Glenn Allen
In a world no longer simple with clear enemies and ready strategies to protect oneself, the aging warriors from the Vietnam era are forced to once again fight for their lives. This time, it's not against a peasant force in the steamy jungles of Vietnam defending their homeland. This time they find themselves under attack in the forests of their own homeland by a fanatical force of Jihadists dedicated to the destruction of America itself. In addition o being vastly outnumbered and aging, the Americans have a unique disadvantage: they are all amputees.
The only advantage that the Americans have is now it's their homeland that they are defending. To the end, it's not clear whether or not that and the few friendlies that are able to be recruited to the cause will be enough to prevail over their adversaries.
The Vietnam Vets Amputee Group is both inspirational and an ode to those brave soldiers that fought not so long ago. They finally might be accorded the respect that they deserve, perhaps posthumously, from a changed and grateful nation.
"The Vietnam Vets Amputee Group" is the second book for Glenn Allen. It represents a significant departure from the dark humor and sarcasm of his first book "The Devil Who Walked The Earth". This book is a straightforward effort to thank those vets who were neglected and worse when they returned home from the Vietnam War.
Glenn Allen lives in the Florida Keys, enjoying the wonders and sometimes the furry of nature (read: Hurricane Wilma). He's married to a wonderful girl, aptly named Pink, who shares his joy of nature, island living and their numerous pets.
Of course, the author and his wife are able to get away, sometimes quite far from home, in their own Cherokee 6.
Glenn invites comments on his books at his email address: death_to_lawyers@yahoo.com, as after all, he is still a practicing physician and has a strong sense of selfpreservation in this cynical world.
Chapter1: Demons
“We’re hit! We’re going down! Brace for impact!” Alvin shouted into his intercom as he frantically tried to guide the big bird into a controlled crash.
Bruce and the rest of the crew tried to position themselves against the bulkheads and those who could, tightened their seat belts. Being a door gunner, Bruce had no belt. Instead, he clutched his M60 machine gun hoping it would continue to protect him against all harm as it had up to now.
It wouldn’t be long. They had just taken off with a full load of wounded and had only gotten twenty feet into the air before the guerillas damaged the main prop with an RPG. His biggest fear now wasn’t a bone shattering impact; they were way too low for that. No, his biggest concern was a follow up rocket propelled grenade being fired into the open cargo bay. That would mean the end for them all.
Bruce experienced the crash in slow motion. It felt as if the copter was gracefully floating to the ground, as the first leaf of fall might do before the harsh winter winds stripped the trees of the last holdout. The first jar of the impact lifted Bruce off the deck. He was holding onto his gun so tightly, it came out of its pivot point and the two together took a short unaided flight up. That was the easy part. The second landing was the hard part. Bruce, still in a sitting position, hit the deck hard and as he no longer had a fixed object to secure him in place, bounced off the deck onto the ground as the helicopter started its death roll to the left. He lay face down in the dirt as the copter rolled over his legs, hopelessly pinning them under the fuselage. Where moments before he was sitting, a master of all he surveyed, now he was a prisoner at the mercy of his own war machine. Bruce took in the scene with a serenity that comes with acceptance of the inevitable. He watched in detached amusement as the blades cut a spiraling furrow in the ground as they spun madly toward him. He mused some lucky farmer would get a head start on the summer plowing. He could barely keep his eyes open as debris flew in all directions, rapidly covering him with a coarse layer of dirt, grass and pebbles. The pain was excruciating but he was able to hold onto reality by hugging his unflinching friend, his ever loyal machine gun. Finally the blades stopped, inches from his head. He shook off all of the soil that he could from his face and neck. A fine patina of mud covered his skin where the dirt was moistened from the sweat springing from his pores. “Well, shoot!” he thought to himself. “If I’m going to live, I’m going to have to get moving.” Unfortunately, the only movement he could manage was lifting up on his elbows.
As he lay on the ground looking toward the edge of the jungle, Bruce knew they would be coming soon. He was able to prop his machine gun up in front of him, using the very trench the propeller had dug, securing a stable platform from which to fire. Without the trench, the gun would have been too high and unwieldy to be useful. Maybe there was a God and he was looking out for him. On the other hand, if God was looking out for him, why was he here in this God forsaken country, fighting a God forsaken people in a God forsaken war? That was all the time Bruce had for contemplation.
“Here they come” one of the injured yelled from the cargo hold, waking Bruce from his reverie. First there were just a few, cautiously peeking through the edges of the jungle, then more and more appeared. They were wearing their dark green uniforms making it look from a distance as if the jungle was growing directly forward at an unprecedented rate, even for a jungle. All too soon, human shapes were discernible and then their faces came into focus. They didn’t look happy with their uninvited guests and Bruce was pretty sure that there wouldn’t be any of that southern hospitality he became accustomed to when he was growing up.
