10. All announcements placed upon this board are official and in force from the time of placement. Claiming of ignorance of said laws shall not be accepted as an excuse for non-compliance.
Signed,
Charles Fuller
Director of Public Safety
WE SHALL WIN THROUGH TO ULTIMATE VICTORY. GOD BLESS AND PRESERVE THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
John turned away from the board and looked at Makala. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Feel like I’m in a bad movie or novel,” she sighed. “‘Long Live the King,’ or ‘Long Live Our Glorious Leader,’ or something like that should be on the board.”
“We are nowhere near that yet,” John said coldly.
“Might as well warn you now, I’m one of those old-style liberals who used to see conspiracies behind everything the right wing did.” He looked at her and saw a trace of a smile.
“I used to feel the same about the left,” and now it was his turn to smile. “Seems absurd now.”
“Still, to go from where we were three weeks ago to this, it’s impossible to grasp.”
They walked back to the Edsel. He noticed that the parking area around the police station had been cleared of all the newer and now-useless cars. There was a row of half a dozen VW Bugs, “Courtesy of Jim Bartlett” stenciled on the side of each with an old-fashioned peace sign added in. That must really rankle Tom, John thought. Two old Jeeps, one of them the antique World War II jeep with a white star stenciled on the hood, an assortment of cars from the fifties and sixties, a few from the seventies, the years that Detroit really started to turn out junk, which didn’t survive as well as the older ones. A number of older motorcycles and mopeds as well.
To his surprise a couple of horses were tethered there as well, and he stopped to look at them.
“Stables at the kids’ camps. Over forty horses in the community,” Makala said. “Most were appropriated by Charlie for patrolling the back roads.”
She walked up and rubbed the horse’s nose and it nickered. “Used to love riding. And you?”
“Actually, yes. The freedom of it when you’re out on open ground. But it’s been a while.”
“Poor things.”
“Why?”
“Charlie said we can use them through the summer, but once we go through the cattle and pigs, they’re next.” He nodded, saying nothing.
They got into the Edsel, Makala still driving, and headed up towards the college. As they approached the arched stone gate, a huge hand-lettered sign greeted them:
HALT! YOU MUST STOP!
He rolled to a stop and two of his students, both with shotguns, blocked his approach, weapons leveled, but upon their recognizing him there were grins.
“What the hell is this?” John asked.
“Sorry, Professor. Interior defense. Some of those runaways from the interstate are still out there. Also, we’re starting to get people trying to sneak in off the old toll road behind us. Sergeant Parker has posted a twenty-four-hour guard here.”
John nodded, saying nothing as Makala drove through the gatehouse and then into the campus.
All was quiet here and then he saw them, lined up on the grassy slope in front of Gaither Hall. He motioned for Makala to pull over and stop.
He sat in the car for a moment and watched. Damn, it was like boot camp, fifty kids, a platoon-size unit, standing at attention, inspection arms, and every kid was indeed armed. Some had shotguns, others hunting rifles; a few stood there with pistols. Every weapon imaginable, from a Chinese SKS, to .22 semiautos, to a monstrous double-barreled 12-gauge shotgun, and he quickly recognized two boys carrying reproductions of Civil War .58 Springfield rifles.
He got out of the car to watch. A few of them looked his way. One girl grinned and started to wave; then realizing what she was supposed to be doing, she came back to attention.
And there was Washington Parker, walking down the line, grabbing a weapon from one student, levering the bolt action back, looking into the chamber, then slapping the weapon back into the student’s hands.
“Not clean enough! You want to live? You keep your weapon clean!”
John slowly walked up and the eye contact from students was a tip-off to Washington to turn. There was the flicker of a smile and Washington came to attention and saluted.
“Good day, Colonel, sir. Care to inspect the troops?”
John found himself returning the salute.
“Are we feeling better today, Colonel, sir?”
“Yes, Mr….” He fumbled for a second. “Yes, Sergeant Parker, I am, thank you.”
Embarrassed, John turned to look at his students, kids of but three weeks back. He had spoken to them more than once about the privileges they had. That kids their age were defending them on distant fronts even as they sat half-dozing in class. Several graduates of the college had been in Iraq, another in Afghanistan, and whenever an e-mail came in from overseas John usually read it to these same students. And now they stood lined up with guns, in front of the main campus building that housed the admissions office, the registrar, the music department, and one of the two chapels on campus.
He knew they were expecting him to now say something, but words failed him. He saw his two favorites, Jeremiah and Phil, to the right of the line, sergeant’s chevrons stenciled on the dark blue college T-shirts all of them were wearing like uniforms.
Jeremiah and Phil made eye contact and he nodded.
He wondered if these kids knew what he had done in the park. Of course they did, the whole town knew, and as he gazed at them he could see it in their eyes. They were looking at him differently. He had been the executioner. He was no longer the history professor who, though a former military man, was seen as having a soft heart.
“They look good,” was all he could say as he turned to face Washington, who saluted him. John returned the salute and headed into Gaither Hall.
