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We were hiking across an Alpine Valley, following a deer trail, when we

heard the shot. Suddenly, a puff of dirt kicked up about a yard in front of me, and

a “thirty od six” slug ricocheted off a boulder about thirty feet away. “Hit the

dirt,” I, Father Tony Fitzgerald said. And we did.

“Jesus, what’s going on?” said Dan. “I think that someone doesn’t like

us,” said Father Stan. Another shot chipped a piece of rock off a small boulder

about ten feet away. “Quick, get behind that boulder over to the right.” I said.

We quickly got up, which was tough with our backpacks, and serpentined over to

a string of eight foot high boulders over to our right. Another shot chipped rock,

and the shards covered my arm. Damn, I thought, now what? “I think that we

should take our packs off and get our BAM’s ready for action.” said Father Stan


We pulled our packs off and untied our BAM’s. The BAM, was of course

the “Best Air-rifle Made, that is BAM. We each had 177 caliber BAM high

powered air rifles which had a range of approximately one mile. Instead of using

pellets, we used bb gut ammo. It was a home made concoction of Crossman

Copperhead bb’s, 10 w 30 motor oil, axel grease, and of course, the spit of the

creator of the concoction. Father Tony made it best. If you used just ordinary

bb’s they just rolled down the barrel of the rifle onto the ground before you could

even fully cock the break barrel air rifle. With gut bb’s, the

friction caused by the grease-oil, kept the bb from rolling down the barrel. It also kept the

barrel lubricated to help ensure a long life for the weapon. Finally, of course the lubricant in the

barrel helped to create a better seal and the range and velocity of the air rifle increased


These rifles were accurate as hell. People said that Father Tony could shoot the eye out

of a crow one mile away. None of us used telescopic scopes to shoot, instead we used the

ordinary rifle sights found on the barrel of the air gun. Once you got used to it, it worked

better without a scope. Less adjustments, and essentially, you remote viewed your target down

the end of the barrel of the air rifle. This brought the target, “in frame,” relative to the shooter,

avoiding the problem of multiple frame shifts between the shooter and the target.

We spread out, picking boulders to hide behind that were about 30 yards

apart. I looked in the direction of the shots and saw a flash of metal off his gun

barrel in a stand of boulders about 500 yards away. “He’s in those boulders, about

500 clicks away,” Father Tony said. I shifted to the other side of the boulder so that

my torso would be hidden and so that I could rest my left arm and the rifle against

the boulder. I lined up for my first shot. The clip sight was a good one, with a tube

sight containing a ridge site at the end of the barrel. I waited.

Another shot came in our direction, chipping rock off of the boulder that

Father Stan was hiding behind. I saw the barrel of the hitter’s rifle. I inhaled air

slowly into my lower abdomen, I closed my left eye, sighting down the barrel with

my right eye. I lined up the sights on the area immediately behind the rifle barrel,

slowly exhaled and gently squeezed the trigger as if it were the side of an aluminum

pop can. My rifle jerked, and the back force of the air forced the stock of the rifle

into my shoulder. I heard a scream. “Eayyyaeee.” Well, I must have hit

something. “We had better wait it out awhile guys, he might be faking it.” I said.

We waited about 20 minutes without hearing a shot.

“Stan, can you work your way down the valley about a mile, and then

come up on him from the right, Dan, you do the same thing on the left. I keep

plinking away here to keep him down, just in case he’s still alive and thinking about

chicanery.” I said. “Sounds good” said Stan and Dan. It took about an hour. The

I heard Father Stan yell, “Yo, Tony, he’ deader than a doornail.” “You got him right

through the left eye” yelled Dan. “Alright, I’m coming across,” said Father Tony.

I knew this guy. He was on the law faculty at Lewistown. “This guy is

an adjunct professor in the law school at Lewistown,” I said. “You know, he is at

that,” said Father Stan. “Well,” said Dan, “from what you have told me, we either

have Father Leon Andrev to thank for this, or perhaps, Sister Joan.” “You know,

you’re probably right,” said Stan. “I don’t know,” I said. Let’s form a circle

around the body and open up our channels and see if we can find anything out.”

“I’m kind of new at this,” said Dan. “That’s right, we had better work with Dan

first,” I said.

“Alright Dan, Stan and I are going to each imagine that our spiritual energy is in

your body and mind and try to form a quantum linkage. O.K.?” “Alright,” said

Dan. We each sat down around the body, as if we were the three points of a

triangle. “Aw, shit, we’re ressurecting the guy.” said Stan. “Well, I guess, we’ll

have to heal him.” said Tony. “Concentrate your energy in his head and eye.”

