The Last Full Measure

by Trent Reedy

“You can stay out of the way.” The soldier she’d been helping groaned, and blood started seeping from his belly as she pulled the dressing off. “These guys are hurt pretty bad.”

  We started weaving our way around the dead and wounded, looking for people we recognized.

  “Looks like a good mix of Brotherhood and Idaho Army guys.” Sweeney leaned toward me on his cane and whispered, “You don’t think they fought each other?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t know what to think.

  “PFC Wright,” said a gentle, quiet voice from a few cots in front of me.

  “Chaplain Carmichael?” I went to the man. He held a blood-soaked field dressing to his thigh with one hand, and a little gold cross hanging from a chain with the other. “Oh sh —” I remembered to check my swearing. “Crap. I’ll see if I can get someone for you.”

  “I’m okay. Others are worse off.” He took a sharp breath in through his nose. “It’s … good to see you again.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said the chaplain. “There was a break in the fighting, and I thought …” He closed his eyes.

  “Sir, are you okay?” I asked.

  JoBell looked around the gym. “Let’s at least get him some pain meds.”

  Sweeney shook his head and whispered, “I doubt they’ll give him any.”

  “I thought I’d do what I like to call” — he opened his eyes again — “a walk with Christ with some of the men. We walk, talk about our concerns as Christian soldiers. We pray. But then the whole area seemed to explode. I don’t know how I got here. My chaplain’s assistant must have got me on the transport out. Specialist Baer. I haven’t … seen her.”

  I’d read about chaplain’s assistants in some of the brochures at the recruiter’s office before I enlisted in the Guard. Chaplains weren’t allowed to carry weapons, so it was up to the chaplain’s assistant to protect the chaplain on the battlefield. It was possible that Specialist Baer had died doing her duty.

  “I hope you find her, sir,” I said. I wanted to salute or something, but I felt weird in this makeshift hospital, and I wasn’t in uniform. I squeezed the man’s shoulder. “Hang in there.”

  “By the grace of God,” he said.

  Across the gym, TJ waved at me. “Wright. It’s Kemp. He’s over here.”

  “Oh no.” JoBell spoke first when we saw him. A white bandage was wrapped around his head and down over his left eye. His shoulder was wrapped up too.

  “Hey, Sergeant Kemp,” I said. “How you hanging in there?”

  Kemp grimaced. “I’ve been better. Could be worse.”

  “You’re going to be okay,” TJ said to him. “The doctors are good here.”

  Kemp laughed. “I hear one is actually a veterinarian.”

  “Yep. Dr. Nicole,” JoBell said. “But she’s a damn good veterinarian.”

  Sweeney gave his half smile. “And not so bad looking.” Then he looked at the bandage over Kemp’s eye, and his smile vanished. “Oh shit. Dude, I’m sorry. Old habits. I didn’t mean …”

  “Before you ask,” Kemp said, “the eye is gone. The only good thing about that is … the drugs.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  JoBell nudged me. “Danny, maybe he doesn’t want to talk about —”

  “It was terrible,” said Sergeant Kemp. “Major Leonard led an entire company on a mission to Leavenworth, Washington. You know? That little German-themed tourist town? We established a supply base at a cabin on a river north of town for our guys and the Brotherhood to use in guerrilla tactics. We were in Leavenworth getting ready to set up some obstacles for when the US came through. Then this … drone. Four rotary blades and huge speakers. It comes down out of the sky right in the main tourist square and starts blasting this death metal music. So loud, we couldn’t really hear anything else. Then a bunch of little rotary blade drones came zipping around corners and down over rooftops. Each one of them was carrying serious IEDs. Shrapnel bombs. Most of the drones would drop the bombs and fly away to save themselves, but some just blew up in place. Those little drones are quiet anyway, and with the music and the explosions you couldn’t hear them coming at all.

  “We lost about the whole company in seconds. We couldn’t get to the vehicles because the drones were on them.” He shook his head and then groaned in pain. “It’s like our worst nightmare. IEDs that can move. A little C4, or any explosive really, packed in the middle of a bunch of nails or ball bearings. The drone can hover and hide behind trees or buildings, waiting to fly out and attack. And all the time, their operators can be somewhere totally safe, piloting the drone by its camera. Nasty.”

