my now frantic waving.  I tried not to be too demonstrative for fear of running my hunt, but the situation was now serious.
At less than ten feet he stuck his head under the spruce bough where I sat and stopped.  He just stood there making low grunting sounds.  Sweet talking me.  This bull was smitten!  He was in love.  I could have stood up and in two steps kissed him on the nose.  I know he must have thought I was the ugliest cow he had ever seen, but it didn't seem to matter.  He wasn't going to take no for an answer.
I started yelling at him and waving my rifle in his face.  This didn't faze him.  I was the love of his life and he wasn't going to give me up.  He decided on a different approach.  Slowly he circled around under my spruce tree and came up behind me.  I intensified my yelling and waving.  At this, he very reluctantly began to move away.  I know he was thinking "I'll let her calm down a little.  I know she'll come around."
As he stood watching me from about thirty feet away I quickly gathered up my stuff and began to walk away.  The bull followed me for a few feet then stopped and watched me leave, heartbroken.

Marshall Kimbrough-Warren       

PACK RATS AND POM POMS

I once owned a beautiful little place in the wilderness of British Columbia, Canada.  It was 80 acres in the Coast Mountains on the Frazier river plateau, with a river forming its boundaries on 3 sides.  A million acres of Crown land surrounded it.  The elevation was about 4000 feet and the climate was cold and dry.  In mid-winter the temperature would drop to -35 F with a foot of snow.  The river would freeze solid making a natural highway for our many long hikes.  Wildlife was plentiful and included moose, deer, bear, wolves, coyotes, fox and an assortment of smaller critters.  Bears were always a concern, but the critter that gave us the most trouble and sleepless nights was the notorious pack rat.
Now these pack rats would steal us blind.  I routinely had to dig out nests to recover stolen articles.  They were huge rats with great bushy tails.  The problem was caused by the fact that we were seasonal visitors to the place.  In our absences they would take over the cabins.  The rats considered us the intruders.
We could have dealt with their thieving habits.  What made cohabitation impossible was that these little monsters were nocturnal and, boy, did they love to play!  Our old log cabin was filled with neat places for them to hide and play.  So when we arrived for a visit, the first order of business was to evict them.  No easy task.  Until this was done no one could get any sleep.
At first, I tried to be merciful and chase them out.  What a joke!   They thought it was a game.  I then tried poison.  They wouldn’t touch it.  Then, as a last resort, I bought rat shot for my .22 pistol.
You may think me cruel, but I’m telling you sleep was impossible.  They would jump, bounce and scamper all over the place.  One of their favorite tricks was to bounce on our beds with us in them.  They would run across us as we lay in bed trying to sleep.  They made an awful racket knocking things over and gnawing on things.  We were terrorized by them - especially my 15 year old daughter.
On one visit, she and I were hiking along the frozen river and heard a loud commotion in a spruce thicket next to us.  It was obviously a very large animal.  We both froze in our tracks.  I was armed with a large bore flintlock called a Brown Bess which fired a .72 caliber round ball.  I told my daughter not to worry that this Brown Bess would stop a bear, no problem.  With the noise coming closer, she turned to me an asked, “Dad, what if there are two of them?”  As my Brown Bess was a single shot, I said, “Let’s get outta here!”  We beat feet back toward the cabin laughing all the way.  She was a game kid!
Even though she was a tough young lady, these pack rats were pushing her over the edge.  She was a cheerleader back in Texas and, on this particular trip, had brought her megaphone and pom-poms so she could practice.  The fateful night came when the pack rats started playing with her pom-poms, which were lying beside her bed.  They had been unusually active that night, bouncing off the plywood floor, taking a berm shot off a log in the wall, landing on her bed and doing a swan dive into her pom-poms.  After they had made several of these circuits, my daughter yelled, “Dad, get up here and shoot these little bucktoothed farts before I go crazy!”  I crawled out of bed, grabbed my flashlight and pistol and climbed the ladder to her sleeping loft.  I sneaked across the room and quietly climbed on her bed.  Leaning over the far side of the bed, I shined the flashlight down on her pom-poms.  There the demon was, eyes reflecting up at me.  BANG!!  The .22 sounded like a cannon going off.  The pack rat let out scream and jumped straight up in the air at least six feet.  He landed on the foot of her bed and took off past me, across my daughter, onto her pillow, jumped up on the window ledge and back down to the floor and under the bed.  Blood was everywhere, all over the bed, me and my daughter.  All the while, my daughter was screaming, “Kill it! Kill it!  I jumped down on the floor and saw it under her bed.  BANG!  Another canon shot!  This time I shot it point blank.  Blood and pack rat guts were blown out the other side of her bed all over the already bloody pom-poms.  The room looked like a war zone.  My daughter was fit to be tied.  I helped her down the ladder and my wife consoled her as best she could.
My two sons came running over from their cabin with high powered rifles.  They burst into our cabin and, seeing us covered with blood, thought the worst.  They both immediately went into a defensive stance with rifles ready as they rapidly looked around for the bear or wolf or whatever had attacked us.  I yelled, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it was just a pack rat!”  “A pack rat? A pack rat?” they yelled back.  “Do you mean to tell us a pack rat did all of this?  You scared the daylights out of us!”  I apologized and explained to everyone what had happened.  Calm was gradually restored.
The next day we cleaned up the mess.  It would be a long time before my daughter could look back on this episode and laugh about it.  However, now she tells people of the night that her dad stood on her bed clad only in his underwear, covered in blood and waving a flashlight and pistol around like a madman.
The Packrat War raged for three years.  Finally, with our troops exhausted, resources depleted and supply lines threatened, we withdrew from the field of battle.  We try to save face by saying that through negotiations we had reached a peaceful accord with the packrats, but the truth is, they had won the war.  We had been soundly defeated!
That defeat was a dark day in the Warren family history.  But, like true Americans, we put it behind us and pretend it never happened.  I eventually sold the place to a Minnesota couple.  They had called to tell us that they were on their way up to the place for their first stay and expressed how excited they were.  We never heard from them again!

