Adventures of Captain Raven Scorchballs

Part One – Death River

The sun shone brightly over the long grassy river bank, the shimmering water reflected the clear blue sky overhead and birds flew and chirped happily overhead.

Captain Raven Scorchballs shuddered as he examined the men in his platoon, all huddled like African immigrants in the bottom of a Spanish fishing boat.

“Christ is that a piss stain on your pants?” he roared at nearby Private Wimp, a thick vain standing out on his neck in a mixture of disbelief and anger. 

“Uh no captain,” Wimp explained carefully, “It’s the coffee you spilt on me earl-”

“Shut the FUCK up you little shit” Sorchballs screamed in his face, covering it in a thin veil of spit and morsels of cornflakes.

Scorchballs shook his head in disgust. He leant over the side of the landing craft and breathed in a deep gulp of filthy, polluted Vietnamese air. “Ah,” he said finally, choking and coughing furiously, “I needed to clear my head.”

“ETA, 2 minutes,” Corporal Fruit screamed across the noise of the crashing waves and throbbing engine of the landing craft, “Expecting strong enemy entrenchments and strong points!”

Scorchballs primed his M4 Carbine and tensed his shoulders. He felt a lick of hair slide down his forehead and he swept it back furiously under his helmet. “Last time I buy fucking gel at THAT store,” he muttered angrily as the man next to him dropped to his knees, his face a gaping mess of oozing gore and crushed bone, and fell flat on the floor. Scorchballs absentmindedly shoved the body away with his foot as he examined his hairline for imperfections in the ladies hairbrush-mirror two in one combination he always carried in a special red pouch on his belt, nestled safely beside the dazzling array of screwdrivers and tools he carried on a special utility belt.

“Get Down, Sharpshooter!” someone screamed.

Oh, how they had all laughed when he insisted on bring his special customised belt on his first ever assignment. Yes, he remembered his first assignment, the fun they made of him, Scorchballs the rookie. But oh no, they weren’t laughing afterwards. Not after he captured an entire VC trench system using a spoon he accidentally brought with him from the base canteen. Or the time he disappeared into the jungle with nothing but a half eaten sandwich and a pack of matches, and came back several hours later strewn with blood and carrying a US P.O.W under each arm. Of the sandwich, no trace was ever found, and the matches, well, they were recovered several days later by a jungle recon with all but three matches used.

Everyone respected Scorchballs. There were those who didn’t like him, there were those that thought him a fool. But like him or not they all respected him. He smiled a grim smile, a smile that existed solely for heroes as he basked in the memories of his greatness, a dark crimson pool of sticky blood and brain matter puddling around his boots. He snapped to attention as there was a sudden creaky, dry groan as the landing door began to swing downward. The craft suddenly jolted violently as it hit the river shore.

At last they were clear. Scorchballs jogged casually out of the landing craft as tracers whizzed and whined by him, explosions showering the group with dirt and water. From the treeline several hundred yards ahead, dozens of muzzles flashes erupted furiously and all around him, ripping up grass and dirt all over the place. He turned around to wave the men forward, only to see Private Fruit leap off the landing craft with his rifle pointed towards the ground. The second he landed, his rifle cracked, and a meaty chunk of foot flew messily away. He screamed and instantly dropped to his knees, detonating a land mine in the process and him and several soldiers around him erupted instantaneously in a thunderous shower of blood and dirt.

Scorchballs raised his carbine and fired indiscriminately, watching satisfactorily with eagle eyes as the number of muzzle flashes in the trees was gradually whittled down to sporadic bursts of gunfire. Within moments the vicious firefight was over, and Scorchballs rallied his men.

Looking around at the low number of casualties, he thanked god that the commie scum’s third world origin naturally rendered them totally and typically inaccurate at even the closest of ranges. He waved his men forward, towards the dense jungle that lay beyond the landing zone.