The guy sat up. “Shit, what happened?” he asked. “You got shot and we just

ressurected you,” said Father Tony. ‘Now, either you swear allegiance to God, and

vow to become a Critical Thomist, and acknowledge that you owe each of us a life

debt, or we’ll have to execute you.” He continued.

“Well, I, can’t I’m KGB, SMERSH, I can’t do that.” He said. “Why not go

KIAO, counter terrorism?” asked Tony. The guy spit in Tony’s face. “Alright, I’m

giving you a death warrant on my Coif, under the National Security Act,” said Father

Tony, “may God have mercy on your soul, because I’m certainly not going to.”

With that, Father Tony reloaded his BAM, aimed into the eye of the SMERSH hitter

at point blank range, and fired. The hitter slumped over. This time there was no

scream. “Well, what do we do with the body?” asked Father Stan. “I think there is

a cliff just over that ridge,” said Dan, “we could dump the body off the cliff. I’ll go

look.” “Stan, why don’t you search the body, and I’ll go see if he’s got a backpack

hidden in the trees.” “Alright,” said Stan.


We hiked three more miles down the Alpine Valley and then stopped for

the night around four in the afternoon. As usual, a small afternoon shower drifted

by, but we only got a sprinking. “After we get the tents set up, why don’t you guys

scout down the valley a bit, and I’ll do a little trout fishing in the stream, here.” I

said. “Sounds good Tony,” said Stan, “I guess we’ll take our BAM’s with us, just in

case.” “Jesu, I have to take a shit,” said Dan Corgill, “how do you do it out here?”

“Just get a roll toliet paper out of your pack,” said Stan, “move away from the camp

site and the creek, use your poop shovel to dig a hole, pull down your drawers, and

squat shit into the hole, use the toliet paper, and then cover over the shit and paper

with the dirt that you dug, otherwise the deer will eat the shit and get sick.”

“Father Tony, remember to use the ceramic water pump/filter get the water

from the pond. We have to be careful of getting the shits from Gehardia.” said Dan.

“Thanks Dan, I’ll make sure and remember.” We spent the next half hour putting

up our tents. It was pretty easy. First you put out tarp for a ground cloth, and then

you laid out the tent flat on the top of it. You then set up the external frame tent

poles which are held together on the inside with bungee cords, on each end, and then

connect them with the horizontal cross pole.” My tent was a Timberline 8' by 6',

and I loved it. It didn’t weigh more than a smaller tent, it was easy to assemble and

disassemble, and there was plenty of room for me to roll around on the inside

without hitting the tent sides, and , plenty of room for me to snore, sleeping by


I was glad that the gay movement in the Jesuits of the 1970's was over. For

awhile there not only were gays not discriminated against, in fact, the opposite was

the case. You had to be gay in order to get into the novitiate, or at least to stay.

Then, all of a sudden there was an influx of special forces guys from Nam, who

entered the Society. They were all as strait as an arrow and were all martial arts

experts, including tae kwon do, karate, judo, and tai chi. Suddenly everyone in the

novitiates was getting anti gay training. It was really quite simple. You put

everybody with no clothes on in the shower room together and waited to see if

anybody got an erection. If they did, then the other participants in the training

excercise shot at the erect cock of the gay guy with a rubber band gun. Soon, the

erection was gone. It was right out of the Pavlovian training manual.

Another technique was self primogeniture. You had the guy jack off to

Playmate magazine, then bless the cum after he orgasmed, and then had him stick it

up his own butt with his right fock finger. In addition to being a ritual, there was

some evidence that there was an actual positive physiological effect of having your

anus absorb you own semen rather than that of another person. The combination of

the two techniques had a virtual 100% transformative effect, changing a gay guy to a

strait guy.


After the guys headed down the valley, I unloaded my backpack, taking out

my fishing rig. It was of course possible to take along a pack rod and a lot of

fishing equipment, but I gave up trying to be a sophisticated pack fisherman. Instead

I just brought along a throw rig, a few hooks, salmon eggs, small marshmellows, a

dozen Caddis Nymph flies, and a half dozen Mepps Spinners. Most places prohit

the use of live bait for trout fishing, so I didn’t even bother trying to take along some

night crawlers. I usually had my best luck using a number ten hook and covering

the hook with a one inch long piece of night crawler that looked like a grub.

Instead, here I thought that I would try a marshmellow first.

My fishing rig was basically a one by four inch piece of wood, about a foot

long loaded with heavy duty cotton twine, about the same thickness as you would use

in a plumb line. The twine was an orange color and I had about 100 feet wrapped

around my slotted wood, wrapping board. This was essentially the kind of rig that

people used in the middle ages in Europe. In fact, under canon law, most religious

were required to take such a fishing rig with them when traveling so that they could

catch fish rather than having to beg alms.