Kim Warren

NIGHT JUMP!

At reveille that morning we had been advised by our platoon Sergeant that our company was scheduled for a practice jump that night at 2200 hrs.  The drop zone was to be an abandoned Japanese airstrip.  Uniform was full field gear, weapons and ammo.  Since this was a practice jump we were to simply gather up our parachute and report to a marshaling area that would be designated later at our squad level briefing.
That evening after Taps and chow we loaded up on deuce and a half trucks for the ride to Naha Air Force base.  For anyone watching us we would have appeared different from other GI’s.  We talked very little and when we did it was quietly.  Our movements were deliberate and ordered.  There was an air of disciplined superiority about us.  We were United States Army Paratroopers, members of the elite 82nd Airborne Division.  Our combat team was currently stationed on Okinawa as a rapid deployment force.  The rest of the world was straight legs or just “legs” as we called them.  A demeaning term applying to anyone that was not a Paratrooper.
Upon arriving at the airfield we were assigned a C-130 transport.  Each platoon had its own aircraft.  We picked up our parachutes and assisted each other in putting them on.  Then dividing up into four preassigned groups called “sticks” we boarded the aircraft.  Two sticks sat on the outboard rows of canvas benches facing in and two sticks sat on the center rows back to back facing out.  All this was done in a quiet practiced fashion.
Once seated the C-130s took off and formed up in jump formation.  There were three groups of three in trail.  It was a short quiet flight to the drop zone.  However, when the jumpmaster gave the command to “STAND UP” the atmosphere on board the aircraft immediately changed.  Every Paratrooper became a pit bull.  Our blood came up and we had” kill “in our eyes.  We were all yelling “AIRBORNE, AIRBORNE!”  Then the command “HOOK UP!” and we all snapped our static lines to the overhead cable and inserted the safety wire.  “CHECK YOUR EQUIPMENT!”  Each of us checked the parachute on the man in front and shouted “ONE OKAY, TWO OKAY!” and so on down the line.
I was pushing the port stick that night, which means I was the last man on the port side.  “STAND IN THE DOOR!”  We all moved forward a little as the first man stood in the door.  Now every eye was on the white, green and red lights above the door as we continued to yell “AIRBORNE!”  White was illuminated, red would mean abort,  we waited for green.  Every muscle in our bodies was tense.  It seemed like forever, then there it was “GREEN LIGHT!”
We poured out the door, each man pausing a fraction of a second to grab the sides of the door and propel himself out into black space.  I in turn leaped out of the aircraft and was immediately hit by an almost 200mph blast of wind.  I started counting, “One thousand and one, one thousand and two.”  When I got to about three I felt the opening shock as the parachute harness dug into me as I decelerated.  I tried to raise my head to check the canopy.  The risers were twisted down to the back of my neck.  I frantically pulled them apart and felt myself turning as they unwound.  When I was able to look up I was shocked to see a tangled mess above me.  I had about one third of a canopy.  Some of the suspension lines were over the top of the canopy causing a malfunction we called a Mae West.  I instantly grabbed my reserve parachute handle and executed the procedure for a partial malfunction.  The reserve pilot chute popped out and ripped the reserve chute upward.  I was falling  faster than I realized.  The reserve got tangled in my suspension lines, but slowed my decent some.  I was still fighting with it, trying to get it untangled when I hit the ground.
I awoke with a medic kneeling beside me and could hear someone screaming medic.   My back really hurt and I couldn’t move so the medics loaded me on a jeep stretcher.  We drove a short way and picked up the guy that was doing all the yelling.  He had a compound fracture of his lower leg.
At the hospital they determined I had broken nothing, just strained my back muscles.  I got a couple of months light duty and had to make several follow up trips back to the hospital for treatments, but other than that I was okay.  I was most fortunate.
The parachute riggers said the malfunction was caused by my having a bad body position when I exited the aircraft.  I didn’t believe it, but on my next jump I was very careful of my body position.        

