Patriots

by James Wesley, Rawles

  Each Thursday was movie night. Using Kevin’s wide-screen Mac laptop, they clustered chairs in the living room and watched one of the eighty-three DVDs in the combined collection at the retreat—most of them came from the Grays or Kevin Lendel. Saturday night was “movie rerun night,” for the benefit of those who missed the Thursday movie because of LP/OP or C.Q. duty. The Saturday nights were nearly as well attended as the Thursday first showings.

  One of the regular chores at the retreat was grinding wheat and corn, roughly every other day. For this, the group members took turns using Mary’s Country Living grain mill. It was a well-made and reliable unit that verged on being overengineered. The mill’s body was die-cast. Mary said that she would have preferred a cast iron body, “But of course it would weigh as much as an anvil,” she said with a laugh. The mill was adjustable from very coarse (for simply cracking grain), to very fine, for making bread flour. The internal parts could be removed for service or repair. It had ball bearings on the shaft, which was a nice feature that most other small mills didn’t have. In addition to the hand crank, the unit had a steel v-belt pulley wheel. Soon after they arrived, Lon fabricated a mount for the mill on the bicycle/generator with an adjustable travel to provide proper belt tension. Pedaling was far easier than turning the crank by hand. Mary bought the mill in 2002. It cost three hundred and forty dollars, and Mary soon spent an extra seventy dollars on spare parts, “just in case.”

  Once every two weeks, Mike had each member take turns at leading a practice patrol or ambush. Their performance was critiqued after each training session. Within a few weeks, the group’s patrols took on a heretofore unknown level of precision. Noise was minimal or nonexistent, hand and arm signals were relayed expertly, and operations orders were given professionally, using the Army’s standard five paragraph “op order” format.

  The only problem that arose in the weeks after the new members were added to the group came when the septic tank backed up. From the day that the Nelsons arrived, Mary had insisted that everyone collect their used toilet paper in paper bags rather than flushing it. The contents of these bags were burned daily. The bags were euphemistically called “clothespin bags,” in reference to the clothespins that were used to keep them shut to control odors.

  Even though there was no toilet paper going through the septic system, Margie surmised that the large number of people at the Grays’ house was over-taxing it. The first sign of this problem came when the kitchen sink drain started gurgling ominously. Margie recognized this symptom and alerted Todd.

  Resolving the problem took several days. First, the lid to the septic tank had to be found. This involved nearly a full day of probing with a pointed steel rod to determine where the outer edges of the concrete septic tank were located, and then digging down to the pumping cover.

  A quick inspection showed that the tank’s sanitary tee was clogged, and there was a fairly heavy layer of “cake” or “scum” in the upper potion of the center section of the three-section tank. The color of the liquid in the tank was almost black, which Margie said was a good sign that the friendly bacteria were doing their job. The blockage was soon cleared with a length of one-inch galvanized pipe. So that not as much digging would be required the next time the septic tank had to be inspected or worked on, Todd and Lon cut a fifty-five-gallon drum to the proper length to use as an inspection hatch. A piece of quarter-inch plate steel was laid on top, with the realization that the thin sheet metal drum would eventually rust out. With the new hatch in place, only a six-inch layer of soil had to be removed rather than twenty-five inches.

  The inspection of the septic tank confirmed Margie’s suspicion that the increased number of people living at the house had exceeded its carrying capacity. Todd consulted with the rest of the group members about their options. Two suggestions were made: frequently pumping the tank or constructing an outhouse to supplement the septic tank system. The first option was out of the question because they did not have the pumping apparatus available to empty the tank. So they built an outhouse.

  The outhouse was constructed a hundred feet from the house, far downhill from the spring, and away from the natural course of rainwater runoff. Mike mentioned that he had once seen an easy way to build a privy, at a hunting camp. His design suggestion was the one that was eventually used. All that had to be done was to bury two-thirds of the length of a fifty-five-gallon drum into the ground. An oval-shape hole was then cut in its top with a cutting torch. Then the entire bottom of the barrel was also cut out. After the jagged edges were filed off, a used toilet seat was mounted with its bolts through the top of the drum. To make it a private privy, a movable wooden shed was built over the top of it.

