CHAPTER FIVE
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The sea pissed against the shore oozing its sticky foam onto the beach. The remaons of gigantic reptile races floated on the water, no less terrifying or preposterous as black ghosts. In the decayed goo of the oil, the green scales and clammy slipperiness could be seen and felt as if the vile amphibians were alive and bobbing in the surf.
"Leaping lizards!" He grabbed his red buoy and charged down the platform. As his feet churned the white sand, he scanned the perimeters of his territory. To his astonishment, every lifeguard station on the beach was being abandoned with the same singleminded determination. Those on the beach whose eyes were not covered for protection against the sun, followed the charge into the waves.
Just beyond the breakers, Operation Slime was in full invasion. General Chamelion, not one to allow his men to go to battle unchaperoned, was in athe first wave exactly as Stonewall Jackson might have been. The General stepped off the landing craft.
"He sank like a rock."
"General! General! I think he's drowned."
"Not till the bubbles stop."
The bubbles stopped.
"Now he's drowned."
Up popped Chamelion like Sir Francis Drake in air pants. He was quickly dragged back on board the landing craft. Catching his breath, he turned to Salamander, "Nice job, Popeye. Now get me into shallow water."
Lt. Salamander was not faced with a battlefield decision tantamount to Teddy Roosevelt's when he was forced to decide if he'd look better charging San Juan Hill with a pistol, a sabre, or the reigns in his teeth and both the pistol and sabre whistling in the air. Salamander's dilemma was shortlived. The same fate that placed the Spanish Armada near water, placed General Chamelion on the beach. Fate was a nine foot wave, glassy, tubular, breaking left to right and rolling the General and his staff shoreward in a series of acrobatic somersaults and tumbles that out of the water would have been the envy of the Red Baron. In the water, however, they were panic personified.
Once on the sand, the General's first glance told him the carnage was worse than he had anticipated. Empty uniforms and discarded equipment lay half-buried in the waves. He put his hand on a green shell, the remains of what seemed to have once been a helmet. But the fight had not entirely left the helmet and it turned around and bit the General's finger.
Had the General looked closer at the surfriders lining the waves on their boards, he might have noticed an unusually large number of surfers wearing khaki underwear. Instead, he was assaulted by a courier reporting that the ranks were decimated on the north end of the beach. From the information the General gathered, he concluded that no stiffer resistance was put up by the Greeks defending Helen's honor against insinuations by the Trojans that she was a hussie. On the north end of the beach a feminine voice said, "Hey soldier. Where are you from? Would you like some root beer and potato chips?"
Not until the last soldier stumbled onto the sand like a storm trooper in a light rain without his galoshes, not until the last man was pulled out of the shattering surf by the courageous lifeguards, not until the last invading troop was lost to a picnic blanket, was it reported, "The beach is secure, sir."
A red windbreaker came between the General's salute and his place in history. "Are you the scoutmaster of this troop?"
"This is General Chamelion, I"m Lt. Salamander and you can consider yourself my prisoner."
"Fill your sox with sand, at ease and about face, Salamander. Now, what do you want?"
"I want you and your boys off the beach by sunset." The bottom fell out of the General's expression. Perceiving the drop, the man said, "I'm sorry if I spoiled your outing but I'm afraid it's a county ordinance," he pointed to a sign whose red letters looked like: NO OVERNIGHT CAMPING.
The general cursed, but something quickly changed his disposition. The voice. Geronimo knew his loincloths. Caesar knew hot to wear an armored dress. Halsey knew his poop decks. Chamelion knew his voice. "General, try switching lines. Try another line, I must communicate with you. Move the line."
The General heard destiny calling. "Okay men, prepare to move out. We'll move the perimeters of our lines forward and make camp."
The man in the windbreaker, relieved that he didn't have to press too hard for the General to leave, suggested, "You might want to head up the freeway. I think you'll find a trailer park not too far away. If you're real low on dough, try a drive-in or a couple of walk-ins for that matter. You'll find someplace to stay the night."
Morning ambushed the General as if he was the Light Brigade on a cholestrol-free diet surrounded by poached eggs. He called Salamander for an evaluation of their position.
"It's not a pretty picture, sir. The beach is strewn with the bodies of most of our crack divisions and they probably won't join the main force until their tan has set in. In addition, last night we lost a major portion of our troops."
"Where did they engage the enemy?"
"They never met the enemy."
"Then to what do you attribute the casualties?"
"They're not dead, they're lost. Colonel Toad took the wrong turn-off last night and ended up camped by the side of an offramp. He's reporting heavy interference trying to regain his position."
"Artillery? Air support?"
"No. Rush hour traffic. It seems he's in bumper to bumper congestion."