At the end of the twine I had a three foot steel thirty pound test leader

attached, with a swivel latch on the end. I put a number ten hook attached to a nylon

leader onto the longer steel leader. I put the marshmellow on the hook, and then put

a small weight on the latch swivel, and then a red and white plastic bobber on the

twine line, about two feet up the twine line. I played out about twenty feet of twine

line on the ground, with the leader off to the side. I then grabbed the twine line

about four feet above the bobber and began to twirl the rig on an angle not unlike the

technique that cowboy would use to twirl a lariat. After I built up some momentum

with four or five passes, I let go of the twine, and let fly the end rig. The twine line

snaked out about 20 feet from where I was standing on the shore.

The weight and the leader with the marshmellow hit first, as of course it

should have, and then came the bobber. Bubbles came up from below the surface

as the weight and marshmellow sank into the depths of the pond. I sat down on a

rock boulder and relaxed, keeping an eye on the bobber which was floating lazily on

the surface of the pond. I was just yawning when suddenly the bobber plunged

under the surface. Suddenly, there was a jerk on my ankle, where I had wrapped

one turn of twine around, so that the wood twine wrapper wouldn’t get pulled into

the water and disappear.

I unwrapped the twine from around my ankle and stood up. I held the twine

board in my hands and wrapped the stretched twine line around my right wrist and

hand and tugged a little bit. The twine line into the water remained taut. I began to

pull in the line, hand over hand. Soon, I could see the bobber about eight feet out

into the water. I put my foot on the twine line into the water and wrapped up some

of the slack onto the twine board and then began retrieving anew. I grabbed my

little oak laminated fishing net off my hip and kept pulling with my other hand.

Soon I could see a 14 inch rainbow trout in the water. I squatted down, pulling the

trout closer to shore while positioning the net, “Gotcha,” I said to the trout. And so I


I caught four more trout by the time Stan and Dan returned. They had

nothing to report. I got a can of pond water and we walked down the valley about

two hundred yards before stopping. I cleaned the fish there, partially burying the

guts. We then went back to camp. I got out my Coleman propane backpacking

stove and went to work with the olive oil, the trout, a little garlic powder, and of

course, the frying pan. I cooked the fish in a spot about 100 yards away from camp.

Bears are really attracted to the smell of trout. By doing the fish cleaning and

cooking so far away from camp, I hoped that this little misdirection play would fool

the bears.

We broke the typical back pack rules and brought along some can goods. For

supper we had the trout, some bread, and some cream corn, with a Hershey’s

chocolate bar for dessert. . It was a good meal.


I woke up with a start in the pitch black tent. I looked at my watch which

was hanging from my backpacking gig around my neck. I kept a 30 inch stainless

steel chain with saints medals and backpacking type stuff around my neck. I of

course had Saint John the Apostle/Evangelist, reputed to be an immortal, sequestered

to the Island of Potmos (Guam) until the second coming of Jesus. Next was Saint

Thomas the Apostle, Doubting Thomas, Patron saint of Critical Thomism, and

arguable “apostate” saint for questioning whether or not the ressurection of Jesus was

real or not. Next, Saint Anthony and the Christ Child, representing Saint Anthony

the Praetorian Legate, that is, God the Father, or in the case of Jesus of Nazareth,

God the Grandfather. The wife of Saint Anthony, Saint Anne, with the Mary child,

Saint Anne being the mother of the Virgin Mary and Grandmother of Jesus of

Nazareth. Finally, my Christ medal, with Saint Anne and the Christ Child on the

back, with Saint Anne representing the Holy Spirit of Divine Wisdom. And,

finally, minimaglite flashlight, my waterproof special forces watch, my Master

Mechanic mini tape measure, and my shrade special forces pen knife.

I rotated my TMX watch face so that I could see it, and pressed the display

light, reading the watch with a time of 3:00 a.m. I sat quietly and listened. I heard

a snorting and squealing outside. I got my ammo pouch and my BAM, carefully

opened the tent from the bottom up using the zipper, and then crawled outside. Stan

and Dan had just gotten up too. “Well, it looks like Smoky the Bear has found the

fish scraps,” said Stan. “Yeah, I think you’re right,” I said, “Maybe we should stay

up for awhile and then go back to sleep later, toward dawn.” “Sounds good,” said

Dan. I got out the Coleman Camping Lantern which fitted snugly onto the propane

tank, and started the lantern. Soon the entire area was bathed in golden light from

the lantern.

