BAGHDAD, Iraq (AP) - Iraqi militants claimed in a Web statement Tuesday to have taken an American soldier hostage and threatened to behead him in 72 hours unless the Americans release Iraqi prisoners.

The posting, on a Web site that frequently carried militants' statements, included a photo of what appeared to be an American soldier in desert fatigues seated with his hands tied behind his back.

A gun barrel was pointed at his head, and he is seated in front of a black banner emblazoned with the Islamic profession of faith, "There is no god but God and Muhammad is His prophet."

A U.S. military spokesman in Baghdad, Marine Sgt. Salju K. Thomas, said he had no information on the claim but "we are currently looking into it."

A statement posted with the picture suggested the group was holding other soldiers.

"Our mujahadeen heroes of Iraq's Jihadi Battalion were able to capture American military man John Adam after killing a number of his comrades and capturing the rest," said the statement, signed by the "Mujahedeen Brigades."

"God willing, we will behead him if our female and male prisoners are not released from U.S. prisons within the maximum period of 72 hours from the time this statement has been released," the statement said.

More than 180 foreigners have been kidnapped in the past year. At least 10 of them, including three American civilians, remain in the hands of their kidnappers.

The only American soldier known to have been taken hostage is Pfc. Keith M. Maupin, 20, of Batavia, Ohio, who was shown in a video in April being held by militants. Another video aired in June showed what purported to be Maupin's slaying, but the picture was too unclear to confirm it was him and the military still lists him as missing.

Marine Cpl. Wassef Ali Hassoun went missing in Iraq in June and later photos surfaced on Arab television showing him blindfolded with a sword to his head. In July he made his way to the U.S. Embassy in Beirut. Back in the United States, he said he had been captured, but in December he was charged with desertion for the incident.

All this talk about hostages, plastic figurines, Big Sky Freepers, and even Viking Kittens really brings me back to the origin of a goofy family tradition. My family had this inside joke of grabbing a token plastic figure and bringing it along on whatever travels we embarked, calling it a hostage. My mother published this short story about this in an anthology titled, “A Blend of Voices – The Montana Writers’ Guild”. She died a couple of years ago in Missoula, MT, and my brother Patrick died about 6 years ago in Chico, CA. I hope y’all enjoy this short nonfiction story.

Shirley W. O’Malley’s first published work was a radio play when she was ten. In her late twenties she wrote adult romance and children’s stories, most of which were published. For years she penned only essay finals and typed term papers while earning a BA in History/Political Science, and having and rearing eight children. Today Shirley focuses on reading and learning poetry, and writing creative nonfiction.

The Taking

Shirley W. O’Malley

As soon as the Scott Street Bridge came into view, I felt my chest begin to cave. It’s true, I thought, what they say about heart strings; they really do pull and then tie into tight and ever-tightening knots. I steadied my hands on the steering wheel and tried to take a deep breath. I realized I was breathing through my mouth… panic breathing, they called it at rehab.

“Calm down – easy does it,” I ordered in even measured tones. “Breathe deeply through your nose or that oxygen thing you’ve got stuck up your nostrils won’t do you a bit of good.” I managed the drive past the lumberyard, then the cemetery, and soon was easing to the stop at the entrance to the landfill.

“Well, hi there,” greeted the gatekeeper in the guard house. He did a quick take on the contents of my car. “You’re pretty well loaded up today. That’ll be $8.50.” He handed me a clipboard and I signed the receipt.

“You know where to go,” he said and gestured with a slight wave of his hand. I put on a small smile and nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I proceeded to the “wet weather area,” the closest place you could unload the garbage and debris from your car or truck, and a favor he allowed me, even though it was a bright and sunny day in July. There, as though on cue, the hot tears spilled right through my tightly closed lids, and I gave in to the onslaught as my shoulders heaved and my throat tightened.

“Get a grip, Mom!” Gees, I could swear it was his voice. “You can’t cry like that and breathe, too,” he said. Whenever I went to the dump I encountered the same apprehension, because the last time I saw Patrick, when he knew there was something, yet before all those tests and he was still as much himself -- his youthful, healthy body stretching, tensing, lifting and carrying while I sat and drank it all in. That was before the diagnosis and the operation, before the radiation and the chemotherapy, and before they sent him home “to spend what time you have left with your wife and little children.”

It wasn’t any harder or any easier this time, this trip to the dump – it just seemed he was nearer, closer, yet everywhere. I calmed myself by breathing deeper, slower, looking around, being thankful that I was strong enough to do it myself. I went through the litany of all the things I was grateful for – the last one being that no one else was around that day, as I preferred handling the awkwardness of the oxygen canister and disposable items unobserved. It was the Fourth of July weekend and the whole town seemed deserted.

Having regained my composure, I set about unloading the garbage sacks that filled the tiny little car that gave me such good mileage. It wasn’t easy. Carrying the small but hefty oxygen tank in one hand and the bulky and sometimes heavy plastic bags in the other, I made the six or seven trips to the edge of the pit where the dumpsters were parked several feet below. When I was finally finished I sat in my car, heart pounding and my breathing working almost into gasping.

TAKE YOUR TIME, I told myself. THERE”S NO RUSH. AND YOU ARE NOT GOING ANYWHERE UNTIL YOU ARE PERFECTLY CALM. “Yeah, yeah,” I answered and leaned back a little, still resisting relaxation. I hated having to sit still and do nothing. I would invariably find myself thinking of those things I did not want to have to face, and right now I was going to have to come to grips with a doozy. My vacation was starting in a couple of weeks, and I had to decide now whether to drive, fly, or take the bus.

