Combat! - The Celebrity - recap and reframe

The men of Company K required my attention. Instead of the usual recap and review, I'll give a quick recap without the screenshots, and follow with whatever short but exceedingly lame story I can make from the screenshots.

Combat!

Season 1 Episode 8: The Celebrity

They’re headed down the road. Some footage from prior episodes plays to emphasis the need for a break. Headed to Avranches for rest…the place doesn’t quite exceed their expectations.

Diet Cola Stalker, aka Tab Hunter, guest stars. The story is by Tom Sellers and Art Wallace; the teleplay by Art Wallace. Burt Kennedy directed.

Replacements show up--already a familiar theme. One is well-known. Kelly finds out the new guy is assigned to K Company. He challenges L Company to a baseball game, betting $100 on the game. The celebrity is Del Packer, a major league pitcher. Saunders is having none of the celebrity business.

The game, or maybe it’s just batting practice, is rudely interrupted when the Luftwaffe drops in sans invitation with Der Fuhrer’s best wishes for an explosive good time. The celebrity stands dumbly while everyone else opts to steal a base. Billy grabs the celebrity and drags him to cover. When the party favors from Berlin have all finished exploding, a man has been injured; he has a wound in the arm just serious enough to get him sent home.

The celebrity has expert ratings on carbine, machine gun, and BAR; it seems the company is fortunate to have him.

In the morning, Saunders, Packer, Billy, and Kelly are off on a mission. A few Germans have a surprise for them. Saunders splits up his men, taking DCS (Diet Cola Stalker) with him. DCS hesitates instead of following Saunders’ command; Billy takes bullet from the German that DCS was supposed to eliminate before Kelly kills the German.

At the hospital, it looks like Billy is going to be okay. Billy, unaware of Packer's role in his injuries, asks him to send a letter to his brother and mother, along with an autographed baseball. The guilt-ridden celebrity agrees to do it.

Hanley meets with Saunders who reports what happened. Saunders blames himself, saying that the celebrity wasn’t ready. Hanley, in one of his better speeches, reminds Saunders that DCS was as ready as any of the others that they ask to go out and die. And Hanley has news…new orders…they’re moving up to the line at 2100…but DCS is being moved to London to a nice soft job…or he can stay with the squad on the line…like any sane person, he chooses London. But he has to whine to Saunders first; he’s looking for absolution. Saunders doesn’t offer it.

DCS takes a baseball to Billy, but Billy’s cot is vacant.

In the midst of shelling on the battlefield, DCS shows up, saying that his transfer was revoked…at his request. He tells Saunders that he has his own private war to fight, but that he can’t fight it in London.

Saunders takes Packer with the squad on a mission to take out an enemy observation post, a winery. When Saunders catches lead in the leg, and the Germans have them all pinned down with heavy machine gun fire, DCS saves the day with his pitching arm and a grenade that takes out the gun as well as the side order of Germans. (Is this Saunders’ 2^nd or 3^rd wound?) Packer gets his absolution when Saunders asks to lean on him.

A decent episode...but not among my favorites. I'm not sure whether it was the writing, or the acting; I just didn't care for the Tab Hunter part. He didn't get to do much besides worry. My guess was that he would get redemption and death (like the Jeffrey Hunter character), dying while saving the squad with the grenade toss (which looked several times longer than humanly possible, in my opinion). I was also disappointed that there weren't more memorable camera shots. The story was pretty flat. The highlight was Hanley's speech to Saunders.
***

Prepare yourself to enter another dimension...a dimension of slight, of stound. Prepare to enter...The Combat! Zone:

Something's bothering Sarge, and it's not just the fact that the rest of the men haven't seen soap and water in weeks...but that's definitely part of it. He needs some space...and fresh air.

Even the attractions of a fancy French city fail to mollify his mood.

 He turns in, and dreams of simpler times, when men could wear catcher's masks and pads any time they desired without the harsh judgment of fashion critics.

