by Rolf Nelson
Brother Pete stepped forward and picked a box that was slightly smaller than most. Not by much, but enough that a sharp eye could see it. He pulled it out and stepped away for number eight.
Quickly they lined up, filed by, and took their chance. Some picked quickly, simply taking the next one on the heap. Others were much more deliberate, picking by some formula known only to them, much as Thomas had done.
It took nearly an hour for everyone to pick a box, and it was obvious the anticipation was frustrating for them even if they did their best to take it in good humor when one of the brothers made a big deal out of how to choose.
They stood on the paved area of the arena—there wasn’t nearly enough space in the storeroom to open boxes—and looked to Thomas or Mickey to give the word. Mickey bowed his head and motioned to his superior to proceed. Thomas fumbled with the box a moment. It was well taped. Very well taped, in fact. He heard a click in the silence and looked up. Mickey had snapped open one of the ever-present knives he carried and was offering it to him hilt-first to assist in the opening. Every other pair of eyes in the place was upon him.
“You need to get a knife of your own.”
“No, they are not something I–”
“Even St. Benedict said that monks were to have knives. Chapter 55. And no pressure here, boss, but sometime today would be nice.” Finnegan’s face was grinning good naturedly. “Long side would be best, and lay it down, rather than sliding it out the end, because we don’t know what accessories are also inside.”
A few quick slices later the top was ready to lift. He laid the box on the floor and opened it. He had no idea what to expect, but it was not what he saw. A long form wrapped in brown paper and a long plastic bag. Several smaller bags were packed in with it. He picked it up gingerly. Oddly, it almost felt heavier by itself than it had in the box. Maybe not heavier, but denser, he corrected himself. It couldn’t be heavier. He slid the plastic bag off, then carefully unwrapped the oily brown paper.
Inside was… something different than he’d ever seen before. Long and thick, wooden stock, steel in the middle, it was covered in a thin layer of oil or grease. He held it up for all to see. A lot of “ooh’s” and “ahhh’s” were said.
“Very, very nice,” said Finnegan. “I’d take that as a sign God is smiling on this enterprise. There were only two M1 Garands in the whole stack. That’s a very nice-looking one, too. And…” He reached down to pull out a long, mostly slender bag from the box. “It looks like… yes, it comes with the long bayonet. Very unusual. Worthy of the leader of this soon to be great monastery and a famous rifle that gives you a lot to live up to. Looks like Chapter 55 smiled on you.”
“You drew a six. That’s a thirty-ought-six,” Bill said pointedly.
“And one of only six semi-auto rifles in the entire lot,” added Brother Finnegan.
“Then this is a rare gun?” asked Thomas.
“Not really. Millions of ’em were made. But they are not commonly seen these days. It was called the greatest battle implement ever devised by a famously aggressive and winning general during World War Two. Best rifle of its time in many ways, though old tech today. Shoots what is still the most common hunting cartridge in America and has been for more than a century. The single most appropriate possible choice in the lot.”
“Good to know. And I have much to learn, as do we all.” Thomas looked around at the rest of the brothers. “Well? What are you waiting for? Take a look, brothers, and see what you have!”
They did, with glee. Some were well-wrapped in plastic and cosmoline similarly to the Abbot’s new rifle; others were well used and just dumped in the box with minimal packaging or preservation. Some—perhaps half—included bayonets, either separate or attached and folded away.
Father Mathews was rather uncertain about what he should think about his Japanese Arisaka Type 38 carbine. Though the bore was not too bad, the pale and scarred wood of the stock, uncertain ancestry, straight bolt, marred and nearly illegible proof marks, and strange caliber left him completely in the dark about what to think. He didn’t even know what the things he now disliked were until Allan, who happened to be closest, told him. He didn’t even know that the wood was called the stock—butt stock, fore stock, or any other sort of stock—until then. After his initial introduction, he understood the old saying of “lock, stock, and barrel.” He also quickly realized that everyone in the room knew more than he—often vastly more—on the subject of guns and the history behind them. Nearly every kind of gun present had at least one aficionado who could cite endless historical and technical details about it.
For the first time in years he was utterly humbled by something other than God, and it was something as seemingly simple and old as a rifle designed long before his great-great-great grandparents were born and likely made before his great-grandparents made their entrance into the world. In matters of the gun, he was going to be taken to task every bit as critically as he took his students on any misstep of learning about the Bible. When he tried to point out the Bible had been around for thousands of years and had many intricate details, the instant rejoinder was that in the roughly six hundred years of firearms there had been many scores of basic designs with fifty times as many variations, hundreds of significant developments, hundreds of wars, millions of battles and skirmishes, and it was necessary to have an understanding of economic history, political history, metallurgy, manufacturing processes, chemistry, physics, biology, and more to really understand all there was to know about guns. It only took Mickey pointing out that a typical rifle cartridge went from ambient air pressure to roughly three times the pressure found in the deepest part of the ocean in a few ten-thousandths of a second and back to regular atmospheric pressure in a few thousandths more, just inches from the shooter’s face, to realize there was more than the obvious held in his hand.
He had much to learn.
