Letter From America: Apache Attack
There you are driving along in Arizona, minding your own business, when you suddenly discover that there's a roaring Apache on your tail! Here's another splendid column from Ronnie Bray. I you want to reach the final sentence of an article with a smile on your face, read Ronnie.
Suddenly, I was surrounded by an Apache! I heard the frightening noise before I saw the Apache, but by that time, it would have been far too late if there had been hostile intention. I was out in the open, surrounded by scrubby desert with clumps of sage and a few saguaro cacti, and nowhere to hide.
I was headed home after visiting the dog park, and was about six miles to home and safety. I could have taken refuge in Wal-Mart, but the nearest one was four miles further on and the Apache was upon me!
The roar was evil and as bloodcurdling as it was unexpected. I looked around to see if I could find out where the clamour was coming from that so I could take evasive action, but I saw nothing through the windows.
European settlers decimated the Apaches and Hopis that once dwelt in this part of Arizona, then drove out the remainder who live on the useless badlands that are euphemistically referred to as ‘reservations.’
Mostly, these lands are unproductive and lent credence to the standard American view that Indians are indolent and happy to live off government handouts.
Being English, I do not believe it, but I discovered that at that terrifying moment there was at least one Apache not confined to any ‘res’ and possibly, in these uncertain times, threatening my safety.
Anyone who has tried to pull a Ford Explorer into a circle will know the futility of even thinking it, so I decided to proceed nonchalantly and hope that this Apache had no special interest in me, or would get bored and go away.
I had a Union Jack stuck on my rear window, and a number plate sized one at the front, so I could not have been mistaken for an American.
Then, I saw the Apache! I didn’t know they were that huge, but I had never seen one this close before. My eyes were, as Al Read was wont to say, "Opened from top to bottom!"
The reason I couldn’t see the Apache had nothing to do with the camouflage, but with the elevation. It was about two hundred feet over my head, but I only discovered that when he came into my view as he soared ahead of me and turned to land on Boeing’s helicopter pad at their Apache Helicopter factory to my left.
This Apache - the "battleship of the skies" - had been on a test flight and had come up behind me at low altitude with characteristic engine sound, as if it was the very engine of Hell, one that I will never forget, and which enemies dread with good cause because it signals the approach of the world’s most powerful battle-bruiser with its mighty fire power.
I was somewhat relieved to find that I was not in the Apache’s gunsights, and tried to enjoy the remainder of the journey home.
Yet my instinct of self-preservation had been raised to such a limit that when I was safely inside my fortress, I brought down the keep’s portcullis, otherwise known as the garage door, threw myself trembling onto our bullet-proof couch, and let the doggies lick my imaginary wounds, and soothe my faltering poise.
Apart from that, my day was uneventful, and that’s the way I like it!
© 2004 Ronnie Bray
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