  The new outhouse had several advantages. First, it took the burden off of the house’s flush toilet septic system. Second, it would provide a valuable source of fertilizer for the flower garden that had previously been wasted. Todd soon instituted a rule that the group members would use the outhouse exclusively—except in cases of illness or when there was a certifiable blizzard blowing. This was not a popular rule, but it was heeded.

  With the exception of Rose, all the group members maintained good health during the first winter at the retreat. A few of the members caught colds in the first weeks, but there were no cases of the flu or other illnesses that winter. Mary surmised that their isolation from other people was keeping them away from the infectious diseases transmitted by personal contact. All the original group members had received pneumonia vaccinations, in anticipation of eventually having a large group living in cramped quarters.

  The group kept busy, even in the winter months. Since the house had an electric hot water heater—now defunct—they heated water on the woodstoves for washing dishes, laundering clothes, or bathing as a daily chore. Water for baths was hauled in kettles from the kitchen to the bathroom. Luckily, it was only a few steps away. Laundry was done twice a week in a James hand washer and wrung with a hand wringer. Mary had had the foresight to order the James washer from the Lehman’s Amish mail-order catalog. Kevin Lendel picked up the wringer at a farm auction in Clarkia, the summer before the Crunch. On the “non-laundry days,” it was a couple’s turn to have bathwater.

  Saturdays were bath days for the bachelors. All of this water heating and hauling made Todd wish that he had installed hot water coils in the heating stove.

  Most of the group members kept in good spirits as the winter set in. Unlike millions of their fellow Americans, they weren’t wet, cold, or hungry. Each evening before dinner, group members took turns saying a blessing. For anyone who was forgetful, it was there that they enumerated their many blessings. Only two members had any significant difficulties adjusting. One was Rose, who frequently got depressed worrying about her family, or thinking about the situation in general.

  The other was Lisa, who roughly once a month would get into a verbal fight with someone or throw a temper tantrum over something that annoyed her. In most cases, she stormed off to her room and pouted. The next morning she would emerge, make her apologies, and then act as if nothing had happened.

  T.K. counseled anyone who was showing signs of irritability or depression.

  Both most commonly occurred during the winter months, when everyone was by necessity living in close quarters. His counseling sessions usually consisted of a half an hour of prayer, questions and answers, some advice, and occasionally a good cry. T.K.’s never-flagging positive attitude and sense of humor did a lot to keep everyone else in good spirits. It was infectious.

  One evening, when everyone around the dinner table was quiet and glum, absorbed in their own thoughts, T.K. yelled “Food fight!” He started throwing dehydrated peas at anyone and everyone. It turned into a major conflagration, with peas and instant mashed potatoes flung with abandon for at least a full minute. When the combat and the laughter died down, T.K. did most of the cleaning up of the food and putting it in Shona’s scrap bowl. The clean up job took nearly half an hour. As he later explained to Todd,
it was worth it just to hear everyone laughing.

  LP/OP duty was a tremendously boring experience. Aside from being able to watch the sun rise and set, and refamiliarizing themselves with the constella-tions, there was not a lot to do. Reading while on guard duty was forbidden, lest a picket lose track of time and let an intruder slip in. There were a few false alarms at first, mostly caused by visiting deer, porcupines, and bears. Eventually, though, everyone became familiar with the normal activity patterns, sights, and sounds of the game.

  At night, guards listened for sounds of movement or vehicle engines. They also watched for any of the twenty trip flares that were set up around the perimeter. These military surplus M49A1 trip flares were strapped to the sides of trees and poles. They were mechanically activated when anyone stumbled into their trip wires. At first, a few were inadvertently set off by group members forgetting where they were located. A few more were tripped by deer or by Shona. This latter phenomenon ended when all of the trip flares were repositioned to a greater height. During daylight and twilight hours, pickets glassed the hillsides and the county road in both directions with binoculars. For countless days, nothing happened. No one was seen on the county road. Kevin Lendel aptly described LP/OP duty as “tedium ad nauseam.”

