Tollison: I Remember

Tollison - I Remember

Mark Tollison knelt in the tall grass and slowly cast his vision across the open expanse of field before him. The deep low land depression he had found along the field’s edge had given him sufficient cover to crawl undetected for close to three hundred yards, but no further. The depression had come to an end and the tall grass alone was not enough to hide him from view any longer.
Now it was put up or shut up time. He knew he could not remain in one position for long or risk detection. The practiced wisdom of expert field agents had long ago taught him the vital skills for situational survival. You’re either moving or you’re dying. For the moment, however, it was his sixth sense alone that told him he had to keep moving. They were close by. He could feel them.
Tollison closed his eyes and lowered his head in a slow and deliberate motion, took two deep breaths, and stilled the thoughts in his mind. The landscape merged into view in his head and, after a few thoughtful moments, he opened his eyes and weighed his options.
The land offered no tactical advantages, too flat and wide open. The long line of buildings immediately to his north offered no refuge. The field to the south, prior to harvest season, would generally have provided a sea of tall green corn stalks to blend into, but not today. It was planting season and the field lay wide open with long furrows ploughed almost artistically into the rich soil. Tollison did not like this position at all, a veritable killing field. Better to slip away and confront the enemy another day.
The tall fence that had helped conceal his passage along the field’s edge had ended abruptly and now gave way to a large opening, not twenty yards in front of him. A stone’s throw to his right, a large disheveled barn stood stoically against the open landscape, an ancient relic that had stood the test of some sixty New England winters. The farmer who owned this land used the old building as a slaughterhouse, but more often than not it sat empty and dormant.
Ghosts haunted the structure’s cold concrete slab foundation, stained with the blood of countless souls in silent testimony to man’s dark heart. Metal drums sat rusting along the barn’s outer wall, filled to the brim with the severed limbs and skulls of slaughtered livestock. When hunters filled the woods and fields with their guns of autumn the farmer would sometimes sell his services to butcher the carcasses of white tailed deer and, every once in a great while, a black bear. It was an ominous building, one he did not like and yet it offered shelter, if even just temporary cover should he choose to dash straight ahead.
He considered that option, but dismissed it carefully.  The slaughterhouse would provide excellent cover, but only if he could reach it undetected. He suspected the enemy might be laying in wait, just north of the break in the fence. They would easily spot him crossing in front of the opening and, so close to their ambush point, he knew it would be nearly impossible to evade them. Stealth was his advantage and today he leveraged his size by making himself invisible. Tollison considered this and concluded that one of his greatest strengths was acknowledging his weaknesses.
He looked more carefully across the open field.  Except for the slaughterhouse, the terrain lay wide open to the west for nearly 300 yards.  Along the eastern field’s edge, 500 yards away, a long row of tall red maple trees and berry thicket rose up to beat down the horizon. In between lay nothing but open killing ground.
Tollison turned to face front once again, pausing to consider the long narrow corridor in front of him. A scant 150 yards straight away, the southern tree line beckoned to him. The woods blended together into a mass of maple trees, birch, poplar, and pine, bending neither right nor left, but crushed together like anxious souls waiting on a platform’s edge. Young saplings leaned to the field’s edge, surrounded by sordid thicket and bramble that threatened to beat them back into the woods, away from the sun, away from the field, away from the world.
An ancient white pine, nearly 100 feet tall, towered over the western end of the tree line as if its presence alone served as a beacon for the minion below. Tollison knew it well.
He visualized the route in his head. If he backtracked fifty yards and then made a run straight south for the tree line, the angle of his path might provide him an escape mechanism. From a tactical perspective, it wasn’t the most sound solution, but the alternative was even less attractive from his vantage point.
If the enemy lay in waiting at an ambush point, as he suspected, he would be hard pressed to escape in one piece. If flanked by forces along the depression he had just traversed, he would be terminated with extreme prejudice. Better to exercise the element of surprise, hope they were napping, and disappear in the thick cover of the waiting trees and brush.
Tollison eased on to his stomach and began inching his way back, away from the barn. The tall grass was green and thankfully quiet as he snaked his way along the ground. He stopped after forty yards, gathered his energy, and positioned himself for a clearer vantage point.
He rose up on one knee, looked fervently east and again west, and suddenly felt naked and vulnerable. Something did not feel right, but his senses failed to pinpoint the trouble.
