Their Bit

by Corbert Windage

nightmares. It had to start like that day had started; fresh with the promise of a beautiful spring day coupled with the sadness that in less than a week the high school chapter of their lives would forever be closed. That, somehow, had to be conveyed to the visitor, they too had to remember their last week of high school. Could the producer and his staff capture the essence of what they were trying to say? Did he need more people? More equipment? Because there would be no second takes. None! They would tell their story. Each transient thought that transpired would be said aloud for the record. But this was one and only one comet ride into the sun. Your equipment fails and that on you. Now, once again, he was asked if he felt he would need a little more time.

  The producer sat in stunned silence for several seconds trying to digest the sure magnitude of what Lauren and Lloyd were proposing. He was an Oscar winning soundman with more years in the business that these two had lived almost combined. However, at this moment he felt the like the lowliest grip on the second unit of a B movie. He had figured on getting their stories dealing with the tragedy of the flight, and counting his blessings lucky if he was to get a reasonably coherent version of that! Now what they proposed was virtually a minute- by- minute description of that entire fateful day. Here was his retirement, his Magnus Opus; his envelope ripping everybody-knows-who's-going-to-win-this-award moment. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Oscar for best documentary ever in the history of the damn planet goes to Arty Wellman ."

  "More equipment," he thought, "Hell yes, he needed more equipment!"

  "Would you mind if we postponed for say 48 hours?" he said.

  They both assured him that a 48-hour delay would be fine.

  Two days later everything was in place. Three sound crews, with a fourth in reserve, tested and retested equipment, which included wireless microphones, boom mics, parabolic dish microphones. There was even a camera crew to get what shots were possible. If Lauren or Lloyd burped, no less than twenty-seven microphones would pick it up.

  Returning to HTS was the beginning of the emotional roller coaster ride for the former seniors.

  Pulling up outside was the first shock for Lloyd. Lauren had already been back here once and was therefore a bit more prepared. Lloyd had last spied the building from the cover of the nearby woods on the early afternoon of 9 May. Then it was a smoking wreck. Caving in toward the center like a ship whose back was broken, the school had looked like a derelict wooden warship that had been surrounded and pummeled into submission by the entire enemy fleet. If floundering had been possible then the rubble of HTS would have foregone any thought of a graceful death plunge and sank straight down. Cleared of smoke and the scattered debris, the school retained the slight V- shape collapsing toward the center. The facing was mottled with small arms hits. Later he would note that every window in the back, the east side, had been replaced with a clear hard plastic cover. Blast damage had warped each window frame beyond any conventional repair. He knew that Mr. Morgan had taken the bulk of the staff to the roof where, Lloyd figured, he thought the best fight could be made. He thought back to the enemy bodies he and Braden had seen scattered about from the rear of the school. Evidence the bastions had taken the worse beating was in the blast damage splayed on their sides. None retained their crowning. Burnt star-shaped residue centered on entrance wounds punched through the two flanking the front entrance. Only now did Lloyd realize that, save the initial Canadian armored units assault on Schonefield, the bulk of the remaining enemy heavy firepower had been directed toward the school.

  "That's were my George died."

  Lloyd started. He had been so absorbed in studying the external damage that he hadn't heard Bea Morgan come along side. He looked at her still staring at what Mr. Morgan had called Redoubt One. Lloyd took notice of her hair. Normally worn in a netted bun on the back of her head, it was now free reaching nearly to her shoulders. Lloyd glanced back up.

  "Looks like artillery hits," he said.

  "RPG," she answered without hesitation. "Rocket Propelled Grenade," she added. "Bastards couldn't kill him any other way, my George. Had to blow him to pieces. Well that's okay. He took one hell of an honor guard to the afterlife with him that's for sure. They all did. When the contractor built the school, he chided George for insisting on rebar reinforcement on the redoubts. George told him that it wouldn't do at all for the wind we get around here to topple one of them. After the attack I had a visit from a military officer who'd examined the building. You know what he told me," She said absently, more to herself than to Lloyd. Before he could speak she went on.