An explosion shatters the pleasant images in his dream. It's that tree exploding upward from beneath the ground! That tree haunts all of dreams like some black sentinel of the underworld, bringing ominous tidings of doom.

No. It's just a dream. He awakes to find the lantern still going, his trusty rifle nearby. Or is it still a dream. He doesn't carry a rifle. He carries the Thompson.

It must be someone else's gun. He must be awake, because he can hear Billy pestering Littlejohn for another bedtime story.

He decides to get up. He has to get that sinister tree out of his mind. He finds the new guy, who looks vaguely familiar, and has a smoke. They discuss the full mellow flavor of the cigarettes. The new guy prefers Old Gold. Sarge is partial to Luckies.

The bedroll doesn't seem quite so hard after a good smoke. Sleeps comes quickly...unfortunately, so does that stinkin' tree. This time it brings some woody friends, and trio of Nazis playing Deutchland Uber Alles on machine guns in three part harmony.

Fortunately for Sarge, he's wearing his lucky helmet. Neither the bullets nor the trees can hurt him in his dream.

Still he's troubled by the dream. He tells the LT about it the next day. The LT isn't sympathetic. Sarge leaves, still disturbed.

He goes to Littlejohn; the big guy always listens. He listens, but he doesn't have any answers. Sarge can tell that the big man just does't understand. How could he? He's got that George Hamilton hair and isn't burdened with the extra stripes that make you pick who has to die to preserve the rest of the squad.

That night, he rolls out his bedroll with a sense of impending doom. He does not welcome sleep.

But sleep comes. He dreams that Kelly catches a football, but it doesn't cheer him up. He knows what lurks behind Kelly's helmet.

It's that tree again! The entire unit flees from the cursed arbor-demon.

Everyone except that vaguely familiar guy who's still looking for someone with a catcher's mask, or anyone who will play catch with him.

Unable to find anyone, he shrinks into nothingness, crushed by the red-laced orb. The ball rolls, growing ever larger.

It grows until it becomes the size of a hill with a ruined castle upon its stitching. Sarge realizes that if he can get into that castle, the tree won't be able to reach him ever again. It's a long climb.

But there is a friendly face waiting for him. She wants to know if he seeks the Grail.

At daylight, all is well once more. A good shower washes away the memories of the tree...or is that it lurking in the background near the lone chimney?

Smoke in the shower

Do plentiful pounding pulses of pure pressurized water perceptively and plausibly promote the pondering process? Personally, I possess a presupposition in the positive. Perhaps that's pretty presumptuous of me. Pardonnez-moi. 

Of course I do my best thinking in the shower. The acoustics are good for it--and it's not like I have to spend a lot of time washing my hair. I've been struggling with the precise ending of my current novel-in-process, Smoke. I've had great writing ideas during the morning shower in the past; this morning held true to form. 

The novel is a detective story/noir mystery marbled with a little humor. It begins (as appropriate to the genre) when a beautiful woman hires a private detective. She smokes so much that it's even money whether she takes a breath that is smoke-free. The protagonist, who is trying to quit smoking, finds himself getting more smoke around her than when he was doing the smoking for himself. A relationship develops as the investigation proceeds. A murder suddenly brings urgency to the investigation. Another mysterious and beautiful woman complicates the investigation...and the conscience of the investigator. He discovers that the police have their minds firmly set as to the identity of the murderer, and won't be persuaded otherwise. The police have the evidence to support their case. The hero labors to solve two crimes while battling powerful players in the world of organized crime, uncooperative cops, break-ins at his home and business, and the distractions presented by a beautiful woman--who may also be a moll for a crime lord. He does all this while trying to run his regular business...a book store. This is his first case. Fortunately, he has a new secretary with a head for business and investigation. When the chips start to fall, each of their lives will depend on quick thinking as well as quick reflexes. 

