Field Commission 1

Tone:
Violence - many deaths as depicts future war. Still, avoidance of gruesome, of blood and gore.
Profanity - as always with this blog, stars ****. Expect a lot more stars this time. See some previous stories covered the fun and irony of mil life. This portrays a week of total war.
Still, I believe it is suitable for children. First and foremost, it is simply a story of two friends, of loyalty, of staying together.

In my family, the newspaper is only bought Sunday; main purpose, the week's TV listings. Neither mother nor father is into reading much. And of course I'm not even allowed to look at it - some bad pictures in there.
He leans his smelly, unwashed, 80-pound-overweight self further into the sofa, puffs on his cigarette. As he turns a page he gasps, "holy sh**."
"What?" she asks.
"This picture. That slime, acts like he's sooo much better than everyone. Eleven thousand, he-ell we could beat that."
She reads the caption haltingly, "Mr John Smith, in front of his house, as he awaits the truck to pick up empty beer cans. This newspaper has verified the math, he has 11,000."
This gets them arguing, how soon could they pass that? They spend a long time in basement, unable to calculate, arguing of course.
Finally they call me down. In two minutes I've counted, multiplied the stacks and proclaim 9,360 empties.
For the next few months it is their total obsession, doing a re-count every fortnight. They decide to roll it up to an even 12,00o then call the paper.
The rows of cases are neatly stacked on the sidewalk. The reporter does the count and I double check. Then several photos of the two of them hamming it up. They look disgusting.
They are so proud they steal 10 newspapers from the box, for the price of one paper.
That very Sunday night a sound wakes me. Our house is end lot to an alley. Anyone stopping there, idling the motor is usually up to no good.
Both bedrooms - mine and parents' - face the side alley.
A bright light shines through the venetians, blinds me. A voice, older, male, native, sounds kind, says, "just the little girl. Leave her alone. Check the next room."
I hear metal snick. Angry young native male, "she's a witness."
Sharp tone, the older man, "don't be a moron. She's blinded by the light. Can't see your face. Now move."
For what seems all eternity, but is probably two seconds, there is silence.
Matter of fact tone, they young man says, "yep, you're right."
Seconds later, I hear the next bedroom window being broken. From TV movies, I know the sound of a Thompson submachine gun. There's two of em, blazing away.
As the jeep pulls away, I ponder, should I call the cops. Why bother? With all that noise, they'll soon show. I've got enough good sense not to look in the bedroom, got enough nightmares already.
It doesn't take Einstein to figger what happened. Father was recently boasting to his swinish drunken friends of ripping off native guys in a drug deal. So, he was really dumb getting his photo in the paper.
My original intent was to tell the cops what little I knew. So why didn't I? First, I could see they were racist. Use the word "native", they'll arrest and harass every native they don't like. Second, it ain't like the parents were any fine upstanding citizens. The world will be a better place with those troublemakers departed from it. Third, I feel a sense of loyalty to the older man. He spared my life, didn't hafta. Could have agreed I was a witness, blown me away.
I stick with my story, only the rattling of the Thompsons woke me. It's obvious both cops sense I'm lying. The young guy is in an absolute fury, bound and determined to drag the story outa me. The older tones him down, sense of chivalry.
After hours of questioning, they give up, turn me over to Social Services. There is only one living relative, Aunt Franny. She lives alone, on her pension, after a career as a government clerk.
On that day, everything changed for me. With the parents, I always behaved outa fear. Different kinda fear with Franny. Fraid she'll get sick and die, or sick of me. Afraid of the whole foster parent routine, which has a terrible reputation.
Before I had been hopelessly out of any style, but it didn't matter. Inner city neighborhood, kids were lucky to get enough to eat. So no fashion police at my school.
Franny lived in a more prosperous area and had zero concept of any style. As I showed for school in stuff she had sewn which was fifty years outa date, I expected the very worst.
Yet, it didn't happen. Looking back, I can see why. The girls simply decided I was victim of a fundamentalist upbringing and moved on to likelier targets. As if I was so far outa their game, they would look ridiculous laughing at me. Akin to laughing at some poor kid stuck in a wheelchair, just not a good thing to do.
So while I was left in peace, I was also alone and very out of date. Not just style, attitude, thought. Looking back, comparing I'm 2 generations being my cohorts in social mores.
Now Franny herself was more old fashioned than most her age. Didn't own a TV - believed it was the devil flickering images.
Time dragged with the speed of molasses at the North Pole. I was forever staring at the calendar, wondering if she would live long enough for me to finish high school.