Two dogs began barking behind him, warning barks, less than a quarter mile away. They were coming. It was now or never.
Tollison took a deep breath, braced himself against the coming storm, and narrowed his vision toward the far tree line.
Without warning, he bolted suddenly from his hiding place in the tall grass. He drove himself forward, in the direction of the tree line, angling his way toward the far end where he knew the forest path well. He hit the open field at a full run and felt the sudden change in the ploughed soil, sucking at his boots and slowing him down. “Damn,” he thought.
Halfway across the open field he heard a whooping holler behind him.  He had been right. The enemy had been waiting in ambush near the old slaughterhouse. Even though he had a respectable head start, they were now in full pursuit.
He stole a glance over his shoulder and saw them racing past the old slaughterhouse, hot on his trail. With a quick calculation, he drove himself on even further. There had been three of them. Now there were only two.  That did not exactly even the odds, but it shook things out more in his favor.
Tollison’s lungs filled with air as he careened across the open field, now barely fifty yards from the tree line. His escape strategy was paying dividends. He was in excellent condition and knew he could reach the relative safety of cover before his attackers. Whether they knew the trails as well as he was another question altogether, but he was confident in his ability to elude them once he reached his target.
As if in response to best laid plans, the ground beneath his feet suddenly changed from the soft ploughed field to hard farm road. He tripped and fell forward, breaking his fall with his hands, but landing hard on his stomach and skinning the palms of his hands on the rough dirt road surface.
He leapt up immediately, took one quick glance behind him, and hurtled himself forward again in a desperate race to the trees. He couldn’t afford that mistake. They were nearly on him.
Tollison reached the tree line barely forty yards ahead of his attackers. He knew he could not elude them at such a close interval and chose in that instant to stand and fight. 
“Two against one - those were damn good odds,” he thought. 
The tall pines at the west end of the tree line offered the best line of defense and, even as he tore across the open field, Tollison had been wise in choosing the location. Now he had no choice. He raced between several thick trees and dove for cover behind two large logs, a natural entrenchment and as good a defensive position as he might hope for under the circumstances.
Rising to a crouch, he steeled himself against the inevitable rain of fire and prepared himself for the onslaught.
The two pursuers, now only yards away and racing breathlessly, watched as Tollison took cover behind the pine trees. Nearing the tree line, they slowed simultaneously and now approached Tollison with stealthy caution.
Tollison peered out from his position and saw the two figures disappear momentarily behind some thicket, warily sizing up the terrain. He gauged their posture and relative tentative movement as a guarded measure of calculation, and suspected in that moment that they would try to outflank his position rather than engineer a full frontal assault.
In those moments of quiet confrontation, the taller of the two wandered into view from behind the thicket. Tollison’s heart froze in his chest.
“Vandoos,” the thought struck him like a mortar round.
Tollison knew there was no time for panic. He had anticipated garrison soldiers in the wooded area before him, physically and mentally soft from lack of discipline.
Tollison recognized the subdued insignia as that of The Royal 22e Régiment, a specialized Canadian military unit composed of light infantry, paratroopers, and some highly trained mechanized divisions. All soldiers in that elite regiment were bilingual in French and English. That was a must. Of greater distinction, however, was the regiment’s reputation worldwide as the most feared Canadian Special Forces unit in history. These men were not garrison fodder. They were professional killers.
Torn by Canadian secessionist furor and fueled by bitterness between the English and French speaking quarters of Quebec, The Royal 22e Régiment earned its nickname from the bastardization of “vingt-deux,” the French word for “twenty-two.”
Tollison’s mind raced. “Why were Van doo intelligence and reconnaissance patrols this far south?”
Intelligence and reconnaissance (I&R) platoons were made up of elite soldiers that served as the “eyes and ears” of the regular infantry regiment. And infantry regiments supported larger cavalry and artillery divisions.
This was a bad sign. And if those were scout dogs he’d heard earlier, the warning signs were even more ominous. Canine patrols meant one thing; minimize the human footprint to eliminate the possibility of capture and interrogation.
Enemy movement this secret spelled a strong buildup of forces nearby. Tollison knew he had to get back to camp and brief the old man.
He set his jaw and spoke softly to himself, “Vandoos. Je me souviens. I Remember.”
