Excerpts from "Love and Hate"

This next bit is written by our dear friend, Bob (short for Daniel Taylor). I think it's hilarious. For more hilarity, read his blog here. It's great!

Euan and Paul. Paul and Euan. Two seemingly immortal beings, tied together by fate, and doomed to spend eternity balancing the equation of their lives. Their path through history together is a tale fit for a library of books, of which I, Daniel "Bob" Taylor, am writing. I have known both of them for years; I was their squadron leader back in 'Nam, their band manager in the 80's, their dealer near the end of the 20th century, and their psychologist numerous times (although neither knew the other was seeing me as a patient). This in depth and unique perspective I have on their intertwining lives, coupled with the blog debt I owe them, has driven me to write their story. I hereby present excerpts from my upcoming epic, "Paul and Euan - Love and Hate"

Taken from Chapter 5 - No Turning Back

Mekong river delta, Vietnam, 1968

I gazed across the burning jungle with ash on my uniform and lead in my heart, the cries of the Vietcong still loud enough in my ears to mask the sound of Private Menzies running up the path to my tent. He startled me, but you wouldn't know it to look at my bloodied and grimy face. War had stolen my ability to express feelings. Private Menzies was crying. I had never seen him cry. Not like this.
"What is it soldier?" I growled, trying to fathom what could break such a fine war machine.
"It's Paul, sir, he, he..." Private Menzies vomited onto the ground, unable to continue. Wiping his mouth, he simply pointed, shaking his trembling arm back at the village. The village where we were keeping the woman and children, waiting to be evacuated. I had left them in the care of Private McCallum.

The look in his eyes told me to run, to get to the village as fast as possible. I padded down the dirt road, three armed soldiers and Private Menzies in my wake. I slowed to a cautious trot. Before the village echoed of crying Vietnamese, now only silence. Not even the birds were calling. As we circled around the tents, I could hear someone singing...nursery rhymes? But it wasn't as a child would sing them, this sounded like a demon struggling to speak the king's English, his quiet garbling almost...joyful. I rounded the corner, and what I saw made me vomit onto the crimson-stained ground.

* * *

Fort Bragg, N. Carolina, U.S, 1969

Private McCallum stood upright, against the wooden post, blindfolded. He was still. The only sign he was conscious was the burning ember on the tip of his cigarette, glowing as he inhaled. I looked over the thirty man firing squad I had assembled. I'd had to limit it to thirty, the whole regiment had volunteered for the task. Sergeant Menzies stood silently by my side, his hand fingering his holstered weapon. I wished he wasn't here, but nothing on God's earth could prevent him from seeing this through. I unrolled the document in my hand, and read.

"Private Paul McCallum, 9th division, U.S Army. You have been charged and sentenced by a panel of your peers to death, for the most heinous crimes and atrocities known to man. Your death sentence will be carried out by firing squad. May God have mercy on your soul. Any last words?"
The silence was palpable, the cold field holding it's breath. His lips moved.
"Euan" he whispered.
Private Menzies looked at him. I was unable to tell what was going through his mind. He looked at me. I nodded. He moved closer, leaning in so Private McCallum could speak in his ear. We stood in silence as Menzies listened. A crow called in the distance.

He stood back, looking at the man tied to the wooden post, a questioning look of confusion and moral terror. He screamed, his shrill cry shattering the fragile silence, and pulled his gun from his holster. I stepped forward, knowing what was about to happen, but powerless to stop it. Private Menzies screamed and emptied his service revolver into McCallum's chest, clicking the trigger until it was dry. He fell to the ground in tears, defeated, as the firing squad muttered and walked away, disappointed. I walked forward and placed my hand on Euan's shoulder, staring at the corpse of the dead private.
He was smiling.

I nodded to the guard, and walked into the small cell, hidden deep in the Fort Bragg basement, away from watchful eyes. The noise of my footsteps caused the shadow in the corner to lean forward, and smiled up at me.
"You were charged with crimes unspeakable in the field of combat" I stated "You want to tell me about it?"
"Apparently I have an attitude problem" he smirked. I stared at him.
"Your sentence was carried out this morning when you were shot 12 times in the chest, while I watched. How did that feel?"
He grinned at me, the same grin he'd had on his face this morning, while hanging from the wooden post.
"It tickled"