Part Two – Band of  Brothers

The men stared in a mixture of admiration and disbelief. Scorchballs lit a cigar as he regarded the destroyed tank disdainfully, tucking the hacksaw back into its pouch and closing the flap. For a moment there was complete silence and he leant back, letting the smoke drift up into the thick vegetation that hung over his head.

“This is kinda like the Jet Fighter thing where you just had that straw and-” someone started. “Shut the hell up!” Scorchballs screamed instantly, resembling a red eagle as rage overcame him. He looked around at his squad and took particular interest in one young recruit, who stood trembling. “So, this was your first action today, was it?” Scorchballs asked him with surprising tenderness. The youth nodded and Scorchballs gave him a knowing glance in return. “You did well kid,” he said, “you must feel like a real man now, eh?”

“Well, I suppose-” the young man replied, before he was cut down in Scorchballs insane gaze of death. “How Dare you!” he screamed, “you little shit! How dare you shoot your mouth off like that!” 

“But-” the youth protested, but that was as far as he got.

“You think you’re better then the rest of us now do you?” Scorchballs continued to roar, his normally pale, freckly face apocalyptic with unprecedented rage

“No I just-”

“Get out of my sight!” Scorchballs screamed, his rage reaching a climax as a furious tornado of spit flew in all directions. “Lest I- Lest I- Lest I take a hand to your buttocks!”

He slumped to the ground, exhausted, as the young soldier fled to another group. He put his head in his hands. “Why,” he muttered in defeat, “Why.” One of the other soldiers, a seasoned veteran, knelt down and put his hand on Scorchballs shoulder. “Its always the same with these new guys,” he said knowingly, “They think they know more then anyone, they think they don’t need our help, you try keep them alive and all you get is a stab you in the back.”

“Well, don’t worry sir,” another soldier spoke up, “We’ve got your back. You can rely on us.”

For a moment it looked as if a solitary tear was about to slide out of Scorchballs eye, and the men looked away in confusion, as the powerful emotion of the moment overcame them all. “My penis sure is itchy,” Scorchballs said finally, breaking the akward moment.  

They all laughed, and everything was right again. Amends were made, bonds were renewed, and the special family that is the Fightin’ Fruits continued once more to complete their quest to rid Vietnam of the plague that was…well…the Vietnamese.

Part Three – Jungle of Death

“Fire in the Hole!” Scorchballs shouted hoarsely as he flung the incendiary grenade throw the window of the Vietcong hut, diving to the ground. There was a blinding flash and flames exploded out through every window in the house. There was a muffled scream of agony from inside the inferno and Scorchballs riddled the flaming shell with bullets. The screaming stopped and he smirked with satisfaction, as he took in the devastation. The burning tiny wreck of a house crumbled into the ground, the yellow door and red window panes melting into a gooey mess.

“Tiger two, Tiger two, this is Fruit bravo two, over,” Scorchballs said into the radioman’s receiver, “Charlie Outpost Delta is secure.”

He spun around angrily as he was interrupted by a pestering tapping on his shoulder. His mouth hung open, drool forming on his lip, and he was about to let loose when he noticed what one can only imagine was insanely obvious before.

“Oh. Oh, ok,” he said cheerfully, “Oops. Let move out, squad.”

They shouldered their weapons and continued on, past the burning hulk that was one a Fischer-Price play house, towards the Vietcong fortress that loomed barely a hundred yards in front of them, stretching like a giant arm into past the dense foliage of the jungle and into the blue sky.

“Dammit,” he muttered, “Some total idiot marked the recon map completely wrong!”

“We did bad back there Captain,” a soldier named Bacon said hesitantly, “That looked awfully like kid’s play house. I got my kids one of ‘em back home.”

“Perhaps,” Scorchballs countered, “But then again, maybe that’s what they wanted you to think.”

“Sir?” Bacon asked, puzzled, as they walked slowly on. 