“Rather paramilitary, isn’t it?” Makala asked, returning to his side.
John did not reply.
He walked into the building and for a moment wasn’t sure what to actually expect. Of course the corridors were darkened, the air heavy and humid. Fortunately, the building was old, having been designed long before central AC, so at least there was some circulation. The door to the admissions office and registrar were closed, but he could hear a piano in the chapel. He motioned for Makala to follow and he opened the door.
The chapel had been built in the 1930s, just as the chestnut blight had ripped through the Carolina mountains, so the trees had been harvested off and now were the beams, paneling, and ceiling, a beautiful warm, dark golden wood. Austere to a certain degree, for this was, after all, a Presbyterian school, but still a wonderful chapel in John’s eyes.
Up on the stage several kids were standing around the piano, Jessie, one of the music majors, just fooling around a bit.
A student whose name John did remember, Laura, said something, Jessie played a few chords, and she began to sing. Instantly John felt his throat tighten. Laura had sung this song in the spring musical review, and though it was from a play that he thought was way too sentimental, The Fantasticks, the song was haunting and, to him, such a metaphor for all that was happening.
“Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow….”
He felt Makala’s hand slip into his and they were silent. He could feel a shudder run through Makala; she was crying. Laura’s voice echoed:
“Try to remember when life was so tender
That no one wept except the willow….”
John could hear Parker shouting orders outside, the students now going through the manual of arms. It was almost to much for him to bear. It wasn’t supposed to happen here, but it had happened here.
Laura finished the second stanza and drifted into the third:
“Deep in December, it’s nice to remember,
Although you know the snow will follow….”
“I
can’t bear this,” Makala whispered.
They slipped out of the chapel, Laura, the others, not even knowing he had been there.
Makala leaned against him for a moment, sobbing, and his arms were around her and then she stepped back, breaking away from his embrace, looking up at him. Sorry.
“No, it was rather nice actually,” he said.
The song finished in the chapel and he started out of the building, then noticed that the door to President Hunt’s office was ajar. He tapped on it and walked in. The administrative assistant, Kim McMurty, was not behind her desk. That was a disappointment. She always reminded him a bit of the actress Nicole Kidman, perhaps better looking actually, and he had to admit he was smitten with Kim in a friendly sort of way, friendly, of course, because her husband, the director of computer services, was a darn good friend… and besides, Mary was still a haunting presence. What had just happened with Makala? He wasn’t sure how to react to her now.
“President Hunt?”
“In here.”
John walked into the back office and was startled.
Hunt seemed to have aged a dozen years in as many days, eyes sunken, hair disheveled, and then John wondered how he looked as well, still wobbly, unshaved, filthy, exhausted.
“John, you look like hell.”
“Well, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look like hell, too.”
Dan pointed to a chair and John sat down. He had always liked this office. John looked back and saw Makala out in Kim’s office. Makala nodded and left, motioning that she’d wait outside.
The first time he had come to this office to be interviewed for the job that Bob Scales had engineered for him, what caught his eye was three paintings on the far wall. The first was what was to be expected of a president of a Christ-centered college, a nicely framed section from Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel, the hand of God reaching out to touch Adam.
The other two, though. The second was sort of a transition between religion and the military, a painting of Washington, kneeling in the snow at Valley Forge, praying. The third was Howard Pyle’s The Nation Makers, a stunning portrait of a line of Revolutionary War infantry going into battle, men tattered but defiant, the American flag little more than a rag but going forward relentlessly to what could only be ultimate victory.
The paintings were still there, as always, but as John turned to look back out the window at the students drilling, Pyle’s work took on new meaning.
Dan was silent and then, to John’s surprise, reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a couple of coffee cups.
“If the board of trustees ever knew about this, they’d hang me,” Dan said, and John wondered it he was being serious or just joking. It was, after all, a dry campus.
John took the offered cup and waited for Dan to pour an ounce. He held it up.
“For the Republic, may God preserve her,” Dan said. The two drained the cups down in a single gulp, Dan exhaling noisily as he put his down.
“What’s up, John?” Dan asked.
“Well, sir, I guess you knew I was out of the loop for a week or so.”
“You had us scared there, John. At chapel every day for the last week Reverend Abel and the kids offered prayers for you.”
“Well, it most certainly worked,” John said, looking down at his hand. “What about classes. Are they still meeting?”
Dan shook his head.
“Remember, most of our faculty live miles from here; no, classes are canceled.”
“But you still hold daily chapel.”
“Now more than ever,” Dan said quietly.
That was reassuring, darn reassuring, a link to the past somehow. And yes, as well, in any time of crisis churches would fill up again. The Sunday after 9/11 John remembered the small chapel he and Mary used to go to over in Swannanoa was packed to overflowing.
“I felt I should check in, see what was happening on campus. After all, this place is my job.” He hesitated. “No, actually my life in so many ways. I was wondering if there was anything I should be doing here now.”