  “But you got out of there.” JoBell squeezed his hand. “Thank God.”

  “A bunch of us made it on foot to the woods east of town. We thought we’d got away, or that the last of the drones had exploded. Then one of them dove out of the branches from overhead. Specialist Bingham shot it, and it went down in the woods. We rushed it, and I pulled the blasting cap to disarm it. But just as we were patting ourselves on the back for capturing one of their drones, another one swept around from behind this rotting tree trunk. I mostly got behind a tree before it went off.” He shook his head. “We patched up and carried our wounded, found a vehicle that actually had gas, and floored it out of there. Major Leonard lost his right leg and will probably lose most of his right arm. They’ve already taken him and our most critically wounded to Boise. He’ll never be in the field again.”

  “But you saved his life,” said TJ.

  “It was a massacre. Just like the Fed invasion that started the occupation. Except this time they’re killing anything that moves. Soldiers. Civilians. They don’t care.” His good eye began to tear up. “I’m … so tired of it all.”

  Becca made her way over to us. “Sergeant Kemp, it’s Becca Wells. Were these dressings done in the field?”

  “Yeah,” Kemp said. “Best we could do.”

  “I’m just going to take a look, make sure everything’s nice and clean and that you’ve got good, sterile bandages.” Becca leaned close to Sweeney and spoke quietly. “I’m going to need some more packing gauze, and probably more bandages too.”

  “You got it,” he said to Becca. He looked at her for a moment, and as long as I’d known Sweeney, I’d never seen him look at a girl quite that way. Even though he was obviously still in physical pain, he looked … happy. Like really happy. It was different from when Sweeney was excited about making it with another girl. He had this look of satisfaction, of contentedness that I’d hardly ever seen in him. He walked off to the supply table, leaning on his cane a little less than usual.

  Becca gloved up and went to work. “I know it hurts, Sergeant Kemp,” she said as she cleaned the wounds on his arm. “Try to hang in there. I think we better get one of the doctors to look at you. I want to make sure you get stitched up right, and they’re way better at that than I am.”

  Sergeant Kemp reached up and squeezed Becca’s hand. “It’s good to see you again, Wells. Even if it’s just with one eye.”

  “Try to relax, Sergeant,” I said. “You’re safe now.”

  Sergeant Kemp groaned. “That Vice President General is not messing around,” he said. “The US is moving across Washington one city at a time like stepping-stones. They’ll destroy everything to get to us, and they’re two or three steps away. I don’t think any of us are safe.”

  * * *

  “Who’s that for?” I asked TJ the next day. He was stuffing a couple frozen steaks and some canned goods into a backpack.

  He looked up from his work. “Making a run to Coach Shiratori’s house.”

  “In broad daylight?”

  TJ thumped a can of mixed fruit onto the counter. “I actually have some experience with this.”

  “Sorry,” I said, remembering how he’d pretty much saved us by smuggling food and information into the dungeon during the occupation.

  TJ packed the can in with the rest. “One thing I figu
red out is that lots of times, if you act like everything you’re doing is completely normal, people will assume it is. You go sneaking around in the middle of the night and people wonder what’s up.”

  “Can I come?” I felt weird, somehow, asking to join in the operation. I worried they might be mad, thinking I was trying to take over what they were doing. “Unless three of us would draw suspicion. I just want to talk to Coach.”

  “Becca’s staying here to help Sweeney. He’s hurting real bad.”

  “You were planning to go alone?” I asked. “What about rule number one?”

  “I made almost every smuggling run by myself during the occupation.” He smiled, but there was a distant look in his eyes. “I can handle it. But it’s cool if you come along.” TJ hoisted the backpack, checked the .38 in the holster on his belt, and then chambered a round in his bolt action Remington 700. He slung the rifle on his shoulder. “Just like the good old days sneaking past the Fed. At least now I get to go armed.”

