NOTE TO MY NON-LOCAL READERS: IN A RECENT PILOT LETTERS COLUMN, MY OLD FRIEND D.A. DEMARCO WROTE CRITICIZING FOLKS FROM SOUTHERN PINES WHO HAD DARED TO COMMENT ON THE RECENT LOCAL FLAP OVER THE "VILLAGE" OF PINEHURST'S ATTEMPT TO REGULATE THE SIZE OF "FOR SALE" SIGNS PUT IN PEOPLE'S YARDS BY REALTORS. AFTER ALL, DEMARCO SNIFFED, WE'RE TRYING TO PREVENT OUR VILLAGE FROM TURNING INTO SOUTHERN PINES.
OF COURSE YOU KNOW, THIS MEANS WAR
It’s quiet out there, Sarge thought. It’s too quiet.
They were dug in along the Eastern edge of Highway 15-501. Across the formerly -busy highway was the solid mass of barbed wire, machine-gun nests, and concrete bunkers that marked the border of Pinehurst.
The young private from Aberdeen who everyone referred to affectionately as "The Kid" poked his head up over the edge of the trench. "Anything, Sarge?"
Sarge shook his head. "Nothing. Quiet as Al Sharpton at a KKK convention."
"Maybe they pulled back," the Kid said hopefully.
Sarge looked at his watch and shook his head. "Naah. It’s one-thirty. The geezers are probably having their naps."
The Kid looked puzzled. "So why don’t we attack then?"
Sarge whirled around and grabbed the Kid by the lapels. "Don’t talk crazy, kid. You ever seen one of ‘em woken up from their afternoon nap? We tried that trick at the battle of Taylortown." He shook his head again, this time in regret. "Lost a lot of good men that day."
The Kid pulled himself up and sat on a sandbag. He took out his canteen and took a drink. "Crazy war," he muttered.
"You don’t know the half of it, son," the Sarge said. "I been in it since the beginning."
The Kid passed his canteen over. "How’d this get started, anyway, Sarge?"
Sarge looked across the highway to the enemy lines. "Well," he began, "Things had always been tense between the Village and the rest of the area...heck, the rest of the world for that matter. But the big blow-up came, believe it or not, over real estate signs."
"Real estate signs?" the Kid said with an incredulous look on his face.
Sarge nodded. "Yup. The Villagers said if you were selling your house, there was a limit to how big the sign in your yard could be. The Realtors objected, said the signs would be too small to read. The whole thing probably would have been settled in the courts, but then people in the Village started talking about how they wanted to stop the ‘creeping spread of Southern Pines and Aberdeen.’ At first we thought they were just blowing off steam, like always. But when the Villagers seized control of the Traffic Circle and started building that wall over there...well, something had to be done."
The Kid shrugged. "If that’s all it’s about, why don’t we just leave ‘em alone?"
Sarge turned on him. "You talk like some kind of Villager yourself," he snarled. "If that’s the way you feel, why don’t you just move to Pinebluff with the rest of the draft-dodgers?"
The kid held up his hands. "Whoa, take it easy , Sarge," he said. "I was just saying, it seems like a lot of fuss about a few little signs. It’s not worth going to war over."
"This war is about more than that, Kid," Sarge said. "It’s about the right to live free. The right to park your pickup on the street so the kids can play basketball in the driveway. It’s about the right to put up a hedge any size or paint your house any way you want to without some Village Council always looking over your shoulder. It’s the right to live like men." There was a flicker of movement from across the highway.
"Looks like naptime’s over," Sarge said. He yelled down into the trench. "Look alive, you guys!" he bawled. "Here they come!" As the troops clambered to their positions along the parapet, Sarge heard the high-pitched whine of electric motors. His eyes widened as he recognized the sound.
"Golf carts!" he yelled. "They got armor! Get the bazookas up here, pronto!" his cry was drowned out by the roar of the carts as they burst from the tree-line. Each heavily armored EZ-Go carried a crew of two, a driver and a Villager standing up on the bag-rack, holding on with one hand and wielding a golf club with the other.
"Damn," Sarge muttered. "That’s the new Ping nine-iron. And look at those pants. You ever seen pants that color?" He grimly shouldered his weapon. "That’s the Republican Guard we’re facing, boys. This is gonna get ugly."
The next few minutes were a blur of action. Later Sarge would remember only fragments: the high-pitched whines of the villagers’ war cries, the gleam of the nine-irons and their deadly whoosh-whoosh as they rose and fell, the smell of sweat and fear as his troops fought for their lives. Finally, the chaos seemed to abate slightly. Sarge looked up to see the golf carts retreating behind the trees.
"They’re running!" somebody yelled. "we licked ‘em!"
"No," Sarge muttered half to himself. He wiped the blood from a gash on his head from a near-miss with a nine-iron. "It was just a probe. They’ll be back for real next time." Then he saw the Kid.
The young man was lying on the ground in front of the trench, his face almost peaceful despite the blood on it. With a shock, Sarge realized who had taken the blow from the nine-iron...the one meant for him. He knelt down and took the Kid’s limp form into his arms.
"C’mon, Kid," he begged. "You’re gonna be okay. You gotta." Slowly, the Kid opened his eyes. He looked up at the Sarge and smiled. "All I’m saying," he whispered, "is give peace a chance." Then he went limp.
Sarge was silent for a moment. Then he let the Kid’s body down onto the ground and stood up.
"Sorry, kid," he said grimly. "But no one disses my hometown."
Dusty Rhoades lives in Carthage, practices law in Aberdeen, and has obviously seen "Saving Private Ryan" a few times too many.
OUR GRACIOUS HOST (BOOKS-N-BYTES)
COPYRIGHT 2001 BY JERRY D. RHOADES, JR.