The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  Twenty-four roses. Twelve red and twelve white.

  White roses for virtue. Red roses for blood.

  Seeing the flowers, the sergeant had to swallow against the catch in his throat. He knew this dead soldier’s story–it had been in the papers for the past several days–and though he felt a deep sense of pride in each funeral ceremony he participated in, this one had cut him and he felt unprepared for the emotion inside.

  That others might live, he repeated to himself. He swallowed again as he thought of the phrase. It was for only this concept that a fellow soldier had given his life.

  The color-guard officer glanced at the carriage again. Next to the roses, glistening in the cool, humid air, a copper medallion and white ribbon had been carefully draped over the stars on the flag. For the first time in his life, the soldier saw the Medal of Honor, the most sacred tribute a nation could bestow on a man. The Medal of Honor was rarely given; ten thousand soldiers might die in battle and not one of them earn the privilege of receiving this award. Indeed, most soldiers would serve their entire careers without meeting a recipient of the Medal of Honor. It was rare, it was sacred, and too often it was given to men who were dead.

  The sergeant dropped his eyes to the medal, which glistened on top of the flag. Beside him one of his soldiers sucked in a quick breath. His men stood stone-cold still as the funeral procession approached, the mourners following the carriage as it moved to the grave. And though the sergeant didn’t focus on the family, he couldn’t help but see her out of the corner of his eye.

  She was small, maybe six or seven, with straight, blonde hair, tiny arms, and huge, wondering eyes. She glanced around anxiously, a bewildered look on her face, fear and pain bleeding through the tight look in her eyes. Her mother walked at her side, a perfect reflection of the child: long blonde hair, dark features, and wide, sullen eyes. She was tall and slender and dressed in a simple white dress. No black clothes, the sergeant noticed, no black veil or dark, mournful hat. The woman was young, perhaps only a year or two older than he, and there was something about her, something strong and wonderful. What it was exactly he would never know, but he would always remember the look in her eyes.

  Even in their sadness, the mother and daughter were beautiful. They had a look of elegance, with their high cheekbones and light skin, their faces somber but peaceful as they held themselves high. They walked hand in hand, the mother matching the small steps of the girl, both of them misty-eyed but determined somehow. The child approached the grave like it was a terrible monster, a dark, gaping passage leading into the next world.

  Thunder broke behind the soldier and rolled through the trees, deep, sad, and somber, the sound echoing across the wet ground as another clap rolled and slowly faded away. A cold breeze blew at his neck, raising the hair on his arms. Please, Lord, the soldier prayed. Hold up your hand. Give this family twenty minutes before you let your rains fall. Another clap of thunder rolled across the green, rolling hills. It echoed off the grass, which was still glistening and wet. Then came another flash of lightning. But the rains didn’t come.

  The soldier had performed a hundred ceremonies over the past eleven months; indeed, this was the third funeral ceremony he had presided over today. But as he watched the black wagon and proud horse, as he saw the tiny child holding to her mother’s hand and the Medal of Honor over the blue and white flag, he just couldn’t hold back the emotion that boiled inside. A single, salty teardrop rolled down his cheek to settle on his jaw before slowly sliding down his neck.

  Too many funerals. Too many good men. Too many young children and too many wives.

  White roses for virtue. Red roses for blood.

  The small family approached, stepping across the wet grass while staring into the darkness of the open grave. The army chaplain, a young major, escorted them as they walked, then reached out and took the mother by the hand to direct her to a white wicker chair. The mother and child sat down carefully, all the while holding hands, the young girl gripping tightly, holding on for dear life. She sat in a small wicker chair, like her mother’s, and leaned into her. Her white dress fell to her ankles as she reached down to press the wrinkles from her lap. A tiny crown of white flowers had been braided through the child’s hair, and she tugged at them gently to keep them in place.

  The mother and child didn’t look at each other as the horse-drawn wagon approached and came to a stop. The funeral procession moved forward and formed a half circle on one side of the grave. It was a large group, unusually so, with many more children than one would expect. Two young men, clearly brothers, took up a position behind the young wife. Beside them, the deceased soldier’s parents stared solemnly at the casket. The father fought to hold himself together, but the mother seemed more accepting, indeed, she seemed almost at peace. As the family members gathered behind the young wife, the father reached down and placed his hand on the widow’s shoulder, and she leaned her face over to rest it on his hand. To the side of the family stood members of the military: enlisted soldiers, young officers, and–to the surprise of the sergeant–a couple of high-ranking generals.

  Outside the family ring, and away from the other military members, stood three other military officers, each of them wearing formal dress uniforms, their ribbons and badges displayed on their chests. Two of the officers wore Army green: olive jackets and green pants with a black stripe down the sides. The other officer wore Air Force blues with silver wings on his chest. The three officers were young, all lieutenants, though there was a shadow on their faces that seemed to age them somehow. Between the three lieutenants was a small, dark-haired boy, maybe seven, maybe eight, with olive skin, a hollow face, and gaunt, darting eyes. The sergeant recognized his face from the pictures in the press. He was the only one who had been rescued, the only one who survived. The little boy glanced quickly at the daughter, then down at the dirt. He looked weary, almost guilty, his face clouded with shame. One of the officers noticed his reaction and reached for his hand. He knelt down and whispered, but the child didn’t respond.