The precise manner and sequence of those falling chips has been my most recent dilemma. Some of what came to me in the shower today, had previously presented itself among the plethora of possible climactic plot resolutions. I had resisted those earlier thoughts. I think that having worked with these characters for over a year, they had grown on me. I had developed an emotional attachment to them. In spite of my attachment, those characters have to do what they have to do. It will be a darker ending than I had originally anticipated; not the slightly slapstick finale like that common in many theatrical farces presented at the community theater, but a deadly noir ending with the blistering tension broken by the report of hand-held thunder, hot lead smashing into bone, bare knuckles crushing cartilage, and the screams of terrified women--or not. I'll plan it, but it will take on a life of its own in the writing. Maybe that's why I do it. If I know too many details in advance, will be no surprise.

A Case of Very Old Spice

Today's post features screenshots from This Man Is Dangerous, directed by Jean Sacha, staring Eddie Constantine as Lemmy Caution. Rather than give a recap and review of the movie, I'll just say that I really liked it. On the TOS scale, it ranks somewhere between "Arena" and "What Are Little Girls Made Of?" I'm going to have to see more of the Lemmy Caution films (besides Alphaville, which I have already seen). I really enjoyed the cinematography; the movie is replete with outstanding shots. 

I've taken some screenshots and arranged them in random order and fabricated a preposterous story to go along with them. The story you are about to read, has very little to do with the movie. I'm sure others have written better reviews. Instead, I give you, A Case of Very Old Spice.

A special dame gave me a ring on the telephone. I was all smiles, but she couldn't see that over the phone. I heard something in her voice that troubled me. She wanted me to drop by as soon as I could.

I came right over. She said that she had something to show me in the bedroom. There it was in black and white, all over the bedspread.

She wanted to read the newspaper, or do papier mache. I don't know. I couldn't stay. I sensed that there was something she wasn't telling me.  I didn't like the way she looked at the wall when she spoke to me. Maybe it was the wallpaper, maybe it was my cologne, I don't know. I wasn't in the mood for looking through the want ads. I told her I had to leave. The frail didn't stop me, so I went to see an old friend about a bird.

He showed me a few nice birds, but he said that he had an even better one. She was at a cottage in the country. He gave me the address. When I got there, the lights were on but no one was home...if you don't count the platinum blonde in the raincoat with a far away look in her eyes. They were glassy, unblinking eyes. She had assumed room temperature before I arrived. Apparently that bedspread was to die for.

I took the stairs; they went down in the way that stairs often do. Someone had left in a hurry. Dinner and drinks were still on the table. I thought that I would sample the spirits. Someone had other ideas. I dove under the table when the first shot sounded. After checking to make sure than my factory warranty had not been voided by any after market perforations, I came up behind my pistol. I knew that I could create a comical effect if I held it so that the shadow from the end of the rod rested on the tip of my nose. Absolutely no one can shoot straight when they see that. Besides, I was close enough to that bottle that it would probably attract any bullets meant for me.

The mysterious shooter didn't fire again. He had already heard his mother calling. I moved to the doorway. The rat ran rather rapidly right down the roadway. I held up my heater and attempted to time how long it took him to run from the rear sight to the front sight as a way of estimating his exact speed. The angle wasn't good; I couldn't make a decent estimate. I fired a shot that beat him to the corner instead of coming in behind him. Then I lost sight of him.

I drove back to the main road. As my tires hit the pavement, another dame rolled up in a pink Peugeot. (Honestly, everything in this story is black and white and shades of gray, but I swear the Peugeot was pink). She had eyes the size of dinner plates. They were mysterious things, like smoke-filled mirrors. We were out in the country, but I could see the mean streets of Paris reflected in her gaze.

She told me that my friend with the bird had sent her. The bird wasn't at the cottage. They had had to move her. Constance--that was her name--told me to follow her. Even if she hadn't had lips that held an unspoken promise they would never deliver, I would have followed her. I wanted to see if the other earring matched.

I followed her to an abandoned monastery a few miles down the road. She dashed inside as soon as we arrived. Maybe it was my cologne. I ran after her. I caught sight of her just before she disappeared behind the columns and up a stairway.