  • • •

  It was Lisa’s turn at picket duty when something finally interrupted the monotony. She stood in the LP/OP, snuggled in a surplus N-3B Extreme Cold Weather parka, occasionally stamping her feet, watching the gathering gray gloom of dawn. As she was looking at the tree line at the back of the property, Lisa heard Shona barking. She turned to see four pickup trucks in a tight column, coming down the gravel county road, running with only parking lights on.

  As soon as she saw the trucks, Lisa picked up the TA-1 field telephone and pulsed the clacker on its side. Mary, who was on C.Q. duty, answered. “There are four rigs in a row coming in from the west. Just a minute… They are slowing down. They are stopping at the front gate. Get everybody up, now. Now, now, now!” Mary hit the panic switch. Mallory Sonalerts throughout the house began emitting a piercing, high-pitched tone.

  Everything started happening very quickly when a man carrying a pair of thirty-six-inch bolt cutters hopped out the passenger side of the lead truck and ran up to the gate. Lisa rotated the selector switch on her CAR-15 and popped open the carbine’s scope covers. “Crud! Hardly enough light,” she cursed to herself. At about the same time, the gate swung open and the lead pickup gunned its engine. The truck didn’t stop to pick up the man at the gate, who had dropped prone and out of sight in the high grass and teasels.

  Lisa sighted on the passenger side window of the second pickup, which was slowing down to negotiate the turn a hundred yards down the hill from her foxhole. She fired two rounds, and missed, her shots passing well over the cab of the pickup. The words “Slow down, Breathe, Relax, Aim, Slack, and Squeeeeze, or you won’t hit anything” echoed in her mind. With her next two shots, the passenger window of the third pickup crumpled satisfactorily. By now the first of the trucks was less than seventy-five yards from the house. Lisa continued to fire, much more rapidly, primarily at the backs of the pickups.

  Inside the house, it was pandemonium. “From the front, four trucks!” Mary yelled.

  Todd was the first in the house to start shooting, his HK91 bucking steadily against his shoulder. Just as most of the others got to their prearranged positions behind the slotted steel plates over the windows, three of the four trucks disappeared from view, wheeling quickly behind the barn. The fourth sped on, heading for the chain-link fence that surrounded the house.

  No driver was visible behind the truck’s smashed windshield as it hit the fence. The fence gave way with seeming effortlessness. The pickup then skidded sideways and nearly rolled over as it came to a stop only twenty-five feet from the house. A crescendo of fire that sounded more like tearing canvas than individual shots peppered the side of the truck. Its driver and anyone who might have been lying in the truck’s bed were undoubtedly well ventilated.

  Thirty seconds later, the firing stopped. Not out of self control, but rather because every one of the guns on the south side of the house were empty. All except Todd’s. After firing most of a twenty-round magazine, he replaced it with his one and only thirty-round magazine, scanning for targets. “Reload, and fire only at definite targets!” Todd shouted. He then heard the clatter of numerous rifles being reloaded.

  “What on Earth’s happening up there?” asked Della from the back bedroom.

  “Shut up and watch your sector of fire!” Todd shouted in reply.

  A man briefly emerged from around the corner of the barn and fired three rounds from a SKS carbine at the house. All three rounds bounced harmlessly off the steel plates covering the windows. His shots were returned by several volleys from the house, which sent the man scurrying back behind the cover of the barn. The man popped the SKS around the corner and emptied it blindly.

  Only two rounds hit the house. Another volley of return fire from the house shredded the corner of the metal barn.

  Todd quietly asked himself, “Now what?” He could not see any movement behind the barn, far off to his right. All that he could do was wait.