It’s a short flight to Seattle. It’s more than twelve hours by bus and a good nine hours to drive. But only by driving my own car, all by myself, would I have oxygen all the way. I didn’t know which was worse – the stress of airports and flying with no oxygen, or the long bus ride throught the sleepless night with oxygen only a maybe, or driving alone in an old car that I hadn’t yet taken on a long trip. Since I still couldn’t decide, I shook my head to rid it of the problem and leaned forward to start the engine. As I turned to check the rear before backing out, my glance caught on something at the edge of the pit in the farther parking space.

“What’s this?” They looked like two miniature whatnots perched precariously close to doomsday – even a wimp of a breeze could send them right into the landfill time capsule into oblivion. What were they, really? I leaned out the window and squinted. Two little toy creatures, alone and unprotected! Oh my, my, my, golly gosh! They looked like hostages!

Patrick, ever since his first solo trip as a young teenager, whether by bicycle or by car, had always taken a hostage for good luck. Some crazy little stuffed animal or creaky gizmo, seized from out of the blue, which rode with him to ensure safe passage. Over time, a whole family intrigue had evolved among the eight children, with hostages in every household crisscrossing the country’s highways and byways. Even a bizarre kidnapping with a blatant ransom demand had recently been reported.

“Ah, they’re just stupid little McDonald’s plastic collectibles,” I muttered, not wanting to get out of the car.

“I don’t know, they look like hostages to me,” I argued back. Indeed, they did fit the bill, just sitting there, appearing out of nowhere.

I opened the car door and got out. “Cheap, ugly, plastic hoardables,” I growled, but caught my breath as I got closer. I stared in disbelief. They were cute. They were darling. They were two little gray and white striped toy kittens! And could they be NOT plastic? I knelt down and picked up the one with its little paw extended as though to say, “Choose me.” It was made of china – not cheap plastic, not even heavy ceramic, but real china, and with the dearest expression on its precious little baby face. The other one was just as sweet, but with a whole different pose.

A sudden noise startled me. I seized the other one and quickly stuffed both inside my shirt. I looked around. Had anyone seen me take these hostages? The gatekeeper – ah – that was the sound I had heard. He had deliberately changed the gates to let me know it was closing time. From that distance he couldn’t possibly have seen the abduction.

As I walked to my car I noticed a quicker, lighter step. I settled in behind the wheel. It struck me that an awful lot had to happen to put me and those two figurines together in that particular place, on that exact day, at that precise time. And suddenly there was Patrick with that eternal dance light in his eyes that played out from every magic inch of his being, through his fingers and his tiptoes, and this time my heart did not cave. It lifted and soared and gladdened.

“You,” I said to the first kitten as I placed her in the cubby of the dash, “have a big job ahead. You are taking me and this car all the way to Seattle.” I put the second one down next to her and covered them both with a clean hankie from my purse. I lifted the corner and whispered to number two, “You, my pet, are going to see us safely back home again.”

I fastened my seatbelt, revved the engine and tapped my temple in a two-fingered salute to the universe. As I drove out I caught the eye of the gatekeeper and smiled – and then waved goodbye, as though nothing at all happened.

Doll Community Rallies To Support Captured G.I.

Feb 5 2005 by Tara Zucker

The fashion and action figure doll community has announced a special benefit to show support for Special Ops Cody, who was recently taken hostage in Iraq. While the Pentagon quickly dismissed the capture as a "hoax," the doll community has called for public support and vowed to work to bring the plastic soldier home, with all his accessories intact.

Speaking from her Dream House in Malibu, where yellow ribbons covered the lawn and the purple Volkswagen Beetle parked in the driveway, spokesdoll Barbie® expressed outrage at the insurgents' treatment of GI Cody. "I recognized him right away. I was like 'Oh my God! That's Cody!' He looked like he was trying to be brave, but he doesn't have the fully bendable limbs like some of the other dolls, so to be tied up like that must have really been torture, which is supposed to be a big no-no in war. Plus, they totally opened his accessory pack to get his gun out, so now he can't even be a MIB (Mint in Box) collectible when he comes home. It's really the ultimate sacrifice."

Barbie® continued that she was hurt when the press referred to Cody as "stiff and expressionless." "They don't know the real Cody. He's like, such a doll!"

The "Night of 1,000 Dolls" benefit will be hosted by Barbie's former fiancé Ken™, who runs one of the most successful party planning businesses in Los Angeles. Said Ken™, "For me, it's a chance to give back. This will be the most fabulous evening with plastic people that Hollywood has seen in a long time!" Barbie's little sister Skipper®, a devout follower of Kabbalah, will open the event with a blessing, and G.I. Joe, now retired, will talk about his experiences in combat. The Bratz™ and the My Scene™ girls, once staunch rivals, will join together to perform a medley of pop tunes, and Barbie® promises there will be "fabulous fashions and lots of cool extras!"
All donations will be used to buy more accessories for the troops.

DeadBrain hastens to add that we find the people at Mattel, Hasbro and MGA Entertainment, listed in no particular order but especially considering all of the talented folks in their respective Legal Departments, to be warm, congenial and generous folk imbued with unmatched senses of humor and the pleasant scent of pine needles on a brisk November wind.

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