Chamelion thought of the Russian invasion of Czeckoslavakia. The armor-plated tanks sweeping onto an enraged but frightened citizenry. Then he thought of Colonel Toad called truck-driver names and told to, "Get a move-on, will ya mac?" Or exchanging insurance companies after a rear-ender. He thought again of Czeckoslavakia and peasants angered but submissive. "Damn Russkies. They've got all the good countries staked out for invasion."
"What's that, sir?"
"I said, 'let's get going.'"
The troops moved like a giant slithering green snake with its headlights on for safety. As the General wound his eyes along the snaily-green line, he complimented himself on Operation Slime, a well-slipperied product of military might and cunning. The General mused on the lessons he had been taught from past tacticians. He knew from Hannibal's frightful experience not to follow directly behind the elephants after the gargantuan beasts had just had breakfast. And if he had elephants he wouldn't. He learned from the Japanese how to save silk. And if he had suicide pilots he wouldn't give them parachutes, or silk stockings. He learned from General Westmoreland to carry flashlights into tunnels. And he learned from Bugabooboo the meaning of intelligence.
"Uh, Generally sir. Intelligence here to tell you about longnecks."
"What? Chamelion shielded his eyes from the rising sun, squinted into focus the shell-shocked features of his intelligence officer.
"The giraffes."
"Oh, giraffe warfare. Have they been able to infiltrate the suburbs?"
"Yes."
"Don't tell me. It wasn't like we planned. You took up position in the trees."
"We took up position."
"You stayed there all night. Then, the next morning you're spotted."
"They see us."
"But not right away. The husbands leave for work all suited up and thinking about getting to the office. But when the kids go to school."
"Yes, the kids." bugabooboo pauses like what follows is as logical a cause and effect as World War I followed the assasination of the Archduke of Austria.
The General, realizing no one was going to continue, further mused over the scenario. "A kid's not going to pass by without at least saying hi to Mr. Giraffe and more likely yanking on his tail and kicking his shins. You probably say, `Go away kid, you bother me.' Or, `Kid, I hear your momma caling.' But that only gives them the giggles and then nothing will shut them up."
"They won't keep quiet."
"Except. Except a ride. So you load them up and ferry them across the street."
"And then?"
"And then nothing." The General knew he had the story if he could only pry it from Bugabooboo. "For a while, but soon cop cars swing down the street. Parents, school principals, the streets are crawling with P.T.A. members. You pass the word that this is it boys."
"Our number is up."
"But wait. They're patting you on the back and telling you what a great job you're doing."
"We sure are good," Bugabooboo was enthusiastic.
"Don't tell me they took the job."
"Good pay. Good bennies."
"Crossing guards made to order with those long necks," the General shook his head marvelling in the logic.
"You'd be an idiot to pass it up."
"So you're here."
"Can't give up my pension, I'm logal through and through," Bugabooboo warmly pronounced.
"Lucky us. You're in charge of special ops, "stay dry, stay cool". Outfit yourself with aerosol cans. Infiltrate and get the populace to use them. Dismissed." The General clarified, "Leave."
"Salamander, get my jeep, we're going to find the advanced guard."
"But they're at the front."
The General replied in the words of the First Battery Company when it learned they were running low on firepower, "Charge."
Salamander pulled the jeep to a stop and breathed easier. "At least we've got them surrounded." The troops clustered as if they were target pins on a strategy map designed to point to the whereabouts of other strategy maps pointing back at them pointing back, etc.
The General advanced. He caught a glimpse of Guana's custom uniform. "Sixty-five-nine . . . Seventy . . . Seventy-one-five . . . " Just like Iggie to get the best terms possible for a surrender. That Iggie could slure drive a bargain.
"Guana!"
"Welcome General, to Guana Estates."
"Well what did you get?"
"All of it."
"You mean everything they had. A decimated populace with nothing to lose can often prove to be difficult to control."
"There's more down the line, but I got the biggest and I dare say the best parcel they had to offer." He muffled his voice like a commando on a midnight panty raid. "All for a little more than seventy-two grand. I can get you in on this. A secure investment. See that man, he's the one to talk to."
"What?"
"Yeh, he'll set you up with a G.I. loan that's like a giveaway."
"Loan? For what? And I am in on this and I expect my share or you'll forfeit what ever else we come across later."
"General, just talk to this guy. He'll set you up as a guaranteed bidder and you can get . . . " Iggie grabbed the General's elbow but the General threw it free like a hand-to-hand combat instructor in germ warfare.
"What the hell lyou talking about? I'm not here to buy property. I'm here to force this country to its knees."
"Look General, you've got to think of the future. The war won't last forever. This is a golden opportunity and I've managed to get in on the ground floor."
"So this is my advanced guard. Real estate speculators. Salamander, let's get out of here. Why invade? Why not just wait for our investment to mature? For the love of George Gatlin."
The General swung his jeep around and left the auction. Iggie Guana, standing with his banker, called after him in a last attept to persuade the General to seize the opportunity before it was lost.
