The Tis Bottle - Part Three
This entry was posted on December 19, 2007 2:06 PM and is filed under the troops.
The Tis Bottle is a short story written by R. Richard Higdon. R. Richard is a combat-harden Vietnam Veteran; a Marine who I met a Hines VA Hospital in Maywood, Illinois. The Tis Bottle is a story he wrote more that 18-years ago. It is his dream to have this short story published and to get it out to the troops. I thought I'd start by publishing the story on my blog, and then fulfill his dream by printing copies and passing them out to the troops once our tour starts. Not one word has been changed or edited. Be sure to scroll down and read parts one and two first.
Enjoy part three, the final chapter of "The Tis Bottle"
I Momentarily recalled that there were specific locations for each unit and branch of service. I glanced at a large map posted at the periodic intervals and despite the large crowds I was able to locate my unit's designated area. A few of my Nam buddies were there and I casually asked what happened to Bill Johnson. My body stiffened as if to repel the painful reply.
"Why he's alive and well," came a voice from a Nam vet that I had never seen before. "Bill came along to the Washington D. C. airport, but at the last minute decided not to board the plane. I guess Bill figured that with all the excitement along with the seriousness of this memorial tribute, he just wouldn't be able to handle it. Is your name Jeron Aichison?"
"Yes it is," I replied.
The stranger added, "Bill and I went through boot camp together in San Diego but we got split into different units in Nam. Bill requested that I come to his units location and give you this address and phone number in case you happen to show."
He handed me a slip of paper and I thanked him as I hastily fled to the nearest phone, dodging the crowd as I jammed in nine quarters and dialed direct. While the phone was ringing, I felt as if Bill Johnson had passed from death on a cold, black wall, to the living where wondrous warmth radiates its rejoicing splendor.
"Hello," came the gentle warm voice through the receiver. I realized that Bill was alive and well. I could almost feel the beating of his heart as I remarked, "Bill, you sound happy and healthy!"
Bill replied, "Ain't that right." I began to cry as I dug into my pockets for extra change. I knew this was going to be a long call.
It seemed like minutes, my change exhausted ... I heard the life-ending click and the receiver went dead. We had talked fifty-seven minutes. A soothing warmth engulfed me, knowing that I would be flying that weekend to Washington D. C. to visit Bill and prior to my departure from D. C., we would visit The Wall.
Upon exiting the phone booth my eye caught an insect flying into a spiders web. Its relentless struggle only buried itself deeper as the nearby spider spun more web around its victim to seal its doom. I noticed the booth was carpeted red to match the hotel's carpet.
The weekend had finally arrived as I boarded United flight 604 at 8:30 AM; destination, Washington D. C. Once the Boeing 727-Stretch flight was underway, the airline flight attendant gave the passengers a choice of three meal selections, beef, hot dog, or fish. I selected the hot dog as the flight attendant was mentioning something about Chicago being the "hot dog capital of the world" with famous kosher brands like Sinai, Bests and David Burg and that they were made in Chicago in accordance with stringent religious rules regarding preparation and blessing. Although that was extremely informative, I think they were pushing hot dogs.
As my hot dog arrived at my aisle seat, I squeezed the mustard from its individual plastic packet, pushing the ketchup and relish packets aside to the corner of my tray. I picked up the mustard-laden hot dog with one hand and as I began to take my first bite, I remembered, as I deliberately allowed my other hand to grasp the bottom of my poppy-seeded bun. I smiled inside as I ate it quickly with a boyish delight. The flight attendant returned for the empty trays. I handed her mine as she reached for the tray to my immediate right.
An elderly man had just finished drinking a gin and tonic. Her loosely adorned gold bracelet brushed against the complimentary gin bottle and a loud "PLINK" was heard as she grasped the tray. I could not believe my ears! I grabbed the miniature bottle from the tray as I raised it to my lips and kissed it, amidst tears of joy streaming down my cheeks.
"My God, I have found it, this is the Tis bottle!" My joy echoed thunderously through the plane, careening against its walls. With trembling hands I steered the Tis bottle to the empty, fourth compartment of the carrier. Once the bottle had rested in place, waves of contentment engulfed me as all stress and strain was released. I had, at last, peace within myself. I reached for the glass marker in my shirt pocket and marked a large TIS on the bottle.
Suddenly, two figures stood at each end of the plane dressed in black ... looking like spiders without legs. "This is a hijacking," announced the leader over the intercom. "Everybody do exactly what we say or all of you will die. Everyone put your hands behind your head. Do we have any military personnel aboard? We will find out when we collect the wallets and identification."