The taller of the two enemy soldiers appeared just then from behind the pine thicket. Although he wore the markings of a Grenadier, he carried himself with all the violent arrogance of an infantry officer and issued short machine-gun like orders over his shoulder.
In silence now, he motioned toward the thicket with hand signals – split left and right, watch me for the signal, pincer movement, attack from two directions.
Moments later the stockier of the two appeared from behind the other side of the undergrowth. He was built like a boxcar, disheveled and as dirty as the rusted out hulk of a long forgotten freight train. He was solid as a rock, though, and looked as powerful. They were formidable opponents.
The sun was high in the sky, although not yet directly overhead. Tollison judged it was just before noon. He swallowed slowly and noted for the first time the raspy dryness in his throat, like fine sawdust.
It was a fleeting thought. The enemy was in the open, positioning themselves for a flank attack. There was no high ground, only cover, and he had the advantage.
The silence was broken for the first time.  “You aren’t going anywhere, come out and surrender.”
He said nothing, shifted his weight in preparation for his move. They were fully exposed, arrogantly defying their own defenseless positions.
Without warning, Tollison burst from behind the tree, squared to his right and fired from point blank range. He raced across a small opening, discharged a short burst of strafing fire in the opposite direction, and dove behind a large fallen log.
The first round had missed low and right. The second, sprayed wildly, had also missed, but gained him his objective.
His new position, closer to the thick brush, gave him a better field of fire and countered the flanking maneuver.  He reloaded, listened, and waited.
“Listen to us,” the Grenadier called out. “Come out in the open and we’ll end it quickly.”
The Grenadier smiled at Boxcar with a smirk, shook his head, and motioned him forward. He waited momentarily and fired one round for effect toward the fallen tree trunk.
The round shot well over Tollison’s head and ripped into the brush with a whizzing sound. He laid low on his back, head propped up against the log, waiting for the attack to unfold. He felt the warmth of his own breath on his chin, checked his ammunition, and waited for the rush. He had to be patient.
Shots plucked the log sporadically from different directions. Tollison waited patiently until the fusillade converged from a single point. Boxcar had moved from his flanking position until he was nearly beside the Grenadier. They were careless.
Tollison rolled on to his stomach, gritted his teeth, and leapt straight up in the firing position. He clipped off two quick rounds, nearly fully exposed, and caught them nearly flat-footed.
Boxcar was bending down to reload. The first shot missed narrowly right, but the second shot hit him in the shoulder. He jerked upright, twisted right and shouted in angry surprise.
The Grenadier whirled toward Tollison and sprayed the area with a savage flurry of fire. Tollison dove immediately straight to the ground, felt a stinging punch in his thigh, and let out a groan as he hit the dry dirt. He shouted at the top of his lungs, a battle cry, focused the rising strength within and jumped up again in a dash toward yet another wide tree. He heard the rounds zipping into the underbrush only inches behind him, as he reached the safety of cover.
Another battle cry, his only remaining strategy.  Tollison checked his ammo. He was light.  His eyes darted left and right, checking his flank, needing time.  He was low on ammunition, needed to conserve. To make matters worse, no one knew he was here.
He had made a critical error earlier that morning, slipping off on his own. Unsanctioned operations would not go over well with the old man.  Assuming he made it out of here alive, he was going to have his ass handed to him that night in base camp.
In a sudden burst of movement, Grenadier and Boxcar split wide right and left and opened fire on Tollison’s exposed flank.
The move caught Tollison by surprise. He shifted left one step and hugged the tree, trying desperately to get out of the line of fire.
Crushing pain shot up his side as one round smashed into his leg. A long deep groan tore through his teeth as he dropped to the dirt in agony. Incoming fire shot past him like steel rain, pinning him to the ground.
Another round clipped his upper bicep, the pain tearing at his arm like a wild dog.  He clenched his jaw, willed the pain into the back of his consciousness, and let the anger burn deep inside. He choked out a guttural scream that chilled the bones, rising and wailing, focusing his energy.
A single shot clipped the tree directly in front of his face. He felt the tiny pieces of bark spray his cheek and hugged the ground more closely. The incoming fire was abating some as the enemy paused intermittently to reload.
Tollison sensed the lull before it even happened, as his attackers regrouped for the kill. He timed his next move with precision.  When your lifeblood is moments from spilling onto the ground, there is no room for error.
