by Rolf Nelson
To help pass the time during the slow drive, Cranberry had everyone introduce themselves and offer a little bit about their background—where they grew up, what MOS they had, and most importantly, what hobbies and skills they had while helping them avoid the more sensitive parts of their backstories. He also explained in a little more detail why they had been asked. Each had skills that would be needed to build the structure and the institution. They were organized into squads with complementary skills grouped together, so they should be able to hit the ground running when they arrived. In return, they’d be given support, training, and belief in themselves, mankind in general, and the future. They would be given hope. Hope by doing.
Arrival at what was going to be the new monastery was mid-day, and everyone was quiet as they slowly pulled up the snow-covered road, following the snowplow-wielding pickup driven by a local farmer they’d hired into service. The buildings were in a small valley with trees upon the slopes surrounding the wide flat space the farmer assured them was potentially usable, if rather rocky and not particularly fertile, farmland. Neat rows of small and uncared-for trees revealed four acres of orchard (supposedly apples, pears, plums, and five varieties of nuts), and some scraggly and unmaintained rows of vines exposed an attempt at a vineyard. The main arena building was every bit as large as they had expected. The other ranch house and out-buildings were smaller. Everything sat under layers of fluffy white, including the half-dozen shipping containers of things that had been delivered recently though they were covered with a relatively thin layer.
After a heartfelt prayer of thanks for a safe arrival, they asked the farmer to check on them in a few days to make sure things were going at least somewhat as planned and unloaded the bus, stacking the gear inside the barn’s covered expanse. They watched the bus drive away, the sound muffled by the frozen landscape. Cranberry turned and addressed them.
“Gentlemen. Brothers. We have much to do, and I do not know how long anything will take. I have been told that everything we have ordered should be here, and the gas, water, and electricity should be on. But as you can see,” he paused to survey the largely empty building, “it will take a great deal to turn this into a home. I know much of the spirit, but not so much of construction, institutional cooking, wiring, plumbing, and all the rest of our practical needs. We need to get bedding, food, and restrooms, and basic amenities in order. Housing detail, here’s the key-ring; check out the buildings. Utilities team, see what’s on. Everyone else, let’s bust open these containers and see what we have to work with.”
* * *
The next couple of hours were a combination of Christmas unwrapping, Halloween trick-or-treating, Jack London short story, basic training bivouac reprise, and Boy Scout campout when the scoutmaster isn’t around. Some keys didn’t work, pipes had frozen, the electricity wasn’t on, there was no cell phone reception, the landline had no dial tone, and one of the expected shipping containers hadn’t been delivered. It was a scramble to see if they could have someplace heated for the night and get something better than cold food.
Once the initial thrill of discovery had died down somewhat, Abbot Cranberry celebrated Mass. Those that were already Catholic participated fully. The others watched and learned and were encouraged to follow along as best as they could. All would be expected to be baptized, learn all the standard Catholic prayers, and eventually chant the liturgy of the hours. A properly consecrated chapel—to say nothing of a proper church that would be required—could wait until they had a better understanding of what all they had to work with and knew about where the property line was.
As he stood in the cold, shivering slightly, Peter observed the skim of ice on the Communion wine in the chalice. Ken remarked he’d seen some tiny glasses used before, which he said looked like hobbit shot glasses, for which he received a round rebuke from Abbot Cranberry. Bill then looked around at the others, noting the combination of images and events were more than a little surreal. “We ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.”
Next to him, James agreed while shifting silently from one foot to the other. “That we are not, Brother. Likely just as cold there though.”
To the non-Catholics and cultural Christians among the men, it was a new and different sort of experience. For the lapsed but baptized Catholics, it was the first homily they’d heard in a while, and they transitioned rapidly into the comfortable routine of it, and more than a couple had to wipe tears from their eyes before it was over, and not just from the cold air.
For everyone, though, it was a metaphorical line in the snow that the world going forward was different from the one they left.
But when it was over, they still had to deal with the icy realities of the physical world they still resided in. Hours later it was Finnegan’s “paranoia” that saved the day. He’d included a small generator and a 55-gallon drum of fuel to go with some basic pioneer tools as part of one order. It was found in the back end of one of the 40-foot containers. With those they got lights on in the house and had enough juice for the septic pump and the big institutional coffee maker for the morning. They put the wood-burning stove into service (after doing a proper flue check to make sure it was clear), and used that to heat a simple dinner of canned chili and bread, which came with a lot of the standard bean jokes.
But truth be told, the new brothers were both excited and tired: many were not in the best of health, but for the first time in too long they were comfortable enough, were surrounded by people they could relate to, and were cautiously optimistic about the future. Thomas Cranberry’s upbeat attitude was contagious, and when everyone realized that he was the only man there who’d never camped out, they almost made him pitch a tent and sleep outside in one of the heavy sleeping bags they had along. Some of the homeless men had invested their few dollars wisely and had not been willing to leave such essential supplies behind.
A fireguard watch detail was worked out with men being up in pairs for one hour shifts. The last shift was an exception: it would be a trio, and they would start getting breakfast ready.