I immediately stood up and replied, "Jeron Aichison, Vietnam Veteran, infantry, United States Marine Corps."
I knew it was a "death squad" and very quickly all would be dead unless their leaders curiosity would help save some of the passengers. I have always felt there is a little patriotism in every American. Their Uzi-automatics have a magazine of twenty rounds, which is not many when fired in panic. It was just like Nam ... when one confronts the enemy, one must do the right thing at the right time. It's the right thing that keeps most people on your team alive.
I lunged toward the carrier of bottles on the collapsible try. The leader quickly pulled the trigger of his Uzi and the bullets ripped through muscle-tissue and vital organs.
I lay sprawled on the red carpeted aisle with my outstretched hand clasping my ID tags. As I gazed at them, they focused from well-defined aluminum indentations, to grainy gray. Trauma signals received from my body were indicating to my brain that a major shutdown was about to occur in a few brief seconds. The pain was excruciating. I uttered aloud, "My prayers have been answered." As I attempted to smile, the lights went out.
The terrorist raced over and kicked the dead body, rolling it face up so the passengers could see the death wounds and the pooling blood.
"Look at this pathetic weakling. He died with a smile on his face," shouted the leader as he kicked the bloody head, breaking the neck.
The leader stared at the little carrier of bottles, wondering why this Vietnam fanatic got so excited over a collection of something so stupid and ridiculous. The terrorist noticed a rolled note protruding from one of the bottles. He yanked the note from the bottle and began reading:
IN CASE SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME, PLEASE TAKE THIS LITTLE BRASS MALLET AND GENTLY TAP EACH EMPTY BOTTLE BEGINNING AT BOTTLE 1 AND ENDING AT BOTTLE 6 RESPECTIVELY. AT THE SAME TIME, READ THE NOTATION ON EACH BOTTLE.
The terrorist leader began to laugh. It was a laugh of mockery and contempt. He grabbed the brass mallet and began tapping each bottle as the melody rang out loud and clear ...
MY COUN TRY TIS OF THEE ... each listeners soul and conscience was purged as their national pride and heritage began to surface deep from within. The passengers began to sing; "SWEET LAND OF LIBERTY, OF THEE I SING." Veterans and present day-soldiers began advancing towards the terrorist. "LAND WHERE MY FATHERS DIED," soon all the hostages were standing as they continued to advance. "LAND OF ...," the panicking terrorist opened up with their Uzi's and while passengers fell in numbers, the rest of them kept advancing from the front and rear. The surprised gunmen, shooting longer bursts than they had anticipated, had exhausted their Uzi magazine with little time to reload.
"FROM EVERY MOUNTAINSIDE LET FREEDOM RING!"
Before a second magazine could click into place, the passengers were upon them. There were screams ... the sound of a magazine being engaged ... and finally, silence.
The survivors later learned from US government channels and through various terrorist and liberations groups, that the gunmen aboard United flight 604 were, in fact, a "death squad" with direct orders to kill everyone ... including the children. Had the hostages remained in the seats with their hands behind their head, they surely would have all been executed. Of the 96 passengers aboard, 34 died.
The surviving 62 passengers took up a collection and inscribed the following on a single tombstone:
JERON AICHISON
SERIAL # 2178905
BLOOD TYPE - O
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS
GAS MASK - MEDIUM
RELIGION - CHRISTIAN
HE TRULY LOVED HIS FELLOW MAN - A PERSON OF STRONG CONVICTION
They buried him with his little carrier of bottles in one hand and his ID tags clenched in the other. Yes, the smile remained on his face.
THE END ~ R. Richard Higdon,
Vietnam Veteran ~ USMC
What amazed me the first time I read this story was the fact that the author wrote "The Tis Bottle" 18-years ago. R. Richard Higdon told me that up until September 11th, people who read the story thought the ending was the only phony part. He told me he'd hear things like, "... nobody is going to hijack a plane and then kill everyone in it and themselves" ... or he'd hear readers say, "passengers would never unite and then attack hijackers knowing they could all be killed themselves," and then came the true-life story of Flight 93 over Pennsylvania on September 11th.
I also thought it was a wonderful, refreshing and interesting perspective from a Vietnam Vet, who drew from his life experiences. I love how the author created "Jeron," the hero, to hate war, but never the less, do his job on the battlefield and remain a patriot until the end. I wish I had an email address for the author, but if you send any comments to me via-email, I promise I will print and mail them to him at Hines VA Hospital.