Ten minutes later, three things were clear—the diversity and condition of the rifles was huge, just about everyone was happy with their choice, and a combined lesson in cosmoline removal and basic rifle assembly/disassembly was definitely in the immediate future.
* * *
The next day nearly all the brothers wanted the first order of business to be getting the guns into working order, but the abbot and Finnegan counseled patience. Not all the rifles had been packed in cosmoline, but many of those that had been were heavily covered. It would require a lot of mineral spirits, manuals, some specialized tools, a boatload of rags, numerous wash pans, buckets, dipping trays, and many small brushes. Some of these could be had in town, but the quantity needed demanded either online order or a trip to a larger city.
Besides, there wasn’t a lot in the way of ammo.
Instead there was some initial instruction on a few of the cleaner guns, where all the brothers who drew K98 Mausers were brought together and shown how to disassemble, inspect, function-check, and use one. Another class was taught for those who would be using a Mosin Nagant 7.62x54R. And Mickey realized that in spite of the fact that everyone had received basic training and shot passing qualification scores, only a small handful were anything like well-versed in general interior, exterior, and terminal ballistics, in either theory or practice. So a course outline on those subjects was also sketched out.
The list of things they’d like to be teaching, and learning, was getting longer every day.
Bayonet Drill
I have been impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Being willing is not enough; we must do.
—Leonardo da Vinci
Brother Alan hefted his now well-cleaned, cosmoline-free, and function-checked “mossy”—a Mosin-Nagant M44, chambered in the traditional 7.62 x 54R. Of course, just about everything old and Russian was in 7.62mm x something. The side-folding cruciform bayonet was an interesting and unexpected addition. Some of the other rifles had the normal separate bayonet (the Swiss blades with most of the K31’s were very nice), and one of the S
KS rifles had a folding blade bayonet. But seeing it on the side made the rifle odd-looking and unbalanced.
He folded it out. It looked better. He stood up and went to a clear area of the arena, away from where the cleaning tables were, and hefted it around. He made a few tentative thrust, drawing jokes from a couple of brothers in the peanut gallery still cleaning their rifles.
“Better shoot it that way, too,” called Finnegan.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’ve seen it a number of times. Groups the size of a battleship when it’s folded or cut off, but groups inside a hand span at two hundred meters if the bayonet’s extended and ready for use. May as well learn to use it.”
James, who’d drawn a long 6.5mm Swedish Mauser that had a bayonet as well, was just wrapping up his initial cleaning. He mounted the blade with a flourish and strode purposefully out to stand beside Alan. He came to attention and winked. Alan came to attention.
“Order… arms!” said Alan. They brought their rifles up to order arms. “Port… arms!” Again, they both remembered the motions. “Inspection… arms!” They both fumbled this one a little bit, having learned on an M4 semi-auto, but it was a well-covered fumble and served the purpose of ensuring that the rifles were unloaded… not that there was much doubt of that at the moment.
Alan paused a moment. “Crap. I don’t remember the commands for bayonet drills.”
“Swearing foul,” shot back James. “Quarter in the bucket.” He waited while Alan dug out a quarter and tossed it to join the many others in a bucket on the cleaning table. “I don’t remember them either. Anyone else?” a lot of slightly embarrassed headshakes. “Of course, we’re not actually in the Army–”
“–or Marines!” came the immediate rejoinder from the bench.
“–and the jarheads present can’t remember the commands either. So we can make something up for now and find the proper commands later.”
“And make up anything new we need, too,” added James. He gave no commands but did a quick guard / thrust / recover / parry / slash / vertical butt-stroke / recover. “I like the feel of this bad boy. Nice lines. A Swedish 6.5 mm. Think I’ll name him Sven. Sven OfNine.”
“Damn Trekkie.”
“Ahem!”
Another quarter clinked into the bucket.
“I think it might be good to do this, too. Build comfort and familiarity with the guns, build upper-body strength–”
“That’s all it’s ever used for any more. No need for bayonets when you can just pull a trigger.”
“But that would make this more like a real martial art. Silent, sweeping, steady movements. Graceful formation drills and movement. Build the mindset. Make us look like a proper dojo with what most people think of as proper martial arts.” He did another quick series of moves. He didn’t remember the commands, but the motions were fluid and quick. Lunge. Parry high. Ready position, parry right, riposte. Dance forward, skitter backward. Long thrust, recover, short thrust and recover. Attack forward, fall back without feet passing either other or getting crossed up. When he paused, he was breathing deep and smiling. “Ohhhh, yeah. Definitely going to have to learn to rock this.”
“With bare blades that isn’t exactly going to be a close order drill, ya know.”
“Doesn’t have to be.” He cast his gaze about the arena. “We got room.”
“Now add another three hundred fifty guys.”
“S’pose so. But we are not going to be doing everything all together at once. Likely have, what, platoon-sized groups of fifty or so? Eight of them? More or less, anyway. Four companies each with a hundred brothers, split in half. Each company with squads of eight to ten. Expect each company to have at least one longer-term guy. We could do all forty-five of us in here at once easy even if we are attacking in all four directions and doing proper lunges and falling back more than one or two steps.”