Chamelion muttered to Salamander. "I should take him out and have him shot, if I could find a squad that wouldn't buy in. Look at me, Salamander, . . . No, get lyour eyes back on the road that's just a figure of speech. Look at me, I scraped and scrapped to become a general. No instant return. No overnight fortune. I brown-nosed every step of the way. You see these campaign ribbons, these stars, they mean something. They mean I could be up to my chin in the sewer pipes of D.C. and still praise the guy with his hand on the lever. Leader are not born, they're promoted.
I've given my life to the drill field and when I'm on it I expect attentio to rivet on me. You know Lieutenant, I've . . . What is that?"
Salamander was too busy dodging the 1943 Italian Army to answer. Chamelion hoped he might find Sergeant York muzzling the arns of the up-raised crowd. Instead he despairingly called, "Bugabooboo."
The crowd reacted like reveille was blown in its ear, "Buzz buzz."
Chamelion nearly fell out of his jeep from the concussion. He demanded louder, "Bugabooboo."
Again the response exploded around Chamelion, "Buzz buzz."
Bugabooboo met the jeep like the officer who told Napoleon at Waterloo, "I think thir English."
"Ah, General."
The crowd boomed, "Yetha, yetha."
"What in war is hell is this? Who are these raving lunatics?"
"Well, General . . . "
Again the crowd delivered a salvo, "Yetha, yetha."
Bugabooboo escorted Chamelion aside. "Well, Sir, I passed out the spray just like you tell me and they begin to take it and take it. They bring family and friends. It's like a club. They call themselves the cult of passificity. And quess whose high pries and sole dispenser of the sacramental spray? Yours truly, Bugabooboo."
"Buzz, buzz."
"Can't you shut them up?"
"Don't worry. They know your the head of the outfit, General."
"Yetha, yetha."
"Great, then I can get rid of them."
"Don't do that. Don't talk to them. I've been to research again. The best way to keep a following is to stay away from them and give them crazy sayings and dumb stuff to do. Treat them like they were recruits."
"I don't want them. Get rid of them."
"I'm afraid we can't, Geneva and all that."
"Crap."
"They are our prisoners."
"You telling me we're stuck with them." Chamelion sat down and dipped his head to his hands looking much like the famous painting of William the Conqueror sitting on the can.
"Yes, but it's not real bad. I maen the're buying the spray. But we do have a problem."
Chamelion raised his head. "No, I can't beleive that. I came for Doggles and end up head keeper at an asylum for armpit lunatics and land grabbers."
"We're running out of resources."
"Damn it, that's been my point all along." Here we are in the middle of an invasion and we're low on funds. If we had been adequately supplied by a large approbriation, this could never have happened. We would have conquered this cheap ungrateful country. Instead I'm faced with trying to run an army on an empty stomach and we're not going to get too far."
"Excuse me, General. There's someone to see you."
"I don't have the time for another nut."
"She says she's got an offer you can't refuse."
"Oh yeh, watch me." The General followed Salamander like the Mexican Army was followed by Houston's troops yelling, "Remember the T.P."
She could have made a whole army drop the flag. "Oh you must be General Chamelion."
The General forgot what it was he was to refuse.
"General, I think I can help you with exposure.~
The General prudently kept his shirt on.
"Your invasion needs coverage. Lood here. Page 23, column J of the Times, "General Assaults on Beach.' Even if a reader got to page 23, he'd expect a crime report. I can get you into the homes of millions of viewers."
Chamelion shot a look at Bugabooboo's cult. "Will they be in their homes? I really don't need to meet them, just pick up a few things, canned goods, etc."
"I can get an hour magazine-type format story on you, an hour T.V. time can do more good for you than three hundred years of crusades did for the philosophy of Christ. Your a distinquished looking man. Your image enhancement value is probably one hundred percent. To get to the specifics, we're willing to pay you a handsome sum. Since all our video equipment is tied to the Presidential Cnovention, it will necessitate the movement of your troops to the convention hall and we will, of course, pick up the bill. We'll need footage of your troops sacking and rampaging but we can arrange that after you sign this release."
The General searched his memory from his years at the Point for a lesson that might cover such a proposal. He realized for the first time in his career that the axiom he had refused to believe was in fact, a reality. The army fights its current battles with obsolete tactics caged from its previous war. Surely someone must have forseen that the next war would not be with conventional weapons. Now he was left with his own trial and error techniques on how to fight this media warfare. Errors that could mean the image loss of entire units of men. The General balked at committing his men's image, but he began to sense something.
The same something that the Generals of World War I sensed when they instinctively know the difference between their elbow and a trench in the ground. Something told the General his choice was clear.
"General, I've got dead air. Get on the air with me. Go on the air."
Chamelion listened to the voice. "We'll hit 'em on land. We'll hit 'em on sea. We'll hit 'em on the air."