God bless our veterans.
Congratulation R. Richard Higdon, you are now a published author, we expect more great pieces from you in the future. Merry Christmas my brother!
Enjoy part three, the final chapter of "The Tis Bottle"
I Momentarily recalled that there were specific locations for each unit and branch of service. I glanced at a large map posted at the periodic intervals and despite the large crowds I was able to locate my unit's designated area. A few of my Nam buddies were there and I casually asked what happened to Bill Johnson. My body stiffened as if to repel the painful reply.
"Why he's alive and well," came a voice from a Nam vet that I had never seen before. "Bill came along to the Washington D. C. airport, but at the last minute decided not to board the plane. I guess Bill figured that with all the excitement along with the seriousness of this memorial tribute, he just wouldn't be able to handle it. Is your name Jeron Aichison?"
"Yes it is," I replied.
The stranger added, "Bill and I went through boot camp together in San Diego but we got split into different units in Nam. Bill requested that I come to his units location and give you this address and phone number in case you happen to show."
He handed me a slip of paper and I thanked him as I hastily fled to the nearest phone, dodging the crowd as I jammed in nine quarters and dialed direct. While the phone was ringing, I felt as if Bill Johnson had passed from death on a cold, black wall, to the living where wondrous warmth radiates its rejoicing splendor.
"Hello," came the gentle warm voice through the receiver. I realized that Bill was alive and well. I could almost feel the beating of his heart as I remarked, "Bill, you sound happy and healthy!"
Bill replied, "Ain't that right." I began to cry as I dug into my pockets for extra change. I knew this was going to be a long call.
It seemed like minutes, my change exhausted ... I heard the life-ending click and the receiver went dead. We had talked fifty-seven minutes. A soothing warmth engulfed me, knowing that I would be flying that weekend to Washington D. C. to visit Bill and prior to my departure from D. C., we would visit The Wall.
Upon exiting the phone booth my eye caught an insect flying into a spiders web. Its relentless struggle only buried itself deeper as the nearby spider spun more web around its victim to seal its doom. I noticed the booth was carpeted red to match the hotel's carpet.
The weekend had finally arrived as I boarded United flight 604 at 8:30 AM; destination, Washington D. C. Once the Boeing 727-Stretch flight was underway, the airline flight attendant gave the passengers a choice of three meal selections, beef, hot dog, or fish. I selected the hot dog as the flight attendant was mentioning something about Chicago being the "hot dog capital of the world" with famous kosher brands like Sinai, Bests and David Burg and that they were made in Chicago in accordance with stringent religious rules regarding preparation and blessing. Although that was extremely informative, I think they were pushing hot dogs.
As my hot dog arrived at my aisle seat, I squeezed the mustard from its individual plastic packet, pushing the ketchup and relish packets aside to the corner of my tray. I picked up the mustard-laden hot dog with one hand and as I began to take my first bite, I remembered, as I deliberately allowed my other hand to grasp the bottom of my poppy-seeded bun. I smiled inside as I ate it quickly with a boyish delight. The flight attendant returned for the empty trays. I handed her mine as she reached for the tray to my immediate right.
An elderly man had just finished drinking a gin and tonic. Her loosely adorned gold bracelet brushed against the complimentary gin bottle and a loud "PLINK" was heard as she grasped the tray. I could not believe my ears! I grabbed the miniature bottle from the tray as I raised it to my lips and kissed it, amidst tears of joy streaming down my cheeks.
"My God, I have found it, this is the Tis bottle!" My joy echoed thunderously through the plane, careening against its walls. With trembling hands I steered the Tis bottle to the empty, fourth compartment of the carrier. Once the bottle had rested in place, waves of contentment engulfed me as all stress and strain was released. I had, at last, peace within myself. I reached for the glass marker in my shirt pocket and marked a large TIS on the bottle.
Suddenly, two figures stood at each end of the plane dressed in black ... looking like spiders without legs. "This is a hijacking," announced the leader over the intercom. "Everybody do exactly what we say or all of you will die. Everyone put your hands behind your head. Do we have any military personnel aboard? We will find out when we collect the wallets and identification."
I immediately stood up and replied, "Jeron Aichison, Vietnam Veteran, infantry, United States Marine Corps."