“Well, we might as well tell some stories, or something,” said Dan.

“Sounds good to me” I said. “Well, Tony, how about one of your World War Two

stories,” said Father Stan. “Alright,” I said. “Now remember, this is just a story,

treat it as an allegory at best, not as scientific fact, OK?” “Alright,” said Stan and

Dan simultaneously. “Alright, first of all, remember how the American tank

commander General Patton was forced to run around southern England with a

cardboard army so that the Germans would think that the invasion of

France would take place in Calais, instead of Normandy? At least that was the

official story. What really happened was that Patton was reequipted with light

tanks and half tracks, and a lot of jeeps. An allied expeditionary force put to sea and

landed in a deep water fjord in Denmark. I wasn’t really even a port, just a fishing

village. They landed on the first week in May, one month before D Day in France.

G2, intelligence and the Danish underground indicated that the ground in

Denmark was for the most part frozen peat, that is, permafrost. In the Spring and

Summer, it becomes very spongy and virtually impossible to drive in. The problem

for the Germans was that they had put two Waffen SS Panzer divisions with Tiger

tanks as the only defense in Denmark. The Tiger was a huge battle tank, which

weighed a hell of a lot. Additionally, Patton’s armorer made the observation in the

war against Rommel in Tunisia, North Africa, that the Tiger had no turrent. That is,

the gun barrel was stationary and the only way that you could rotate and re-aim the

gun was to reverse synchronize the tank treads. What this spelled for the Germans

in Denmark, was, MUD.

“Patton picked the ground very carefully, but the botton line was this, the

Americans were able to stay very mobile and were able to keep to the small country

roads and highways, while the Germans stayed in entrenched postions in forested

areas. Patton had orders to Blitzkrieg, that is, to blow right by the Germans as soon

as possible, leaving them mired in the mud. If you look at a map of Europe, you

might notice that it is a fairly straight shot from Denmark to Berlin, the capital of

Germany.” “On the way of course, after zipping through Schleswig Holstein, Patton

also occupied the German port of Hamburg and Eisenhower soon had the entire

American Expeditionary Force landing in Hamburg, rather than Normandy. Next

the 101st Airborne dropped into Berlin right after Patton got there courtesy of the

German railroad industry. Patton set up armored trains and troop trains, used

German speakers, and rolled right into Berlin’s central railroad yard completely


“Of course D Day in France happened. The Germans refused to send their

troops east to fight the Russians. We used a lot of troops on D Day who were

avowed communists or nazi’s against the nazi’s. The reason we were so short of

men on the Battle of the Bulge was that we were already occupying Berlin.

Ironically, our troops fought so heroically against the nazi’s on D Day that the

invasion in France was also a success. We had to pull Patton out of Berlin and

move his armored division to southern France.”

“ Operation Market Garden with Monty, British Field Marshal

Montgomery, was meant to hook up our troops in France with those occupying

Schleswig Holtstein. Unfortunately, the Waffen SS armored Divisions from

Denmark were able to fight their way through and stop Market Garden in Holland.

Fortunately before that happened, Patton was able to liberate five German

concentration camps which were chocked full of Jesuit Priest from the major

European Universities. They were able to get out through Hamburg, and then made

it to Canada, courtesy of the United States Navy.” “Remarkably, it wasn’t the Jews

who went into the camps first in Nazi Germany, it was the Jesuits. Apparently Rome

was unwilling or unable to do anything about it.”

“Now, you might think that the story is about over, but there is a little bit more

to it” said Father Tony. “Now, the problem was that there were a fair number of

German’s caught in central France, and, also, since the German’s decided not to

make peace with the Americans, they again thought about their socialist brothers and

sisters, the Russians. Von Ribbentropp, the German Foreign Minister was sent to

Yalta, where he met with Kruschev. They agreed to an armistice, on the condition

that the Germans would allow Russian troops free passage through central Germany

into France, to attack the American Army during the Battle of the Bulge. You

would be surprised how many good, loyal American troops were put into the

stockage, and some into mental institutions, because they kept telling everyone that

they kept hearing the troops in German uniforms during the Bulge, speaking


“In any event, from the troops point of view, let’s consider this from the

vantage point of the American’s in combat at the time. The Germans had pretty

much surrounded the village of Bastogne. Most of the American troops were

hunkered down in fox holes in a wooded area of the Ardenne Forest north of

Bastogne. “

” For awhile the fight went north to south, Germans on the North and

American’s on the South. The object was to keep control of an east-west road

which was supplying the German forces from the east. The American ran low on

ammunition and the German’s captured the road. This is when the German

commander demanded the Americans to surrender, and the American Commander,

McCauliff, told the German commander, “Nuts” in reply.”