He lunged up from the dirt and bolted to a thick pine the size of a factory smokestack, his last remaining bulwark of safety. This would be his last stand, his Alamo if need be. He gathered what ammunition he had remaining and steeled himself for the final drawdown.  Purposefully slowing his racing thoughts, he breathed deeply in sweet anticipation of the moment, and contemplated Chief Joseph’s sorrowful Indian words of surrender. I will fight no more forever.
“Who the hell surrenders?” he thought. “Two against one were excellent odds.”
From behind his protective fortress, he began with a barely audible song, letting the anger rise inside him. Then in a crescendo of passion and fury, Tollison reached beyond his very soul with a war cry, conjuring the spirits of the wounded Seneca and dying Iroquois nation from centuries past. The Iroquois battle cry chilled blood in the veins of the enemy and hung a noose of terror around their necks, choking off their windpipes in great waves of unabated fear. The wail rose into the trees and cast off across the open field.
Grenadier and Boxcar froze in their tracks at the battle cry, both momentarily puzzled as the hair rose on the nape of their necks.
They looked at each other quizzically and then, recognizing the open blemish of fear, broke out into nervous laughter.
“Let’s just finish this,” Boxcar said.
Each in turn fastened their belts, squared away their gear, and mounted up their weapons for the final kill.
“Ready?” Grenadier asked, more as a directive than a question.
“Let’s go,” Boxcar said.
The two hunters split slowly one final time and cautiously circled Tollison’s position, angling for the kill.
Tollison kept up his wailing chant, rising and falling, to strike fear into his enemy’s heart. The battle cry wail echoed effectively off the wall of trees with an acoustic balance that traveled unabated across the open field.  Far from the Alamo, his position was well chosen.
The Grenadier angled his way toward Tollison, firming his jaw with determination. He could easily see his quarry from this angle, but the line of fire was interrupted by low hanging branches, enough to send an otherwise clear shot astray. He cautiously moved laterally left, knowing full well he would expose himself. His confidence was well founded. He had fire superiority. He reached a spot between two large trees, an open area that permitted a clear shot opportunity. He couldn’t ask for more.
With a loud cry, Grenadier blasted the clearing with an intense cannonade of fire. Boxcar joined in almost instantly, firing sideways from the hip.
Tollison ducked to his left, leapt out into the open, and leveled his own short burst from the hip. One round grazed Grenadier as he whirled right in a strafing movement. Tollison deftly stepped back behind protective cover and listened to the errant shots miss their mark, hitting the tree with a thick plokking sound.
Tollison looked down and counted his remaining ammunition, two rounds left. He smiled, leaned back, and screamed the battle cry yet again.
Grenadier and Boxcar nodded at one another, simultaneously reloaded, and prepared for the final assault. Boxcar had moved left of the clearing and, with a simple motion of his head, signaled that he was going to rush the flank. The battle was effectively over. Victory was sweet.
The Grenadier fired one single round, and then another, while Boxcar crossed the open area between the trees undetected, angling his shoulders left for a free fire on Tollison’s exposed flank.  He stopped abruptly in the opening and launched a salvo of fire from behind.
Tollison knew the attack was coming, could do nothing to stop it, and rose to meet the hunters face to face.
         “I will fight no more forever. Bullshit.” he thought. “You’re going down, you bastards.”
He reached deep inside, drew every last ounce of strength and bravery remaining, and let loose with a battle cry that sent shivers down the spine.
Tollison stepped boldly out into the opening, effectively neutralizing Boxcar’s flank assault, and faced the Grenadier down directly.
With two rounds remaining, he had to make this count. He squared to meet his opponent, clipped off a single shot, and sidestepped to avoid counter fire. His first shot found its mark, smashing squarely into the Grenadier’s side.
Miraculously Grenadier didn’t go down, but instead stared incredulously at the spot on the front of his shirt.
Tollison’s field of vision suddenly shifted into slow motion. He saw the entire battle in his mind, could see Boxcar charging from his right. He carefully aimed his last round for full effect.
The Grenadier spun to his right, facing him directly one final time, stutter stepped backward, and aimed his weapon.
Tollison clipped off his final round and watched in amazed disappointment as it sailed wide right. Instinct told him to dive for cover, but he chased the thought from his mind and stood frozen instead in the open clearing.
Time stood still, as the moment registered with each of the three opponents.