“Appreciate that,” Hunt replied softly, “but I think you have other responsibilities now.” John said nothing.
“I heard about your role on what people are now calling the Council. I think it’s darn good you’re part of that. They need someone like you. Focus your efforts on that; don’t worry about us.”
“These are my kids, too, Dan. I worry about them.”
Outside came the echo of Washington’s voice, chewing someone out. He sounded like a Marine DI again, the right edge of sarcasm but, in respect to the traditions of the campus, at least no overtly sexual, scatological, or downright obscene phrases thrown in.
“To survive, to keep these kids alive, we’re selling our services,” Dan said quietly. “But there’s a lot more behind this as well.”
John stood up and walked to the window, empty cup in hand, and watched as Washington, finished with the inspection, now started to run the kids through some close-order drill.
“What is that out there?” John asked.
“First Platoon of Company A of the Black Mountain Militia,” Dan said.
“What?”
“Just that. Charlie Fuller and I agreed on it a couple of days ago. A hundred and fifty kids so far. The other two platoons are out on a conditioning run up to Graybeard and back. We’d have more, but that’s all the weapons we could find so far. Company B will start forming up once we get more weapons.”
“Isn’t this a little overboard?” John asked. “Hell, I know Washington’s a good man, a great man actually, but come on, Dan. What is he doing out there, getting turned on with old memories, that it’s Parris Island or Khe Sanh again?”
“In truth, John, yes. I guess you heard about the riot at the gap.”
“Yes.”
“It was then that Charlie realized something, and Washington had most likely put the bug in his ear already: we need an army.” John sighed.
“Three weeks ago those kids were dozing in classes, trying to sneak up to Lookout Mountain with their boyfriend or girlfriend, or maybe, just maybe, studying for exams. Now we’re making them into an army?”
“I was younger than them when I lost this,” Dan said, and he slapped his left leg, a hollow thump resounding. “You were a lieutenant at twenty-two yourself.”
“Yeah, but Dan, this is a college. A small Christian college up in the mountains of North Carolina. Somehow it just doesn’t feel right to me.”
“Where else in this entire valley are there four hundred young men and women, in fairly good shape to start with, intelligence pretty darn good, already imbued with a sense of identity for the school and those who lead it, like you, me, Washington?”
“I don’t know,” John sighed, watching as the column went to right flank march and two girls screwed up, Washington in their faces and reaming them out so that one was crying as she tried to march.
“We had six hundred kids here, on the day before things went down,” Dan said, now at John’s side and watching the kids drill.
“About a hundred and fifty have left, trying to strike out for home. That was hard; you were not here for that meeting in the chapel. A lot of praying, soul-searching. I advised them to stay. Told them that if anything, their parents would want them to stay here until this crisis was over, knowing that they would be safe. Most who left are local, a day’s walk away, but a couple of them are from Florida, said they felt they should try and get home.”
John shook his head. The ones trying to get to Florida were most likely now facing hundreds of thousands heading the other way.
“The rest agreed to stay. Remember how several years back we had all those discussions in faculty meetings about orienting the college more to service? A couple of other colleges in the area, our rivals, were touting that all the time, so we put into the curriculum community service. That’s what we’re doing now.”
“Dan, there’s a helluva difference
between kids working at a homeless shelter or community day-care center and drilling like an army.”
“I don’t think so, John. The times, as the old song went, are a-changin’.”
The column of students turned and marched back across the green, weapons at the shoulder, and the sight of it sent a chill down his spine. He looked back at Pyle’s painting and then back to them.
My God, no difference, John realized. The tradition of close-order drill was a primal memory left over from the days when armies really did go into battle that way, shoulder to shoulder. Today it was supposedly about discipline and spirit and the fact that soldiers were at least expected to march. But no different, no different from what he used to talk about with such enthusiasm at the Civil War Roundtable and see at reenactments.
The difference was, though, this was for real. From close-order drill Washington would take them to elementary tactics: fire and movement, holding a fixed position, laying down fields of fire, assault of a fixed position, marksmanship, leadership in combat, emergency first aid, infiltration tactics, hand-to-hand combat, how to kill with a knife, how to kill with your bare hands.
The sight of them drilling such struck home, as forcefully as what John had been forced to do in the park.
“Washington thinks the world of you,” Dan said. “By the way, he told me what happened in the park. Said you handled yourself well.”
“Handled myself well? I puked my guts out.”
“No, not that. First time you shoot someone, if you got any heart in you, any touch of the divine spark, you should be horrified.” He looked off.
“I lost my leg during Tet. The day before that, though, I was on point, turned the corner of a trail, and there he was….” He sighed, shaking his head. “The Thomas Hardy poem, remember it?”
John nodded. “‘I shot at him and he at me, And killed him in his place.’”
“Well, I got him first; he was walking point for his unit and we just ran into each other. Before I even quite realized it I emptied my M16 into him. Hell of a firefight exploded, and I was on the ground, lying by his side, and I could hear him gasping for air. Do you know what he said?”
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