  "He said 'Man, that rebar helped that structure absorb those hits by having more give than a tank ever could.' That's what he said. My George," she said tapping the side of her head with her index finger. "He was an expert on static defenses. Always said, 'Honey Bee,' that's what he called me, his little honeybee. 'Honey Bee he said, if this school is going to mean something it has to last. Not just in the hearts and minds kind of lasting, but like the Great Pyramids," she went on. "Now Lloyd, I'll admit to some skepticism at first. Hell, we even had a fight or two over the cost, but look at it Lloyd, my George's flagship. It took one helluva beating but held together long enough to get you children to safety. He was right. My George was right."

  A fervent look now distorted her features, giving her, for the briefest of moments, the archetypical appearance of an old crone. Again, before Lloyd could reply she leaned toward him as if preparing to share a secret.

  "Harvey Miles gave 'em one hell of a surprise too," she continued. Had blasting caps in his car that day you know? His wife Glennis told me he was going to blow some stumps down at their lake house. Picked 'em up Sunday, just the day before."

  Her eyes had begun to glaze again. A sure sign that she was entering a realm that Lloyd now begin to identify with the fanatic. Her George had lead a brave, but doomed defense to save the children. In her eyes, Lloyd saw her determination that that would never be forgotten. Perhaps she feared that it would become overshadowed by what an equally determined group of kids did barely three miles away. Harrison had become a holy shrine to her. Lloyd began to wonder if she would ever reconcile the equality of both events. To him there was no difference what so ever. It was like asking parents their favorite child. He prayed that Bea Morgan would one day see that the moral seeds planted here in word and deed, bore a proud harvest at the terminus of a place now called The Valor Road.

  "Can you believe that Lloyd!" she enunciated each syllable like a rifle shot. "Harvey Miles forgetting something dangerous like that and bringing it here where it would be needed!" She broke off, shook her head, and then solemnly pronounced. "The good Lord does move in strange ways indeed."

  Just like the way she had met young Lieutenant Morgan. She was up from Mississippi visiting relatives in Georgia. Cousin Dedra's insistence they attend the cotillion honoring the departing young men off to fight in the first Gulf War appealed to Bea. Raised to think of herself as atypical southern gentry, Bea was just young enough to still retain the stirring dreams of ante bellum Tara, and all that implied, as articles of faith passed down as duty from previous generations. "Who knows," her cousin laughingly told her, "you might be meeting the man of your dreams for the first time.

  She did.

  Unlike Bea, George had to be virtually forced at gunpoint to attend what he considered one huge waste of time. Fresh off final exercises that had seen George wield his company with such defensive efficiency that an entire enemy battalion had been declared casualty; thus opening the way for counterattack and victory. The battalion commander, a lieutenant colonel, had protested so vigorously that the matter had to eventually forward up the chain for adjudication. All that had accomplished was a confirmation of the field judge's ruling, the loss at a chance to command a battalion in actual combat for the lieutenant colonel and George Morgan being marked as a "comer," one who needed to be watched carefully as a potential future combat leader. Although gratified with the validation of his actions, George knew he had made an
enemy in the lieutenant colonel and that was enough to put him off on attending any public celebration. It was an implied direct order from his commanding officer that forced him to rush his dress blues to the one-hour dry cleaners and attend.

  There were no sparks at their first meeting. They danced and Bea took noticed of his nameplate even though they had been introduced moments before. She off-handily mentioned in the small talk of strangers the one military item that connected her family with his name. "My great-great grandfather claimed to have ridden with General John Hunt Morgan. A relation of yours perhaps?"

  George smiled. "Then your great-great grandfather had the honor of serving under mine."

  Bea hid her astonishment beneath the veneer of southern coolness. "My but aren't you the cheeky one Lieutenant Morgan. How am I to know that there is a scintilla of truth to what you say? Morgan's not that uncommon a name you know?"

  George conceded her point but kept smiling. "True enough Miss…miss. I'm sorry I've totally forgotten your last name."

  "It's Modern; like modern but with an accent over the o," she virtually hissed through clenched teeth.

  "Well Miss Modern," George said,