Kim Warren

FEARSOME FOLEY

A rare peak into the life of one of our great bears!
My wife and I were commercial fishing here in Southeast Alaska aboard our fishing boat Infinity which we lived aboard year round.
This particular day we were fishing for Dungeness crab at the head of Poison cove in Hoonah sound.  It had a small river running into it that salmon spawned in.  Being early August the salmon were schooling in the cove, but hadn't moved up river yet..  It was one of those rare days we get from time to time, just beautiful!  I was running the hauler pulling up one of the pots I had set in 7-10 fathoms of water when movement in the tree line caught my eye. It was a medium sized brown bear!  Salmon were schooling between the shore and us and this bear had his eye on them.
The salmon he was watching were humpies or pink salmon.  One of five species we fish for here in Alaska.  They are nicknamed "humpies" because of the huge hump they get when they begin to spawn.  In fact they change completely from the beautiful, shiny, silver fish of the open ocean to downright prehistoric looking.  Their jaws elongate and curl.  Their teeth grow long and fang like and as I said, they developed a large humped back.  All the salmon species go through a similar metamorphose.  It's one of the most amazing things I've seen in nature.
Old brownie started walking toward the shore line completely ignoring us.  I stopped the hauler and we watched him approach.  When he got about twenty feet from the water he took off running and with a mighty leap SPLASH, salmon scattered in every direction like an underwater explosion.  We could see his head darting this way and that, but he came up empty mouthed.  Crawling back on the rocks and with a mighty shake that rippled his entire body he sent water flying in every direction.
The bear repeated this process several times, each time missing his prey.  After another unsuccessful attempt he climbed back on the rocks and ambled toward the trees, all the while looking back over his shoulder at the salmon.  There were so many of them.  I knew he must be thinking "how could I have missed?"  About mid-way between the shore and the trees he turned around, gave the salmon a long look and took off running back toward the water.
Another series of leaps splashes and misses!  A little more slowly this time he dragged himself on the rocks and headed for the trees.  He again looked over his shoulder; I could see the hungry look on his face.  Getting to the tree line, he stopped and turned around staring intently at the salmon.  I'll be darn if he didn't take off at a dead run from the trees and never slowing, dove in after the salmon again.  I couldn't believe it!  What tenacity!
After yet another number of leaps and yes, misses, he very slowly crawled out of the water onto the rocks.  He gave a halfhearted shake and head down, slowly walked back toward the trees.  This time he only looked back once.  He then continued on until he was at the tree line.  Here he stopped and turned around, took a step toward shore line and stopped again.  I've never seen such a forlorn look.  He stared at the salmon for a minute or so, then slowly turned and disappeared into the trees.
We felt miserable for him, but we knew in a few days the salmon would start running up the river and he would gorge himself on them, gaining hundreds of pounds in the process.  And by fall he would be so tired of eating them that he would just bite out their brains leaving the rest for the eagles and the seagulls.
It was a rare privilege to share a little time in the life of one of our great bears.  He is after all, the world’s largest land carnivore.  A mighty beast indeed!

