William Weber - Warlords

“There was something I wanted to ask you, John. I know now might not be the best time.”

“What is it?”

“I was thinking about that pot farm you mentioned during the meeting.”

John’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure where Diane was going with this, but he didn’t like it, not one bit.

“That crop has probably already flowered and I wanna take a group down to salvage as much of it as we can. It may be the only chance we get to save the oils for ropes and lighting and whatever other uses we can put it to.”

There wasn’t much John could say. It was his suggestion after all to have her team look into salvaging crops from the local farms. The idea that she’d be going with them hadn’t occurred to him.

“Your knowledge and experience is far too valuable to take the risk,” he tried.

“Oh, cut it, John. I had a feeling you’d pull that line. You’ll have to forgive me if it’s a hard one to swallow coming from a mayor who leads assaults against neighboring towns.”

“They weren’t hostile, Diane.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t know that at the time. Sometimes your protective side is too much.”

He relented, realizing she was right. “The next thing we know Gregory and Brandon will be asking to hop that train to the front tomorrow.”

Diane’s eyes fell to the ground and at once John knew he’d stumbled onto something. “No, you’re kidding,” he said in disbelief. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Go talk to them, John. Brandon and Gregory are out back.”

The boys were by the rear door just as Diane had said, but instead of filling sandbags they were feeding their pet goose George with grains and wild grass. A fenced-off area they’d hastily thrown together using chicken wire and wooden stakes served as a pen for the beast.

Both Gregory and Brandon turned as John approached.

“It’s good to see George is still going strong,” John said, not entirely sure how to broach the subject he’d come to talk to them about.

Gregory nodded and smiled with enthusiasm. “He’s been eating like a pig.”

In spite of his son’s jovial expression, John wondered what damage had already been done to his son’s psyche. No one, especially not a child, should ever be exposed to the kinds of things they’d seen. Emma was exhibiting outward symptoms of trauma, but Gregory wasn’t and that made John all the more concerned.

“We need to find him a goosette,” Brandon said with a devilish smile. “You know, a girlfriend, so we can breed an army of Georges.”

John couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but there’s no such thing as a goosette. Technically speaking, George is a gander. His future love interest would be a goose.”

The boys smiled and turned to continue feeding the bird.

“Listen, Gregory,” John said. “I was surprised to hear your mom say you were here. I thought you would have reported to Moss already to help erect the gabions.”

Nearly identical looks of guilt crept up both boys’ faces. It was clear enough that even though John had been addressing Gregory, he was speaking to both of them.

“We’re gonna go as soon as we’re done with George,” Brandon said.

John nodded, his hands on his hips as he examined the bird. Gregory was right, George was getting bigger.

“Have you spoken to Emma lately?” Brandon asked. “I wonder how she’s feeling. I know she hasn’t been eating all that much lately.”

“She’ll come around,” John told him. “Although it wouldn’t hurt if you had a word with her. You may have more luck getting through than I did.”

Brandon removed the ball cap he was wearing and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. “I’ll see what I can do. Maybe I’ll make some lunch after and bring it to her.”

“That would be nice,” John replied and turned to leave. He hadn’t made it further than a few steps before he stopped. “I’m guessing you two have heard there’s a train coming through town tomorrow.”

Both of them nodded slowly.

“And you know where it’s headed, right?”

“To the front,” Gregory told him. “To fight the Slovaks and the Chinamen.”

John wasn’t thrilled with derogatory stereotypes, but it was hard to defend the very men who were on their land committing atrocities.

“That’s no place for young men such as yourselves. I heard the two of you were thinking of hopping that train and I can tell you that it’s a terrible idea. If you were both full-grown men I’d have no real say in the matter, but since you’re both under my care, you’ll stay in Oneida. There’s more than enough work here to keep you busy.”

Brandon opened his mouth as though he were about to offer some resistance. But John cut him off. “There’s no glory that way. Only death and suffering. In the coming days and weeks I’m sure you’ll find plenty of opportunity to prove yourselves.”

“Yeah, by digging foxholes and filling sandbags,” Gregory exclaimed. “They need us up there, Dad. It’s every American’s duty to stand up and fight.”

“No, son. It’s every American’s duty to fight smart. Charging off into chaos when neither of you have the proper training is just plain dumb.”

“I have training, Mr. Mack,” Brandon said. “Everything I’ve done since the lights went out has gotta count for something.”

“This isn’t a debate,” John countered, his voice raising in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “I’ve been put in charge of prepping this town for the worst and I’m your guardian. Both of those are the only reasons you need to do as I say.”

Gregory’s eyes fell to a pile of loose pebbles which he nudged with his sneaker. Brandon stood squinting at John in the glare of the sun.

“Do I have your word you won’t disobey me, boys?”

“Yes,” they both mumbled in unison.

John didn’t like coming down as the heavy. He also understood it was the dream of just about every young man to rush off to fight during war. With the outbreak of World War II, boys as young as fifteen and sixteen would provide false documents in order to trick recruiters into letting them sign up. But of course, John’s objections weren’t simply that the boys were under his care, nor that he needed their help. Right now, the front lines were a terrible place for anyone to be and he was sure that soon enough they’d become a living hell.

Later that night John lay in bed next to Diane, a cool evening breeze ruffling the drapes. She had the habit of pulling the covers right over her head, which often made John feel as though he were sleeping next to a pile of blankets. He watched the slow rise and fall of her breathing, unable to fall asleep himself.

This was when thoughts and scenes from past wars tended to worm their way into his mind. Difficult decisions he’d made long ago would re-emerge to torture his conscience. Had the men who died under his command been killed by mistakes he’d made, or by a system that was inherently violent and chaotic? John tried hard to steer his mind away from such guilt loops. The past couldn’t be changed, no matter how much one might wish for it. As a commander—heck, even as a parent—he was constantly forced to make difficult decisions based on little or no data.

As much as John tried not to think about the poor souls strung along the Mississippi, he couldn’t help but wonder what they must be going through. They were outnumbered and at a technological disadvantage. He was surprised they’d managed to hold out as long as they had. Drawing in deep breaths meant to relax his mind, John slowly drifted off to sleep. Awaiting him were dreams of Iraq and the tragedy that continued to haunt him.