  It was no secret that me and TJ never got along too good in the past. Through the war, we’d gotten over that and become friends. But as I picked up my M4 and felt the familiar nervous tension that came with any mission, I realized I’d never taken the time to really think about and appreciate everything TJ had done for us. While me and my guys were hiding in the dungeon and later at the cabin, that guy had been sneaking food and messages right past Fed patrols, and without even so much as a pocketknife.

  “TJ,” I said. “You’re one tough son of a bitch.”

  He laughed. “Leave my mother out of this, asshole.”

  “You two fighting again?” JoBell said, leaning against the doorjamb, looking good in ratty old jeans and a T-shirt, with her Springfield M1A hanging from its sling. She came into the kitchen and kissed me quick.

  “We’re making a run to Shiratori’s,” I said.

  “Then I’m going too.” She hurried to tell Becca and Sweeney. Outside the house, she draped her arms over both of our shoulders and led us forward. “You two need someone to keep you out of trouble.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure you can spare it?” Mrs. Shiratori asked a few minutes later in her kitchen. “It’s so much.”

  “There’s plenty more where that came from.” JoBell was trying to pump cheerfulness into her voice, like we were just delivering a few cookies at Christmas or something, like this was all fun.

  “Is Coach here?” I asked.

  Mrs. Shiratori kind of froze up for a second. “He’s in his study,” she said sadly. “Where else?”

  “Can I go see him?”

  She shrugged.

  I exchanged looks with TJ and JoBell. “Why don’t I help you put this stuff away?” JoBell said to Mrs. Shiratori. If it weren’t so tragic, the offer to help put the food away might have been funny. It was a couple T-bones and about a dozen cans. Mrs. Shiratori wouldn’t need much help with that.

  I slipped out of the kitchen and went looking for Coach’s study. I’d never really been in the man’s house except for when he’d hidden us in his basement closet during the occupation, so it took me a minute to find him.

  “Wow.” It was the only word to describe the room. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were packed with books on every wall, and a big wooden desk stood in the middle of the room. Coach sat at the desk with a bottle of bourbon and a half-full tumbler in front of him. He had several days of stubble on his cheeks, and his hair looked greasy, like he hadn’t showered in a while.

  “Danny Wright!” He made a halfhearted effort to offer the left-fisted Brotherhood salute. “What brings you here?”

  In all the time I’d known him, Coach Shiratori had always been in control, professional, from his clothes to the way he carried himself. It hurt to see him down like this. “You okay, Coach?”

  “Am I okay?” He leaned his face over his glass and shook his head. “What? You here to drop off food so my family doesn’t starve?”

  “We brought some stuff in case —”

  “I’m facing false charges of treason, and they’ve taken my job. Everything I’ve worked for, my savings, fifteen years toward my retirement pension, investments. All wasted. And my ration cards never come, so I can’t even feed my family!” He shot up out of his chair. “Am I okay?” His hand slid along his books. They stopped at a glass case with a half-dozen military medals. “These are my grandfather’s from World War II. During the war, they questioned my family’s loyalty to America, forcing them all into a camp until they needed more men to fight. When the Army came asking for volunteers, my grandfather could have told them where to stick their enlistment contract. But he didn’t. He told me once that he loved his country. His country! And he wanted to prove he was American.”

  “Coach, that was all a long time ago,” I said.

  “He shouldn’t have had to prove anything to anyone! Just because he looked different. And now decades and decades later, I have to prove my loyalty again!” He turned back to his shelves, yanking one book and tossing it to the floor. “Look at this! Band of Brothers. The Winston Churchill World War II books. I read ’em all. Book on the Holocaust.” Book after book fell to the floor. “All these books to study. A new World War II movie every other year. The testimony of tens of thousands of veterans and Holocaust survivors. Decades to reflect on the world’s worst war and how it happened.”

  “Coach?”

  “We haven’t learned a damned thing!” Tears were in Coach’s eyes as he held out another book to me. “Anne Frank’s diary. Don’t you see? Otto Frank saw the signs. If he could have just taken his family farther away.”