I ran up the stairs. Constance's eyes had changed. She was having a slapping contest with another skirt. This was the bird my friend had mentioned. Her father would pay big money for the return of his little girl. When I suggested that she ought not to damage the merchandise, Constance told me to go down stairs; my friend wanted to see me.

I found him playing pool. He put down the cue-stick and turned his back as I approached. I really needed to get some different cologne. He told me that while he was excited about the ransom that he might get for the wealthy frail upstairs, he couldn't get dancing off his mind. Did I think that was strange? Sure, I did, but I couldn't tell him. You just don't tell a guy his dancing dreams are dross.

He asked me to follow him. I did, but I had a queasy feeling about this whole situation. I wondered how I was going to get that bird out of the nest and back to her father. A reward would spend just as well as a ransom, especially if I didn't have to split it with Constance and my friend. Who was I kidding? He wasn't really my friend. We had met at that Yahtzee tournament in Cannes. As much as he had enjoyed Yahtzee, he had confided that he would rather be playing backgammon. That was his problem. He always wanted to do something other than what he was doing. I would've told him that was just life. Life shakes you up and rolls you around. You're the dice, not the roller. You roll as best you can, and every once in a while someone will yell, "Yahtzee!"

I didn't get to explain any of that to him. As we went through the door, he turned and grappled with me. The strange part was that he was humming, "The Blue Danube." That's when I realized that he wasn't trying to fight; he was trying to dance with me. He wasn't a very good dancer. I've seen Conga lines with fewer left feet.

He suddenly turned away. I could tell that he was holding his breath. He mumbled something about cologne. I'm afraid I lost my temper at that. I was getting kind of sensitive about that cologne. My grandfather had given it to me, his grandfather had given him a whole case; it had been in the family for over a century; it really was my grandfather's Old Spice. I took him in a headlock, and encouraged him to relax and think about roses and lavender.

He broke away, or passed out. I don't remember which. When I turned, Constance was watching. I grabbed her and started to dance; I was in the mood. She twisted in my grasp, coughing and turning her back to me. The move proved unfortunate for her; she got traces of my cologne in her hair. 

She ran for the hose but the wealthy frail wanted a drink, and she was faster. They struggled over the hose. 

The frail finally got control of the water. When she smelled Constance's hair, she did her best to help the poor girl wash off the cologne...from a distance. 

I decided to go for a walk and ponder my life choices, and how the day might have gone differently if I had not decided to wear grandpa's cologne. 

There's a certain clarity that comes with a walk in a picturesque locale; the fresh air coming through those windows didn't hurt either. The respite from that cologne helped me come to a conclusion.

The water broke...and my wife's obsession with dead people

I didn't think that the second repair of the year would arrive so soon. It came this morning, like the Spanish Inquisition.* I went out into the garage for a snow shovel...because...I had a hankering for some quality shovel time before I left for work. I never left for work. I didn't make it to the shovel. Instead of the usual warm tranquility of the garage, I was met by a water heater spilling its guts like a petty criminal accused of a major crime being grilled under hot lights by a bad cop with a taser and a sock full of sand.

The entire plan for the day changed. The snow could wait (which sounds like the name of an interesting short story--this isn't it). New plan. Step one: make it stop--turn off the water and power. Step two: clean it up. Step three: drain the beast (and shovel snow). Step four: find and acquire a new unit--none were to be had in town; I had to expand the search area. Step five: Remove the offender. Step six: dry the premises. Step seven: Install the new recruit, and add water and power.

I left out the part about crying because I knew how much a new water heater would cost; and the crying again when the only one I could find that would fit cost even more than I expected.