I knew it was a "death squad" and very quickly all would be dead unless their leaders curiosity would help save some of the passengers. I have always felt there is a little patriotism in every American. Their Uzi-automatics have a magazine of twenty rounds, which is not many when fired in panic. It was just like Nam ... when one confronts the enemy, one must do the right thing at the right time. It's the right thing that keeps most people on your team alive.
I lunged toward the carrier of bottles on the collapsible try. The leader quickly pulled the trigger of his Uzi and the bullets ripped through muscle-tissue and vital organs.
I lay sprawled on the red carpeted aisle with my outstretched hand clasping my ID tags. As I gazed at them, they focused from well-defined aluminum indentations, to grainy gray. Trauma signals received from my body were indicating to my brain that a major shutdown was about to occur in a few brief seconds. The pain was excruciating. I uttered aloud, "My prayers have been answered." As I attempted to smile, the lights went out.
The terrorist raced over and kicked the dead body, rolling it face up so the passengers could see the death wounds and the pooling blood.
"Look at this pathetic weakling. He died with a smile on his face," shouted the leader as he kicked the bloody head, breaking the neck.
The leader stared at the little carrier of bottles, wondering why this Vietnam fanatic got so excited over a collection of something so stupid and ridiculous. The terrorist noticed a rolled note protruding from one of the bottles. He yanked the note from the bottle and began reading:
IN CASE SOMETHING HAPPENS TO ME, PLEASE TAKE THIS LITTLE BRASS MALLET AND GENTLY TAP EACH EMPTY BOTTLE BEGINNING AT BOTTLE 1 AND ENDING AT BOTTLE 6 RESPECTIVELY. AT THE SAME TIME, READ THE NOTATION ON EACH BOTTLE.
The terrorist leader began to laugh. It was a laugh of mockery and contempt. He grabbed the brass mallet and began tapping each bottle as the melody rang out loud and clear ...
MY COUN TRY TIS OF THEE ... each listeners soul and conscience was purged as their national pride and heritage began to surface deep from within. The passengers began to sing; "SWEET LAND OF LIBERTY, OF THEE I SING." Veterans and present day-soldiers began advancing towards the terrorist. "LAND WHERE MY FATHERS DIED," soon all the hostages were standing as they continued to advance. "LAND OF ...," the panicking terrorist opened up with their Uzi's and while passengers fell in numbers, the rest of them kept advancing from the front and rear. The surprised gunmen, shooting longer bursts than they had anticipated, had exhausted their Uzi magazine with little time to reload.
"FROM EVERY MOUNTAINSIDE LET FREEDOM RING!"
Before a second magazine could click into place, the passengers were upon them. There were screams ... the sound of a magazine being engaged ... and finally, silence.
The survivors later learned from US government channels and through various terrorist and liberations groups, that the gunmen aboard United flight 604 were, in fact, a "death squad" with direct orders to kill everyone ... including the children. Had the hostages remained in the seats with their hands behind their head, they surely would have all been executed. Of the 96 passengers aboard, 34 died.
The surviving 62 passengers took up a collection and inscribed the following on a single tombstone:
JERON AICHISON
SERIAL # 2178905
BLOOD TYPE - O
UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS
GAS MASK - MEDIUM
RELIGION - CHRISTIAN
HE TRULY LOVED HIS FELLOW MAN - A PERSON OF STRONG CONVICTION
They buried him with his little carrier of bottles in one hand and his ID tags clenched in the other. Yes, the smile remained on his face.
THE END ~ R. Richard Higdon,
Vietnam Veteran ~ USMC
What amazed me the first time I read this story was the fact that the author wrote "The Tis Bottle" 18-years ago. R. Richard Higdon told me that up until September 11th, people who read the story thought the ending was the only phony part. He told me he'd hear things like, "... nobody is going to hijack a plane and then kill everyone in it and themselves" ... or he'd hear readers say, "passengers would never unite and then attack hijackers knowing they could all be killed themselves," and then came the true-life story of Flight 93 over Pennsylvania on September 11th.
I also thought it was a wonderful, refreshing and interesting perspective from a Vietnam Vet, who drew from his life experiences. I love how the author created "Jeron," the hero, to hate war, but never the less, do his job on the battlefield and remain a patriot until the end. I wish I had an email address for the author, but if you send any comments to me via-email, I promise I will print and mail them to him at Hines VA Hospital.
God bless our veterans.
Congratulation R. Richard Higdon, you are now a published author, we expect more great pieces from you in the future. Merry Christmas my brother!