  What was he getting at? He staggered a little, and I helped steady him. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “None. I don’t drink. That bottle was a college graduation gift like twenty years ago. I just haven’t slept for days. Been up keeping watch.” I helped the man to his chair. “Every time I’ve ever read a Holocaust story, I always wished I could go back in time to tell the victims to run. Run away and don’t look back.”

  “That stuff was a long time ago,” I said again.

  “No.” He looked at me, wide-eyed. “It’s right now. I’m not stupid, Danny. All of this has happened before. I tried to get my family out of here a few days ago. Figured I had enough gas to make it to US territory in Seattle. About a mile out of town, we ran into a Brotherhood checkpoint. A bunch of thugs with rifles and shotguns. They” — he leaned forward, throwing his whole body into making air quotes with his fingers — “ ‘strongly encouraged’ me to turn around and go home. For my own safety.”

  “Well, it is dangerous out there,” I tried.

  He gave no sign of hearing me. “You should have seen the condescending looks on their faces, heard the way they talked down to me like I was a damned child! Some of those guys used to be my students, used to be on my football team. And I —” He slammed his fist down on his desk, spilling some of his bourbon. “I shouldn’t have to prove to my former students, or to anybody else, that I’m not the enemy, that I’m a citizen who is supposed to have rights.”

  “Well, maybe … maybe the investigation will clear you.”

  I immediately regretted what I’d said.

  Coach glared at me in silence for a moment. He scratched his stubbled cheek. “You know, I worked really hard to teach you something. Tell me you’re not that dumb. No, Danny. I’m too late. For my daughter. My wife. We should have got the hell out of here long ago. Now we’re all just waiting for another Kristallnacht.”

  I’d come here to ask Coach Shiratori what to do about the Brotherhood, whether I should try to talk to Crow to work stuff out to make sure things were fair, or if they were a lost cause. If they were, what were we supposed to do? Run away? If the Brotherhood would even let us. And even if they would, where could we go? Should I try to fight the Brotherhood? That was going to be tough with the United States on its way across Washington, ready to try to crush us.

  Coach had always had answers to stuff like this, o
r at least he’d always been able to point me toward the right questions. But now, this man who had always been a role model to all of us growing up, who’d saved our lives during the occupation, was broken down. The war had turned a lot of things around, screwed up the way things should be in all kinds of ways, but I never thought I’d be the one coaching and encouraging Mr. Shiratori.

  I moved to the side to put myself in line with his dull gaze. “I’ll take care of this, Coach. Don’t worry.” He laughed a little. “I’m serious,” I said. “I’ll keep you and your family safe. I promise.”

  Coach only spun away from me in his chair, wiping his eyes. I stood there in awkward silence for a while before I figured the man wanted to be alone.

  “I’m not gonna lie,” I said to my friends as we left Shiratori’s house. We passed a Brotherhood soldier who just happened to be strolling around across the street. I wondered if there was a guard there all the time. “It’s getting harder and harder to see what we’ve gained from this war.”

  My eighteenth birthday was two days later. In spite of the nervous tension around town with the United States military drawing closer and closer, Cal insisted we celebrate, and a bunch of our friends came over. Brad Robinson brought a football, and we all returned to what we used to call backyard footbrawl.

  “Set, hit!” Jaclyn Martinez shouted a second before Brad Robinson snapped the football to her.

  The other team started their five count before they could rush. “One battleship, two battleship …”

  Cal and Brad held our offensive line while me, Becca, and Aimee Hartling took off on pass routes. Aimee and me both ran outs, sprinting ten yards ahead and then cutting to the sidelines. Becca shot straight up the middle.

  “Forget it, Wright.” TJ was right on my ass. “Jackie can’t throw far enough to hit Becca, and Aimee can’t catch. I got you.”

  I spun to head back inside. TJ slapped my back, covering me.

  Jaclyn fired the football like an artillery shell, perfect, heading right toward Becca’s outstretched hands. Then Becca slowed down, and the football hit the ground a few paces in front of her.