“Like katas at a regular karate dojo,” asked Mickey, who had joined them in the middle of James’s brief flurry.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Might be fun. Mix that with unarmed drills like John has us do and basic knife work. Hugh was pushing that yesterday. Alternate with flexibility and more traditional calisthenics and such. Makes sense. Good exercise, that, with moderate weight at arm’s length. Build speed and precision, endurance. I like it.”
“If you like it, all of a sudden I’m not so sure I do,” replied Alan with a resigned look.
“Don’t worry. It wouldn’t be punishment duty. Just one more way to get into shape and stay in shape. Help instill determination and grit—that never-say-surrender attitude. Could be a useful piece of the big picture.”
“Maybe. But aren’t there already an awful lot of pieces floating around?”
“Yes. And I’m sure there are still more to find. Can any of you sing or read and write music?”
“Music?” asked James. “Why?”
“Chuck had an idea. About custom work cadences. Both workout and meditation songs. It’s easier to work to music, it can be relaxing, and there aren’t any of us who are much into modern Christian rock. If we can come up with something that sounds good and has a decent beat, we can make our own.”
“We be monks, mon,” said Clint with a phony Jamaican accent. “We be doon chants, mon. Gregorian chants. In Latin, foor sure.”
“Would be cool, but I’m not much of a singer. And I’m pretty sure nobody here knows Latin very well.”
“I’m pretty sure most of us aren’t and don’t,” agreed Finnegan. “We’d aim for simple.”
“And simple we got in spades, what with all these jarheads around,” joked James.
One of the others at the cleaning table, Robert “Bob” McNamara, tentatively raised his hand. “Actually, I do know a bit of Latin. Got sent to Catholic school for a while. A bit rusty, but I know the basics. With some work I’m sure I could patch some things together and run them by a guy I met at college, a philologist. About the only guy I know less employable than me.”
“A what?”
“Studies ancient written languages. He was specializing in Greek and Latin.”
“Oof. Yeah. Hard to find a job there. Well, we may have a job for you here. Be sure to tell the abbot about it. But no songwriters?”
Nothing but shaking heads and returning to cosmoline removal.
“Oh, well. One thing down, three added to the list, and no rearward advances. Making progress, brothers! Hallelujah! We are making progress! Sort of.”
* * *
That evening some of the monks-in-training received additional practice on the rosary before bed because they or one of their squad-mates had tossed a quarter in the swearing-bucket. Some were still unfamiliar with how to say the rosary, so they were guided by Father Mathews. Later the more experienced Catholics would be expected to do most of the leading, though Thomas said he’d still join them once or twice a week. Some men had been having to say it every night, but that crowd had been thinning greatly of late as they became better at policing themselves on the swearing. It was a great incentive to pay attention to what was said, both for each of them and others, and for anyone who wanted to have a little extra private time to himself.
Submersion
Baptism is the sacrament of allegiance of them that are to be received into the Kingdom of God, that is to say, into Eternal life, that is to say, to Remission of Sin. For as Eternal life was lost by the committing, so it is recovered by the remitting of men’s sins.
—Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan
With Chaplain Bunt having returned home to start sorting through names, to put together a list for the next batch of volunteers, and to take care of other more mundane business, Abbot Cranberry was one of only two ordained priests at the abbey. As Prior, Father Mathews was now saying Mass while Cranberry worked out the next week’s schedule.
It was a Tuesday, and many of the men who had not been raised Catholic were still getting used to the idea that anyone would have a prayer-event every day beyond saying grace
at meals, let alone something as serious as this. The Catholics who had been properly baptized and confirmed took Communion, and the rest were encouraged to participate in all the parts they were allowed to do by canon law.
By now all of them were more or less familiar with it. The first two weeks the abbot had made a big deal out of explaining the parts and how they could be varied in terms of length and detail, but he made it clear that one expectation of a being a monk was attending Mass without fail every single day. A few grumbled and said it was a waste of time, what Mathews said St. Benedict called “murmuring,” and were firmly corrected in one-on-one sessions shortly thereafter. It was in part to make sure the brothers knew all the forms by rote but also to inculcate good habits.
However, because the mission of the monastery was not to be “just a prayer factory,” as Ken had so flippantly put it, but also a training ground for the worldly adventures the young men were expected to return to and an active construction zone, they had to abbreviate some of the events and provide extra opportunities for those that were so inclined. They rotated other liturgical duties so they could learn them—and learn them well enough to not embarrass anyone, including themselves—and also have a chance to get the other hard work that never seemed to proceed fast enough. Each man didn’t have to rise to sing Matins, and Lauds, and Vespers, and other things more typical brothers would do every day. A regular monk, a Carthusian or Benedictine, for example, would read through all the Psalms every week, but they planned to get through them once a month, maybe more often as some of the heavy construction was completed.
Today’s Mass was a shorter one. The entrance and antiphon were short, and the greeting had only a single hymn. The confession was done as a group, with call-and-response (still too much swearing), and when crossing themselves nobody had to be reminded of the order in which the points would be touched. The liturgy was read from Numbers by Mathews, and then he read from Luke. He skipped the homily and had everyone recite the Apostle’s Creed.