“Oh yes,” Scorchballs continued, “These Vietnamese scumbags are a deceptive bunch. Innocent kids by day, but by night, it’s a different story let me tell you.” He paused, as if dredging up a painful memory from the past. “Out doing drugs, selling drugs, out pimping, drive by shootings…..”

“But sir-”

“You see! You see?” Scorchballs muttered bitterly as he pointed an accusing finger at the challenging marine, “That’s want they want you to think! Oh, look, here come the stupid Americans with their stupid love of children! OH! OH! Lets blow them up!”

He shook his head in disgust. “Its men like you loose you wars,” he continued bitterly, “If it was up to you, you’d have bypassed that little “Stronghold” back there, and probably left the regions radio center intact, and let our boys miles away die like dogs!”

“Look sir with all due respect a radio center BULLSHIT that was a kid-”

He never had time to speak another word, as he disappeared in an explosion that literally tore him to shreds. The whole squad hit the jungle floor, messy gore raining down on them like……rain. Scorchballs stood up, his ears ringing. “What the fuck was that!” he whispered?

Private Bald held up a smoking baby booty in his hand. “Looks like you were right, sir.” He said roughly. “The sonofabitches got Bacon.”  

“It’s the law of the Jungle,” Scorchballs said quietly, “He who looks like hornet makes the most honey.”

He strode away, leaving all eleven marines looking questioningly at each other, scratching their heads and shrugging their shoulders.

Part Four – Stronghold Assault

“Help…” the badly wounded and horrifically burnt Vietnamese soldier pleaded as he tried to drag his legless body away from the mangled bodies of his former comrades in the charred machine gun nest, leaving a trail of blood behind him. “You’ll Murder no more you Filthy Communist pig!” Scorchballs exclaimed as he shot the man straight in the face. “Good shot sir!” the rest of the squad cheered.

Scorchballs smiled grimly as he reloaded his rifle, kicking over the body of the dead Vietnamese soldier to the ground. “It’s either kill or be killed,” he said gruffly, and the squad nodded at the undeniable wisdom of such a statement. Private Bald lowered the field binoculars he was holding and beckoned Scorchballs over. “Looks like we caught them by surprise sir,” he said tactfully as he raised the binoculars to his eyes once more and looked in the completely wrong direction, focusing on a nearby Coca Cola billboard (Naturally frequent in the jungles of Vietnam circa 1967) “I think I can see the bastards….moving some kind of giant…god, what is that….”

“Won’t they ever learn,” Scorchballs chuckled as a mortar strike screamed down and peppered the make shift trenches in front of them with explosions, decimating the area and filling the air with a thick cloud of blood, smoke and dust. “Nice job on the mortar strike,” he said approvingly, sweeping back his hair. He picked up a mixture of congealed blood and filthy soil, and rubbed it furiously into his hair. “Ah, much better,” he said coolly, as he examined himself in his pocket mirror and saw his hair unwavering satisfactorily.

Seizing their chance, the squad stepped out of the captured VC machine gun post and began their charge towards the Vietcong command post. Scorchballs climbed out of the nest and waved his men forward, tripping over a pile of tactfully placed Vietnamese sticks. “Get down!” he screamed, writhing in agony as a loose twig lightly scratched his shin. With shaking fingers he applied a bandage to the wound, grinding his teeth in an effort to keep on a show of male bravado despite the intense, blinding pain.

He stumbled to his feet, limping heavily as he struggled to keep up with his squad who rapidly disappeared into the wild, drifting smoke of battle, guns blazing. Soon he was alone, limping along, swinging his weapon back and forth suspiciously, lost in the fog of battle. And then, it happened.

Out of nowhere a Vietnamese soldier charged at him, screaming incoherently, his rifle held high with the bayonet pointed straight towards Scorchballs face. “Speaking foreign gibberish is a one way ticket to deathville!” Scorchballs quipped as, calling on all the training he received from the eastern Mongolian monks several years previous, he rapidly disarmed the soldier, flinging him onto a nearby conveniently placed pile of rusty knives.    

More coming soon!

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