  The chaplain nodded to the color-guard leader, an almost imperceptible movement of his head, and the sergeant commanded under his breath, “Element, post!” The six men moved forward in perfect step toward the carriage, taking up a position with three of them on each side of the casket. Without any verbal commands, the men reached out and took the casket by the metal handles and lifted together. The casket was light, for it was nearly empty; a few pieces and parts were all that remained.

  The color guard turned crisply, carried the flag-draped casket forward, and placed it over the nylon straps that had been stretched across the grave. Then they stepped to the side and out of the way. The chaplain walked to the casket and paused, then turned to the family in the white wicker chairs. He leaned over and spoke a few words to the mother, then stood and announced, “Lieutenant Calton’s brother has been asked to dedicate the grave.”

  The color-guard soldier listened carefully. This was something new. Dedicate the grave? He didn’t know what that meant. He watched from under the brim of his hat as one of the brothers broke from the crowd, moved to the graveside, and reverently bowed his head.

  The prayer was simple and pleading, and tears flowed as the brother spoke. As he concluded his prayer, the young man turned to the casket, took a short step toward it, and placed his hand on the flag. Then he turned to sit down, but he seemed unable to move. He stared at the widow and the fatherless child, then lowered his hand and bowed to one knee as

  he reached again for the flag. “You were always my hero,” he whispered through his tears. “I will love you forever. And I will never forget.” He knelt there a moment, his hand touching the flag, then forced himself to stand. The chaplain moved to his side, and the brother stepped back to his place.

  The chaplain straightened his uniform quickly, then began to speak. Less formal than most, he spoke slowly and comfortably, but with great authority. It wasn’t his intention to preach, he explained, and besides, mo
st of what had to be said, most of the comfort there was to be given, had already been spoken in the service before. But he felt an obligation, as well as a desire, to say some words to the family, if he could.

  He spoke of simple things: duty and honor and bravery and truth. He spoke of the obligations that come with freedom and the price that had been paid to keep a people free. Then he nodded to the young widow and lowered his voice. “I cannot help you,” he said, speaking directly to her. “In a moment such as this, there is little comfort I can give. Indeed, were I to say too much, my words might only diminish your loss. Only time and the Lord can ease you of this pain. But though I don’t have the answers, this much I believe:

  “All men will die. All men will be called upon to pass through the veil. But only a few, only a few special men, only those who have been worthy to answer a calling from God, are given the honor to die for a cause.

  “And in this life, in these times, all of us will be called on to make a sacrifice. When, or in what manner that sacrifice may be required, only God knows. All we can do is wait and prepare and pray that when our time comes, we will be ready to complete the task that he gives, so that when it is over, when we have done all we could, we might look to the Lord and say the same words he said:

  ‘I have fought my way through,

  ‘I have finished the work Thou didst give me to do.’

  “If we can reach that point, if we can say these words to the Lord, then our sacrifice will be over and he will bring us home.”

  The chaplain paused as he clasped his hands in front of his chest and looked again at the wife. “I am so proud of your husband,” he said in a low voice. “I am so grateful there are still men like him in this world. He fought for the freedom of others. That is the way that we do it here in America. That is the way we fight wars. We don’t go looking for battles. We don’t conquer other nations; we don’t occupy other lands. Indeed, the only foreign soil our nation has ever claimed have been tiny spots such as this, where we seek a quiet pasture to bury our dead.

  “And so, Mrs. Calton, I speak for a thankful nation when I tell you that we are not only grateful to your husband, we are also grateful to you. We are grateful for your sacrifice and the price you have paid. Your sacrifice is sufficient. Lieutenant Calton is home. And I pray the Lord will bless you until you are together again.”

  The chaplain stopped, wiped a hand across his face, then took a step back and nodded to the color guard. Two of the soldiers stepped to the casket and lifted the American flag. Another sergeant marched to the side of a huge tree, a dark oak up the hillside, which would watch over the grave. The sergeant lifted a silver bugle and began to play “Taps.”

  Day is done

  Gone the sun

  From the hill, from the dell, from the sea . . .

  The sound was low and mournful, and it trailed through the trees and across the wet grass, melting over the graves of the American dead. As the bugler played, the two soldiers reverently folded the American flag into a perfect triangle, tight and tucked in. The junior NCO then held the flag, clutching it with crossed arms at his chest. The team leader took two steps back and briefly stood at rigid attention, then quickly drew his fist from his thigh and up across his chest, extending his fingers as his hand crossed his heart then upward until his finger touched the tip of his brow. He held the salute, the last salute, for a very long time, then slowly, respectfully, almost unwillingly lowered his hand. He stepped forward, took the flag, and, turning crisply, handed it to the young wife. “On behalf of a grateful nation,” he said.

  She reached out and took it, placing it on her lap. The soldier then passed her the Medal of Honor, and she clutched it in her hand. The two soldiers turned together and moved to the side. The bugle faded away and the silence returned.

