Edward Crichton - The Last Roman

Little was known about the organization, including its name. Originally, members were selected specifically from a pool of veteran Swiss Guardsmen, but recently, in an attempt to further solidify friendships amongst Christian nations, the Pope had called for volunteers from the best they could offer.

It was rumored that members from Britain, France, and Germany had already transferred service, but the entire process was done behind closed doors. There were rumors of the first American from Delta transferring only a few days ago, but was again unconfirmed.

It wasn’t long after I began hearing these rumors that a young man, dressed in a well-tailored business suit, knocked on the door of my off-base home while I was on leave in Hawaii. The man spoke with a thick Italian accent, but in impeccable English, and explained to me the full reality behind the Pope’s Swiss Guard and that a spot was available to me for a two year stint.

Now, my mother was a devout Catholic, but my father never put much stock in religion. He was born Protestant, but non-practicing throughout his adult life. Easily not the most pious man, he was completely supportive of his bride-to-be and fully supported her wish that he convert to Catholicism and marry in a Roman Catholic Church. Afterwards, dad had no qualms about her raising my younger sister Diana and I Catholic, attending church only to support his wife. It was through mom that I attended Jesuit schools all the way through college, and managed to maintain my status as a practicing Catholic on most Sundays.

Well… on some Sundays.

My infrequent church attendance aside, I had been quite the kleptomaniac as a teenager, had a few drinks while underage, and my first sexual experience was well before marriage. Outwardly, I acted the way every other teenager or young adult would, inwardly, however, I was as devout a Catholic as one could be.

At least I tried.

Most of the time.

When the well-dressed Italian man came to my door, the only thing I could think of was why in the world they chose me. After all, as far as I was concerned, my sins equaled those of any other, but when I voiced my concerns his response was simply that the people he represented had performed thorough research, and that they knew the man beneath.

It was at that point that I faced a dilemma that needed a few days to think over. The man agreed, and said he would return to receive an answer. I spent the entirety of the next two days wandering the beautiful Hawaiian beaches, mulling everything over.

I knew that on one hand, I was completely happy with my current posting. I had joined the military at twenty three, shortly before the first bombing in Jerusalem, and thanks to my college education, had gone to Officer Candidate School, graduated near the top of my class, and placed a request for immediate transfer to the SEALs. I’d gotten very lucky. Fresh officers rarely had the opportunity to go to BUD/S right off the bat, but thanks to my record and dire global circumstances, I was off to Coronado Island near San Diego. Within a month, I was getting my ass kicked with other officers and regular enlisted men in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training, BUD/S, roughed it out, went through Seal Qualification Training, jump school, sniper school, and so on, and after more than two years of training and some field experience, with the global war worsening, was given my own team.

I had been more than lucky.

I went on to establish close bonds with my fellow SEAL teammates over the tours, and did not want to leave feeling I betrayed them. Life in the Teams was all about companionship and teamwork. We were as close nit as any family, but that didn’t mean I never felt unfulfilled at times. I was even being groomed for a position with the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group, still colloquially known as Seal Team Six, which consisted of the most elite SEALs in the business. Could I find fulfillment there? I wasn’t sure.

On the other hand, the only reason I enlisted in the first place was to appease my father’s wishes, not knowing there would be a full-fledged global war on the horizon. We were a military family after all, and it was my duty, but if I took the Italian’s offer, I could continue fighting the war, but maybe in a more meaningful way. I knew my father would be disappointed, but when the man returned two days later, I agreed to the transfer, taking solace in the fact that I’d be back in a few years.

The next day, at 0800, a naval lieutenant and two ensigns came to my door with my orders. I was to gather a few essentials and head to the airfield immediately. The ensigns would pack my personal belongings, as they had already done with my military gear back at the barracks, and ship them directly to Rome.

Grabbing my already packed go-bag, I was on my way to Washington D.C. to meet with the President. Hours and more time zones than I could count, I was standing in the Oval Office awaiting his arrival. Thanks to the growing religious hysteria, and increasing hostility everywhere on the planet, a Catholic, retired Army general was now the Commander in Chief and with him came increased funding for the military, combat experience, and a new direction for the war effort, but sadly, at least from this sailor’s point of view, still no hope for an end to it.

Staring down at the Presidential seal, I had wondered if I was doing the right thing. Trying to push aside my doubt, I had shifted my gaze towards the president’s desk where I spotted a crucifix hanging from the wall behind his chair, and realized I wasn’t abandoning my country, not really, but continuing the fight by answering a higher calling. Abandoning the war effort was out of the question, even with little hope for the planet’s continued survival, but at least this way I would be doing it for my own reasons.

My meeting with the President was short and to the point, but also comforting. He assured me that I had made the right decision, and that I was now, indeed, answering to a higher authority. He seemed almost jealous of my position, perhaps wishing he was a few years younger, and that his tool of destruction was a rifle, instead of a pen. Within minutes, documents were produced, and with a few signatures, I was promoted and transferred to my new posting.

Within the hour, I was back at the airfield, waiting for my ride and my father. He had been informed of my transfer, and told he could see me off. Since no one had any idea when I’d be returning, this would be our only chance to say goodbye. But, as I watched the C-130J taxing down the runway, he was nowhere to be found.

Hoping to catch him approaching from some unknown direction, I’d scanned the tarmac three times, finding nothing every time. Only the fumes from countless aircraft, and the ominous early morning mist swirling at the beck and call of their powerful engines greeted me. Frustrated, I glanced at my feet as the wind from the C-130J slammed into my face. The heat from the back draft didn’t help calm me much, and I felt my hands automatically balling into fists.

So, it was going to be like that then.

I suspected he wouldn’t understand. Our family was an American military legacy. In my father’s eyes, there was no explanation for what I was doing. I’d hoped to explain that I was doing the right thing, that I’d be back in a few years and that I would still be fighting to defend my home and to protect my country.

I’d been willing to beg for his acceptance, but he hadn’t showed.

I shook my head, already fully aware of why he wasn’t here.

He’s never forgiven me for mom.

She’d died three years ago. Cancer. I had been in the field when she passed on, and had missed her funeral. My father never forgave me.

I’ve never forgiven myself.

Maybe I was doing this for her.