Fortunately, Wife was available to help with the parts that required three or more hands. She did disturb me at one point by coming into the garage and announcing that she had found a date, several in fact. I hadn't even realized that she was looking. After all, we just went out last week to see The Last Jedi. If she'd have asked, I'd have been willing to go out again. But I know sometimes she gets spam emails or internet ads from dating service sites. Had she answered one? Before I could ask, she told me that she had found the dates of birth and death for some children or stepchildren of one of her ancestors. Family history is great, but can it be a dangerous addiction? Can this obsession with dead people really be healthy? Actually, I'm really glad she's doing it. I think she says stuff like that just to give me something to write about.

I hated having to replace the water heater. I had things that I needed to do at the office. I had planned an entirely different blog entry for today with some cool pictures from This Man Is Dangerous and some interesting fiction to go along with the pictures. But, the successful completion of a home repair project, no matter how minor, always make me feel like this:

That's right. Like I've just slain Hector and dragged him around the field. I just have to remember that Achilles' eventually took an arrow in the heel. Speaking of which, I have some absolutely fascinating observations about The Iliad...but I'll not go into them now. I'll do the same with my somewhat less fascinating observations about The Last Jedi.

*No one expects the...

I'd rather fight, than switch...or vice versa

The first home repair of the new year:
The frail told me that the light in the bedroom had burned out. She had already changed the bulb. The new one didn't shed any more light than an old shoe either. I grabbed the old bulb. It seemed fine to me. I hit the switch. The light pulsed like a warp nacelle, but just one time with each flip of the switch; it wouldn't stay lit. I had heard this story before. I knew the cure. I also knew that it would be the weekend before I could light up my doll's life with 120 volts and a 60 watt bulb. She knew the score. She would live with it until I was good and ready to make Edison's pet dance to my tune. 

(Picture from This Man Is Dangerous--which I also watched on Saturday. It's a great movie--French Noir featuring Eddie Constantine as Lemmy Caution. I'll do a write up on it...maybe Thursday)

It was a Saturday. The sun stared through a cloudy sky like a one-eyed man behind a smoking pipe. There was a foul smell in the air. It hit my nostrils like the stench of that frozen hamburger I had left in a drawer to thaw before Christmas vacation at college...and remembered two weeks later when the vacation was over. It was the odor of a task left undone. I had hidden the meat so my roommates wouldn't eat it before I got back from a late class--that part of the plan was entirely successful; nobody ate the hamburger; it was a long while before any of us wanted to eat hamburger again.

I checked my wallet for lettuce. I had enough for a small salad. I started the brown beast and drove it to the local mercantile. It was inside that I saw him. He was a big man, a Mack truck in a vest. I walked past without a word. I knew that I was in the right aisle.

He wasn't having it. "What do you need?" he said in a tone that he must have thought sounded helpful.

I wasn't sure that I liked his attitude. Maybe he was implying that I wasn't competent to find the right item. I wondered just who he thought he was, questioning my skills. I thought about politely bending his nose with a hard right cross to cure him from sticking it into my business. A couple things kept me from acting on that thought. First, I wasn't sure I could reach his nose without a stepladder. Second, I knew who he thought he was; he worked there; he had helped me at least one other time. 

"I need a light switch," I said with an air of casual electrical nonchalance. 

"There, on your left," he said, pointing. 

I'm pretty sure he said, "There," and not "they're." Either way, I saw the switches. 

"These are white, and those are off-white," he pointed to another basket. "What color did you need?" Apparently, the entire chromatic panoply of light switches consisted only of white, and off-white. 

Naturally, I had no idea what color I wanted. I didn't care. I knew I needed a 120 volt 15 amp switch. I looked at the picture on my phone that I had taken of the switch. 

"That's off-white," he said, looking at the picture.

I was impressed with the big man's grasp of the color palette, as well as his rapid application of the knowledge to the facts at hand. I had decided on white...ish. "I better get two," I said. I explained that this was not the first time that I had had to do this. Besides, there were two switches in the box. I figured that I might as well replace them both. 