When men started settling in for the night and the quiet conversations started dying away, Thomas, Mickey, and Hugh retired to the kitchen and talked over the day.
* * *
“I expect a few serious flashbacks or nightmares tonight,” said Hugh quietly.
Finnegan nodded in agreement, but Thomas looked surprised. “Oh? They looked as though they were comfortable to me, beginning to settle into a rhythm.”
“Exactly,” said Mickey. “Move in to a new place, take over a remote building with no power, hunker down, see what all you have, heaps of stuff but no specific paint-by-the-numbers plan, only a general idea. They’ve all done it before. Patrolling. Some of them too many times to count.”
“But usually it’s been in hostile territory,” Hugh said, “wearing fifty pounds of battle-rattle and another fifty in your ruck, carrying a rifle everywhere, and never knowing when you’ll find a booby-trap or incoming. It’s sure to spook up a few memories.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Hmph. Maybe.”
“It’s going to be sort of a through-the-looking-glass time for them. Some things will feel totally familiar, maybe even comfortable, but it’s also totally different—like a parallel universe, and it will bring back memories at the oddest times. The next few months will be rough on some of us.” Mickey gazed absently through the kitchen doorway into the front room, where the soft glow from the fireplace’s glass door cast its flicking light. “Been in more than a few farmhouses with a platoon of guys myself…. Most nights were fine…. A few were… not so fine….”
Hugh nodded in silent understanding.
Thomas knew it was a world and a mental place he’d never more than glimpse, and he hoped that he would be able to help them out as much as they needed in spite of that.
The three spent a few minutes reviewing the day, comparing who worked well together, what they could leverage, and what priorities that might lead to for the foll
owing day. Things like sending a pair of men to follow the power and phone lines to see if they were broken, getting a better picture of the frozen pipe damage, starting regular kitchen and food rotations, and all the myriad details that two-score men needed in what was essentially a field environment were briefly considered. Remarkably, because of the preparation they’d done in selecting the men, it looked as though a reasonable number of those details would work themselves out with minimal direction simply by putting the right men on the job and letting them sort it out.
The first person to wake up shouting in a nightmare didn’t happen until third watch; it was one of three that night. They got two of them calmed back down quickly, but the other just joined the shift then on watch, keeping the fire going and watching between hands of solitaire played in a stoic silence for any impending problems that restless sleep might indicate. Looking back on it later, it was not the best night, nor the worst. It was just the first.
First Morning
St. Gabriel Possenti, we pray to you, who have shown virtue in sacrifice and courage as well as shooting skill, to give our weapons your blessings, so that they may serve only to defend, and never to bring harm, so that in this life we may give friendship and brotherhood. Guide our aim to that we may strike the center with our weapons, and more so with our behavior, to become worthy knights of this age. Protect us from the enemies of Love, Justice and liberty, and give us the strength to prevail in the struggle. Amen.
—Anonymous prayer to St. Possenti
It was early—still dark outside—when the last watch started heating water and preparing breakfast. Some of the new brothers snapped instantly awake, alert and sharp; others stirred slowly, groggily, a mental fog still gripping their minds as they stumbled sleepily to where they thought they were supposed to be. Soon enough, they were all assembled in the ranch house’s great room. Abbot Cranberry addressed them in quiet tones as they stood, silently in something like a formation.
“Brothers, we have all taken different and unusual paths to get here. And now that we are here, we have many routines and traditions to establish. One of them is to give thanks for all blessings, great and small, and to take the time to think about and appreciate them. Before I offer a more traditional grace and we eat, I’d like to thank Thomas Crapper for popularizing the indoor flushing toilet and Brother Bill for repairing one in this very building last night.” He offered a small smile in Bill’s direction as a number of the others nodded agreement and chuckled at mix of seriousness and levity. “And what are you thankful for, Brother Bill?”
“I am thankful my wife was willing to promise to wait for me to return without doing anything that might do more harm to the marriage while I’m here, imperfect though it is, and for a safe and only moderately eventful trip here. Oh, and Mickey’s hand in making it so.” More grins.
“Each of you now take a moment, close your eyes, and think silently of a half dozen things you are blessed with, big things, small things, funny things, perhaps even some that are less than ideal. Then, exchange at least one of those blessings with two or three of the other brothers around you.” Cranberry closed his eyes and bowed his head; the others followed suit.
It was a long couple of minutes; silent, motionless time. When he raised his head, the slight motion made enough noise amid the hushed room that all heard and did likewise. The brothers turned to one another—some in pairs, some in trios—depending on what the others near them were doing, and exchanged words. “Puppies. Dogs are the only friend a guy can have who doesn’t judge him,” said one. “Methadone,” said another. “Three squares a day for most of my life,” said a third.