  The only one with a view of the attackers, and a partial view at that, was Lisa, one-hundred-and-fifty yards away at the LP/OP. She could see two of them, both armed with riot shotguns, and the back end of one of the pickups.

  Fighting to control her breathing, she said quietly to herself, “Now let’s do this right.” She reached down into her ALICE pack and pulled out the bipod for her CAR-15. She clamped on the bipod and tried to center the four-power scope’s crosshairs on one of the attackers. This took some time because she was shooting downhill and the bipod’s legs were the wrong length. Only after she had shifted her position so that she rested on her knees on the chair was she able to acquire her target.

  She fired twice, hitting the first man cleanly between the shoulder blades on the first shot. She couldn’t be sure about the second shot. Lisa quickly changed her point of aim to the second man, who at that time was dropping to the ground to take cover. She felt no recoil and heard nothing when she pulled the trigger. At first Lisa thought that her CAR-15 had jammed, but soon realized that its bolt carrier was locked to the rear—the magazine was empty.

  Disgusted with herself, she dropped to the bottom of her hole and swapped the magazine for one of the stack of loaded thirty-round magazines from the .50 caliber ammo can dug into the side of the foxhole that served as a shelf.

  “How could I have fired thirty rounds that fast?” she asked herself out loud.

  When she popped up to try again, the other man was gone. Although he was not moving, she fired three more times at the now motionless man she had shot in the back, just to be sure. She then flattened both of the truck’s back tires, put a dozen rounds into the pickup’s camper shell, and used up the rest of the magazine puncturing the truck’s gas tank. Lisa again slithered down to the bottom of the foxhole, wondering what to do next. The answer came when she saw a Dymo label on the bottom of one of the magazines, as she reached up to the shelf to again reload her weapon. The label read, “Tracer.”

  Hearing a steady popping from up the ridge, Mary stated, “Sounds like Lisa has them in sight from the LP/OP.” There was a long pause, then another two shots followed immediately by a loud explosion. A ball of fire welled up from behind the barn. To Mary, it looked like a miniature version of her imaginings of a nuclear ground burst.

  It was relatively quiet for the next two minutes. No shots were fired, and the defenders sat anxiously at their positions, waiting for targets to present themselves. All that they could see were clouds of black smoke rising behind the barn. Then, as quickly as they came, the two remaining trucks roared out from behind the far side of the barn and back down the road to the gate. Todd, Mary, Dan, and Rose, all positioned at the front of the house, had the opportunity to fire several dozen rounds at the retreating pickups. They were disappoi
nted to score only a few hits.

  Lisa, still firing the magazine loaded with all tracers, got a few more hits as the two trucks sped away. To her surprise, the man who had used the bolt cutters, and who was now carrying only an automatic pistol, ran after the trucks waving his arms. Lisa took a steady aim with the bipod resting on the edge of the foxhole. It was eerie, almost seeming like slow motion, watching the red glow of the tracer arc out the two hundred and fifty yards to hit the man in the small of his back. He fell to the ground and began writhing violently. Lisa fired twice more. From the traces, she could see that both shots hit their mark. The man stopped moving.

  Mike ordered everyone to reload their weapons and sit tight. A call to Lisa up at the LP/OP confirmed that she was all right. Mike asked, “Did you reload?”

  She replied tersely, “Roger that.”

  Next, Mike asked her if she saw any movement or anything unusual behind the barn. She replied, “No, just the pickup truck that they left behind. The tires are still burning like crazy.” Dan asked Mike, “Can I go out and check out the two trucks?”

  Mike answered firmly, “No way! They could have left wounded or a ‘stay-behind’ out there. If there are any wounded, let’s give them time to hemorrhage. We’ve got allllll day.”

  It was almost an hour later that Mike dispatched a squad to clear the area. By then the pickup truck at the corner of the barn had stopped burning. The squad moved in rushes as two separate fire teams, with one supporting the other on each bound. They didn’t find anyone living. In addition to the dead man down at the county road, they found one dead man in the truck that had crashed through the fence, and two bodies on the ground behind the barn.