Soon there were large amounts of “German” troops walking down the road to

the west in front of the American lines. The Americans sent three scouts, all Native

American, to the east along road to see if they could tell what was happening. The

scouts returned, reporting that there was a north-south river about two miles to the

east and that the German’s were starting to move armor across the bridge. They

then told McCauliff, much to his surprise, that the Germans seemed to be Russian, at

least they were speaking Russian, and, that immediately behind a stalled column of

German-Russian armor, was an armored unit with American Sherman tanks,

apparently Russian lend lease material, and Russian T-54 tanks.”

“McCauliff, just about shit bricks when he heard the report, and didn’t know

what to do. He called in his G2 intel officer and asked him what he thought. “Blow

the bridge sir. We don’t need it, and regardless who they are they are hostile to us

and it can’t hurt us to stop their armor at the river.” “How the hell are we going to

do it?’ asked McCauliff.

“Well,” said G2, “there is an east-west farm road about 100 yards behind us

and we have one artillery piece that works, and have three rounds of ammunition.

Let’s hook the arty piece up to a jeep in low gear and pull it down to the river south

of the German lines. Then make our way north till we have a straight shot to the

bridge. Lower the tradjectory on the artillery piece and shoot point blank at the

bridge and knock it out.” “Alright, Colonel Winter this baby is yours, if you blow

it, we’ve lost the war.” So Winter led a hand picked company of troops with the

jeep and arty piece along the road until they got close the river, and then turned

north. The recon patrol they sent out killed all of the German pickets without firing

a shot.

Winter had the men line up the arty piece point blank aimed at the bridge

which was crawling with German and or Russian troops. Just then the first German

Panzer tank gunned its engine and started across the bridge. Winter and his men

had to literally put the yoke of the artillery piece onto the driver’s seat of the jeep in

order to keep it propped up at the right angle. The Panzer was half way across

when we fired the first shot. The round hit the stone railing on the south side of the

bridge, obliterating it. The next round hit the bridge itself at the level of the road

bed and blew a hole in the bed of the bridge about eight feet by eight feet, stopping

the Panzer. Just as the Panzer was about the reverse itself, back up, an attempt to go

around, the last shell hit the tank exactly in the midpoint of the tank in between the

treads blowing a hole right through to the magazine and the gasoline tank, blowing

the Panzer tank and the bridge to smithereens.”

“The German advance soon ground to a halt. Men, supplies, armor, and

ammo, were all coming across that one bridge, and it was no more. When the guys

were debriefed after the battle, the Americans told the G2 interrogators that there

were Russians fighting with the Germans. Soon the word came down from

Headquarters that regardless of what we may have seen, in fact officially, there were

no Russians in the Battle of the Bulge. Some of the guys rebelled at this, and soon

they were sent to mental health facilities for “combat fatigue.” Most came back

with sort of blank looks on their faces. One man, a Jesuit chaplain, however,

remembered what happened. The American high command “educated” the

American troops through the use of hypnosis and electroshock, and in a few cases,

frontal lobotomies, in order to ensure that the troops told the right story, that is, that

there were no Russian troops.”

“Well, how is that for a Windriver yarn,” asked Father Tony. Stan

gulped, Dan looked sort of blanked out. “Well, is it true, or isn’t it,” asked Dan.

“I’m sure that someplace, somewhere, at a certain level of probability it is true,” said

Father Tony. “Most myths and legends are, or we wouldn’t keep telling them” he

continued. Just treat it as a tall tale, or as an allegory, as something that may or may

not be literally true. That’s the ticket.”

“Why couldn’t the American army allow the guys to tell the truth?” asked

Dan. “Because,” said Father Stan, “politically, if it turned out that American

equipment was being used against American service men, the American government

would have looked very stupid. Believe it or not, in some situations, political

correctness, and political correctness alone, is enough to put people into

concentration camps, or mental hospitals. Once you are in, you are just another

number. You are treated as if you are subhuman.” “In America we hope that

things like this don’t happen too often, and, more than that, we work hard to make

sure that they don’t. But in other regimes, nazi, communist, even nominally

democratic regimes, such terroristic practices are common.” “Well, with that kind

of story to keep me awake, I don’t think any Ghost stories are necessary” said Dan.

After awhile the bear went away and we went back to sleep, with visions of

Tiger Tanks glowing in our heads. For breakfast we had instant maple syrup

oatmeal with powdered milk. We sat around on little camping prop stools and shot

the breeze for awhile. Dan and Stan then went fishing, and I, Father Tony

Fitzgerald, went back to sleep.” And so it went.

(To be continued).