After the brief exchange voicing some of the things they were thankful for, Bishop Cranberry broached a somewhat more sensitive topic: confession of things they’d done they were sorry for. He started them off with an apology for not having recognized the problem sooner simply out of not wanting to admit the obvious out of fear of failure and that good men had been lost because nobody was doing something that could reach those in need. Others responded with small things, like lying to family about how well things were going and not asking for help sooner, to larger things like a vague reference to not exercising quite as much self-restraint in a combat zone as might have been properly Christian, strictly speaking. From the expressions on the faces of others and the tense silence in the room as the brothers listened, it was clear that the one speaking was not the only one with that sin weighing on their hearts, though details were not ready to come out.
In the long silence that followed, each man sunk in his own thoughts, Cranberry quietly gave the general outline for the day. “Team Abraham, get breakfast ready and KP. Team Baptist, first Bible study and meditation. Team Samson, calisthenics; it’s going to be a long day, so I recommend mostly stretching and fitness evaluations. Then you’ll be part of the first group to eat. Team Joshua, start working on the gas line and see if you can identify the problem. Team Gabriel, start cleaning off the concrete slab in the arena and then breakfast with Samson. Team Luke, choir practice and first breakfast. Team Moses, time for a walk; you have an hour to walk the property to start getting a feel for it. Scout for interesting and useful features on the north side.”
One by one, small groups were assigned duties for the next hour or two, with a quick breakfast of oatmeal and eggs staggered into four groups. Some returned to what they had been doing, but most rotated, those doing the physically harder things moving to lower-energy activities, and vice-versa. With each switch they’d give a brief report to Thomas about how it went, what they learned, and any potentially useful tips or ideas for the next group or the next time they were back doing it again.
* * *
After he helped the first Bible-study group get going, Bishop… no, he was now Abbot Thomas Cranberry, he reminded himself, went to the covered arena to help, direct, and learn from Team Gabriel. The four men were in the part of the area building covered with a concrete slab. Two of them were dragging assorted larger packaging debris and trash into a pile for burning or disposal, one was inspecting pipes along the outside wall, and the fourth was digging away at the edge of the slab; it was apparent he’d dug at a couple of other places recently, too.
“Soooo… why…?” he asked, puzzled.
“See over there?” Gabe pointed toward the wall.
“What?”
“See anything wrong with the slab?”
“Ah, no… Oh. Yes.”
“Yeah. Not supposed to dip like that, is it? Slab’s really thin there, and concrete is shit for tensile strength.”
“Ahem.”
“That is, though cheap and strong by God’s design under compression, it is pitifully weak under a tension or torsion load. It was way too thin, and a small leak over the inadequately compacted sub-surface layer washed away the support. When I walked across it, it broke through. Not a lot of rebar, either. So I’m checking to see if it’s systemic, or just there.”
“And?”
“So far, so good. Decent footing under the edge up to here. Just doing a spot check for now. I’ll go through with a tamping rod or something after I get earplugs and do a sound check to listen for hollow spots.”
“That doesn’t augur well.”
Gabe shrugged. “Might be just that one spot. Won’t know for a little while. But we’d definitely want to check anyplace we are going to build up real thorough-like before we do. Messing with foundations while they are being used is a cast-iron bi– difficulty I would rather avoid. So, checking first, and second, then building.”
“Makes sense. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Find a good something to tap with, check for hollow-sounding spots, and then start a regular grid pattern, or else find a shovel and test every ten feet or so like I’ve been doing to see if the footing looks good. Here. Like this. That’s a proper footing.” He brushed a bit of dirt away with his gloved hand. “If it looks like that all the way around, we’re likely good. But if any more pla
ces have just a thin edge—you can go take a look at the whole to see what I mean—then we’ve got our work cut out.”
Thomas spent the next hour marking out a giant grid with a chalk-line so they could have a proper, systematic tap-tap-tap test looking for variations.
The cleanup pile was fairly large, and under the maxim of “waste not, want not,” much of it was carted to the ranch house to burn for heating and cooking. Most of the plumbing appeared to be sound, as near as they could tell without a steady flow of water, but at least at first blush it was fine.
The tap-testing of the slab was nowhere near done by the time a rotation was needed, and he went to get the next group started on Bible study. They all met back at the ranch house. Each team filled in the one taking their place what the plan was—if there was one—and learned about what they’d be doing next. It took several shift swaps before it was anything like smooth (or even noticeably less than total chaos), but work got done, a lunch of thick sandwiches and hot soup hit the spot, and nobody was injured, lost, excessively confused, or malingering.
In the meantime, Abbot Cranberry was learning bits about plumbing, concrete, wiring, gas piping, septic systems, and a lot of other odds and ends that he had been blissfully unaware of previously.
By dinner, the problem with the power lines had been found—trees had fallen over the line in three places and popped a breaker at a transformer—the gas line problem had been found (an “extra” shut-off valve) and fixed, a tentative area for installing the kitchen had been cleaned off and laid out, supplies had been inventoried, everyone had a chance to start reading the Bible with their group and had started reading through the catechism Cranberry had given each man with the explicit instructions they were going to be studying it each and every day. After they’d gone through part of it under direction, they meditated on it a while in peace and quiet. After the long hours and hard work and then the relative relaxation of study, a general sense of quiet mission and accomplishment started to settle over the place. They were tired, but not exhausted, and fitting together into a team.