Kim Warren

  THE FLOWER
I once lived on a hill in an area called the Callahan Divide which lies off the southern end of the Great Plains.  Where the plains end the land drops abruptly from 3000ft to 500ft above sea level and becomes broken and rugged.  It was early summer when I walked out on our patio with my first cup of coffee in hand.  The blazing sun had just cleared the trees and turned the sky to a pale blue.  Not a hint of a cloud marred the vast empty sky that stretched, well, as far as you could imagine.  The sun had already begun to give the day a washed out look typical of west Texas summers.  The ground is rocky and populated with cactus, scrub oaks and cedar.  Their dull faded green only adds to the dull effect.  As I got to the edge of the concrete patio I looked down to check for any venomous critters before sitting down.  That’s when I saw the flower.
I sat down beside it glancing around expecting to see others that had bloomed overnight.  There were none, just the one solitary flower sprouting from among the rocks.   I said, “Where in the world did you come from?  What are you doing in a place like this?”   I bent over and looked at it more closely.  It was exquisite.  The color, symmetry and detail were marvelous.  It was a thing of perfect beauty.  Again I looked around me and then up at the sky.  Turning back to the flower I slowly began to realize that in the entire universe no one knew of its existence.  Of the billions of people on earth I was the only person that would know it had existed.  I was the only person to enjoy its beauty.
My mind began to nibble around the enormity of this wondrous experience.   The singleness of the gift I had been given tore at my heart.   Think of it!  Not another living being in the entire universe will ever see this flower.  I stopped by and looked at it several more times during the day and each time it gave me a warm parental proprietorial feeling.  I loved it.
Later that evening as it was getting dark I made one last visit to the flower.  It was gone.  A grasshopper was still clinging to the stem.  The sense of sadness that at first gripped me soon left.  The flower was gone as would be the grasshopper in its time and as will I in mine.  However, to this day that beautiful flower and its wonderful gift still live on in my memory.  The joy it gave me answered  the question I had asked the flower “What are you doing in a place like this?”  As to the question, “Where in the world did you come from?”  Well…………God did say, "Let the earth bring forth..."
 

US!
Pronoun-Objective form of We.
Us is one of the  most misunderstood words.  It can mean a number, as in you and I (2), the USA (350 million) or planet earth (7 billion), depending on your objectivity.  It can also mean an alliance, as you and I against others, the USA against Russia or planet earth against them out there somewhere.  The Arabs have a saying or philosophy which goes, "Me against my brother, my brother and I against our cousin, my brother and I and our cousin against our neighbor, etc., etc.  Us has become nothing more than the plural of "me, my, mine."  In other words the plural of a self indulgent, self centered, me oriented world, just like every other mammal.  Yet I am susposed to be of a higher order than them.  How many times have I walked into a room and finding someone sitting where I normally sit thought, "that's my seat."
The Bible likens Christians to a body .  It goes on to give the example of one body made up of different members (feet, hands, eyes, etc.")  Each an indispensible part of the whole.  When one part hurts the entire body suffers.
  Until I am able to come to the understanding that "us" means all people, all of us, and when one hurts all humanity suffers, I will always be a "silly person, a little person" and will remain one of a flock or herd thinking only "What's in it for me or maybe us."

THE COCKROACH
 The cockroach plays a part in nature and has the same right to live as do all creatures.  But not in my house!
In 1980 my wife, three children, dog windy and myself had a nice little home on Circle Dr. in Winnsboro, Texas.  We were very happy and secure with our lives, until the morning I heard Carolyn yell from the kitchen.  She had gone in for her first cup of coffee and saw a cockroach run under the refrigerator.  It disappeared from sight and then from our thoughts.
The next day we saw another one in the cabinet where we keep our cereal.  I say another one, but it could have been the same one.  They all look alike to me.  Anyway, very slowly their numbers increased and encounters became more frequent.  I turned to passive home remedies in the hope they would leave.  None of them worked.
We became afraid to walk in a dark room or open a cabinet door and began finding them in our food.  The cockroaches were taking over our home and lives.  
I turned to the last resort.  The pest control man came in and sprayed our house.  The cockroaches were gone and our home was restored to us, but there was no elation, only relief tempered with sadness.