  And with that it was over. The service was done. At least it should have been over. But none seemed willing to move, for it was almost as if something were yet left unsaid. Every eye turned to the family, those who had lost their husband, father, and son. The young mother glanced down at her daughter, and the child nodded her head. The mother smiled encouragingly, and the little girl stood up. She moved to the casket, which gleamed even in the dim light, then turned hesitantly to her mother, who nodded again. The crowd waited in silence. It seemed even the earth held its breath.

  The little girl stood for a moment, and the clouds seemed to part. The wind turned suddenly calm and the thunderclouds paused. The girl placed her hand on the casket and lifted her head. “Daddy, I want to tell you something,” she said in a quivering voice. “You are my hero. I want to be just like you. But I don’t know if I’m strong enough. I don’t know if I can. But I will take care of Mommy, just like you asked me to. I will make her cakes for her birthdays, just like I promised I would. I will be her best friend. I will not leave her alone. And I will try to be strong. But I’m a little bit scared.” Her voice trailed off, and she looked quickly away. “I love you, Daddy. I miss you,” she said again to the skies. “I need you here, Daddy, and I don’t understand. I wish that I could. I want to believe what you said . . . ”

  She lowered her head in frustration and clasped her arms at her chest, holding herself as if in an embrace. No one spoke, no one moved. Time seemed to stand still, for there was a reverence in the moment that no one was willing to break. How much time passed, it was impossible to say, but the little girl, sweet and peaceful, eventually lifted her head. Her eyes opened and her face seemed to shine.

  If she had seen a vision, it was not shared with anyone.

  But the heavens had been opened.

  And she did understand.

  For they were set to be a light unto

  the world, and to be the saviors of men.

  –Doctrine and Covenants 103:9

  Chapter One

  The Premortal World,

  in the Opening Days of the War

  Michael, the commander, stood at his window, his huge shoulders barely moving as the shudder passed through his chest. His lower jaw trembled, and he clenched down on it. He stared out, alone, as a sadness so deep it penetrated to the core of his soul fell over him like a blanket of blackness and despair. He felt the anger of betrayal and the pain of losing a friend, and worse, the frustration of knowing he’d made a horrible mistake. He looked out on the great city but saw nothing there, his mind completely preoccupied with his own hurt and self-doubt.

  How could this happen? How could it go this far? He was his brother–one of his closest friends!

  No! He’s the enemy, a betrayer, the most dangerous man I know.

  He was a fellow warrior.

  But he hates you! He’ll destroy you! Ambition and power are all he cares about now!

  He was a comrade, a great leader in a position of authority. He was loved by the people . . . no, he was more than loved, he was adored. He was an almost mystical figure, with a passion and persuasion that could carry men’s hearts.

  He was a brother.

  He’s a traitor. He is the enemy now.

  Michael continued to stare out the tall window, then pushed his hands angrily through his hair. His lieutenant stood back, a look of sadness on his face. The commander glanced toward him and saw the concern in his eyes. How many times had this lieutenant pledged his undying support, given an oath to follow him anywhere, to go with him down to the very pit of despair? And yet here Michael stood in his weakness, a weakness he couldn’t control. He flushed in frustration. His men shouldn’t see him this way.

  Yet even now, in his weakness, the commander emanated an uncommon strength, his power and authority bringing light and energy to the room. He was tall and proud, with strong shoulders and powerful arms. His clothes were perfectly tailored and fit neatly over his frame. And though he was young (though not nearly as young as he looked), it didn’t take a long observation to determine that the strength of his royalty ran thick in his veins.

  It was no trick of fate that Michael found himself in this place, holding thi
s position at this treacherous time. He was born to this duty, his soldiers were certain of that, sired and appointed to lead them in this hour. And to some degree, it was true. From the time he was young, Michael had prepared himself for the battle he would see in his days.

  Some called it the last days. Some called it the end. But the truth was, it was both end and beginning. For as one door in life closed, another door opened up, and time had a way of slipping into the next phase.

  The commander’s shoulders drooped wearily as he stared out the great window, the afternoon sun pouring over his face.

  His quarters, a huge granite structure just outside the main downtown plaza, sat on a small hill surrounded by green lawns and a series of interconnected pools. Various fowl splashed in the water and rested in the tall grass on the banks. The sky was clear and cloudless and blue–so blue it almost seemed painted, like a color that had been selected from a mystical palette. From his window, he could see to the west and north, to the mountains in the distance, and the desert on beyond the great lake.

  He stood there a moment, his breathing heavy and slow, then glanced to his lieutenant, one of his most trusted aides. “Jacob,” he said slowly, “let me ask you something.” A long moment of silence followed. “Can you remember when . . . ?” He stopped, his voice trailing off.

  The lieutenant stood in silence, a respectful distance away. Michael glanced at him awkwardly. “How far back can you remember?” he pressed.

  The lieutenant shifted his weight. “Sir?” he questioned hesitatingly.

  “How far back can you go? What is your earliest memory?”

  “I don’t know,” Jacob answered. “I don’t often look back. Today and right now, that’s all I think about. We’ve all worked so hard to get here. It’s the only thing that matters to me.”

  The commander took a deep breath. “He and I grew up together. Did you know that?” he asked.