Once again, there were two open checkouts. At one, a woman with 47 plastic storage boxes was fumbling through a purse. At the other, there was a guy I knew. I asked him if this was the quicker line. He said that it wasn't, but this was the only checkout that had the razor blades that he needed. I moved over behind the dame with the storage boxes. I figured those containers were meant either for Christmas decorations...or she had bad luck keeping pets. Probably the former. 

When I left the store, my acquaintance was still waiting in the other line. 

I had the element of surprise on my side for this caper. I cut the power and moved in under cover of darkness...or at least pretty poor natural light. In a matter of seconds I had cracked the combination on the cover; it was flat head, not phillips. Inside, things got a little tricky...I had to switch to the phillips head. I replaced the contents with the new stuff and replaced the cover. No one would even know that the box had been breached. 

When I restarted the juice, those electrons danced to give off a soft white light that would make angels blush. 

Smoke and Lights

The little things, like an acknowledgment from a friend, can brighten an entire day. The first day of the year was a beautiful day.

Here's the rest of the day in a jumbled order--like you often get at many fast food places.

"Did you need anything else?" the cashier asked.

"No," I answered.

"Beautiful," she said with a smile as big as sunshine.

"Lots of people call me that," I said.

"I bet they do," she responded with a laugh.

"At [name of another store in town] the cashiers even ask for my phone number."

She looked puzzled. Apparently she found that difficult to believe. I felt slightly wounded. 

I elaborated. "In fact, they refuse to sell me anything if I don't give them my number."

"Oh," she laughed, understanding that that other store has that whole loyalty reward system based on customer telephone numbers.

After that it was pretty much just the total and, "Do you need a bag with that?" to end the conversation.

In fact, I did not need a bag...what with only getting the one item and all.

Backup. When I had found the item that I needed, and went to check out, the two open registers were backed up. Both had folks with baskets full of stuff. One of the registers was at a dead stop; there was either a problem with the register, or someone was checking a price; or perhaps invisible alien brain rays were slowly sucking their life away; I don't know; I'm just speculating. The lady at the register for returns saw my predicament and called me over. I recognized her. She's always trying to make conversation, so I felt safe with the, "Lots of people call me that," rejoinder.

Why was I at the store? I needed a temperature gauge for my smoker. The smoked prime rib I did for Christmas Eve dinner had been so delicious that wife wanted me to smoke something for dinner. I was going to smoke potatoes, and peppers, and steak. I had been doing all the smoking on the best guess principle and checking the temperature of the meat with a thermometer from time to time. I wanted to try something a little more precise. The system is completely manual, with charcoal and wood chips or chunks added whenever I feel a disturbance in the force requires action to bring balance.

I couldn't find a temperature gauge for a smoker. I did find one that goes inside an oven. It was cheap, a temporary measure.

The meal was delicious. The steaks took longer to cook than I had planned,but the low temperature smoke and the final searing really made them tasty--with no small thanks to my ad hoc rub creation. (I didn't actually add any hocks, or hawks, just various seasonings.) The little potatoes, bathed in olive oil and sprinkled with salt, pepper, Italian seasoning, and a hint of parsley pleased everyone. Daughter said it tasted just like fire--apparently she meant that in a good way, because she kept eating them. I should have made more of the potatoes, but I didn't expect daughter to like them. Wife fabricated a delicious salad that, with the olive oil and vinegar based dressing, created a refreshing palate cleanser between bites of steak and fire-flavored potatoes. I give the meal five stars.

Before the great fumigating of animal parts and edible flora began, I completed the traditional removal of the many little points of Yuletide radiance with their accompanying wire leashes. Although the temperature soon induced me to put on some gloves, I didn't need a hat (though I could have kneaded one to keep my fingers warm). The sun beamed in pale brilliance that lit the day like Capt. Kirk's face in a close-up with an alien babe. Speaking of babes, alien or otherwise, Wife assisted in boxing the lights as I took them down from the house and the trees. 

The lights are now covered by their cardboard bushels, to sing their message of cheer no more for 11 more months, but the refrain of their soft lustrous voices will linger in the heart the whole year through.