The Grenadier cast a sideways glance to Boxcar, each poised to end it from their relative position, and raised his hand in an unspoken, yet unmistakable, order of ceasefire. Out of respect for Tollison, he would end this himself, quickly and with honor.
Tollison stood tall, leaned back, and screamed the cry one final time as his two enemies prepared to open fire.
“Aiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeee!” the cry burst forth at the top of his lungs.
The Grenadier fired one errant shot that landed harmlessly at Tollison’s feet.
“Aiiieeeeeee!” Tollison burst forth again, “Aiee.”  His cry was clipped short.
The Grenadier and Boxcar froze for an instant and stared at Tollison’s suddenly still, haggard figure. Tollison looked past them, over their shoulders, toward the open field.
The Grenadier whirled about suddenly and looked.  A man stood twenty yards away, arms folded, with a grim look of disapproval on his face.
Grenadier’s face turned instantly ashen as he stammered nervously, “Dad.”
The man surveyed the scene with displeasure. Pine cones littered the ground in all directions.  As if on cue, the enemy soldiers simultaneously opened their hands and slowly dropped the remaining pine cones they had been clutching onto the ground at their feet. The soldiers stood, sweating and hot, eyes wide open in fearful anticipation.
None of them appeared any the worse for wear, a welt or two here and there. No major head wounds or skinned knees.
The man stifled a smile, put on his best actor’s face, and addressed the elder son.
“Get home.”
“But Dad,” the older son one protested, “We were all just.”
“Get home,” the man repeated, “Now.”
The boy turned and hastily began his retreat home.  He would spend the remainder of the day in his room downstairs.  No other words were spoken.
The man shifted his gaze toward Boxcar. “Jake Mitchell?” he said. “For crying out loud, he is only eight years old.” The man paused and frowned with disapproval.
“We don’t need to discuss this with your father. Do we?”
“No sir,” the stocky boy replied.  He shifted his gaze toward the ground in a look of resignation.
“May I suggest then that you make yourself busy for the remainder of the day?  The boys will be back out again tomorrow.”
“Yes sir,” he replied. He hurriedly stepped away from the tree line and skulked across the field toward his house.
“You okay, Mark?” the man asked. The man still hadn’t moved from his spot
Tollison stood grinning from ear to ear. “Yes sir, I am. What took you so long?”
“Eh, Mom I guess.” the man said.
“Mom?” the boy asked.
“Yeah, I was talking with Mom in the kitchen.”
The father watched his son from across the clearing and smiled. “You know something, son? I could hear you all the way across the field.”
Tollison ambled across the clearing toward his father and joined him near his hip. He momentarily considered telling his Dad about his acoustic strategy. The moment passed.
The man placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and the two turned and slowly began to walk down the farm road toward their home across the field.
“Where in hell’s kitchen did you learn to yell like that, son?” the father asked.
Young Mark Tollison shrugged his shoulders, looked up at his Dad, and replied with wisdom beyond his years.
“Eh, Mom I guess.”
Father and son walked nonchalantly down the farm road toward home, one eager to return to his afternoon chores and the other wanting little more than to quench an aching thirst.
“Listen,” the father said, “find yourself a spot this afternoon and read some comics or something. Will you? I have some painting I need to get done.”
“Okay Dad,” young Mark Tollison said.
“And don’t bother your mother. Okay? ,” the father added.
“Yes sir,” Tollison replied.
He barely heard his father’s final remarks. Tollison was already visualizing in his mind, maps of the train route through the Village of Essex Junction and the layout of Montpelier’s capitol building veranda.
The chief public representative of the province of Quebec, Lieutenant Governor Maurice Desjardins, was scheduled to arrive in town by train at 2:00pm the next day. Quebec Premier, Michelle Jean Dion, did not endorse this organized meeting of United States government representatives and senior Canadian officials.
As if by coincidence, the Daudelin sisters were planning an outdoor sleepover in tents that night with another neighborhood girl. Although outwardly benign in appearance, Tollison felt secure in his suspicions that underground secessionist activity had taken root in this tiny village. He had to get inside that tent compound.
Regimental ops would likely offer little support for night patrol missions behind enemy lines, but Tollison had an idea.
Headquarters reports would today include information about a recently decommissioned regimental intelligence and reconnaissance team.
All Tollison needed was a Grenadier and a Boxcar and he was in business.