Charlie Dempster’s War

fiction by Gary Catt –

Charlie Dempster was by most measure, a doofus. He was also a cop and by most measure, not a bad cop.

But, he was Charlie. His service hat always found its way over his ears, giving the impression that some scold jammed it over his head. From the brim of that hat, his ears bowed outward. His dark rimmed glasses rode high atop a sliver of a nose, forcing him to constantly poke at his face to keep his glasses in the correct position. Charlie was skinny to be scrawny which made his blue police uniform hang from his shoulders like a bad drapery and the trousers to form a blue puddle around his ankles.

To his fellow officers, Charlie was a punching bag. If there was a joke, a rib to be played, it was usually aimed at Charlie. The lack of respect manifested in other ways. If there was a crap assignment to be handed out, Charlie got it. Bundled together, Charlie was a man with no reliable friends nor did he have notable enemies. Charlie merely took up space in the biosphere.

He had a wife, although no one on the force had actually seen her. It was generally accepted that there was a Mrs. Dempster. It was something his fellow officers found incredible…that a woman would actually marry Charlie. Jokes about “Charlie’s wife” were rife. Photos of aliens purported to be Charlie’s wife were posted on his locker. Notes confessing infidelity were slipped into Charlie’s pockets. He silently endured the torment hoping it would stop. It didn’t. And that is how Charlie’s war was triggered.

His crap assignment for the weekend was to stand guard at the entrance to the party venue of the regional air show. It was hot. July hot. While other cops assigned to the show were able to move in an out of air conditioned tents and mingle with the groupies who often followed such events, Charlie stood in the sun.

When the shift sergeant came to make sure he was at his post, he offered the snide question, asking Charlie where his wife might be on this gorgeous summer weekend. Charlie didn’t bite. As the sergeant walked away he said, “You know Charlie, I betcha Billy Quinn knows where your wife is.” Charlie said nothing. He didn’t know the joke was just starting to unfold.

Over the next few hours a succession of cops made obnoxious inquiries about Charlie’s wife and Billy Quinn — the department’s notorious womanizer.

So the day wore on under a searing sun. Airplanes for sale, aerobatic airplanes, antique airplanes all flew overhead as Charlie baked. Standing his post. The crowd inside the party tent was teetering on drunk and noisy as the day stretch.

Charlie stood in the heat, his dark uniform turned darker by sweat.

The key event of the day brought the crowds out of the various tents and display areas to Charlie’s guard post adjacent the runway. The U.S. Air force Thunderbirds in six newly minted F-16C Fighting Falcons roared into the air filling the atmosphere with all-consuming roar.

The roar in Charlie’s head was louder. Red flares of fright went off in his brain. Heat, noise, sun and insult came together in his daze as a singular threat.

The ground shook as the performance thundered on. Six warrior jets flying low, less than 100 feet above the runway, sucked any sound from the cheering crowd as the jets powered up in unison for a rocket-like turn toward the heavens.

No one heard the first pop or really saw the spinning collapse of a cop near the party tent. A second pop came as the jets climbed at full power. Another cop went down.

Detectives who were scattered in the crowd ran toward the sound. They found Charlie at the second he placed his service revolver to his head and pulled the trigger.

For Charlie, the war was over.