William Forstchen - The Final Day

“Sergeant, you have family?”

And now the man did stiffen up. “Yes, sir.”

“And?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“I understand. The general told me about what most likely happened to his wife.”

There was a momentary pause again.

“They lived on the other side of the Potomac. My wife, two daughters, a son. My boy was a plebe up at West Point. My daughters still in high school. I didn’t want them in some crap hole of a school in Washington. Unless you were able to pay forty grand apiece to send your kids to one of the schools where all the elites were sending theirs, you were stuck. I had in-laws up near College Park, good schools at least up there, so that’s where we bought a small, very overpriced house to ensure the kids were safe and at a good school.”

Again a moment of silence.

“I wanted to try to get to them; the general talked me out of it. I guess he was right. One man alone, trying to get through all that chaos. It was something I would think about at times before the Day. You know, trying to plan what to do if everything ever hit the fan. But you know how it was, sir. It was always figuring ten, maybe twenty megatons on Washington, an equal dose on Baltimore—one minute we’re here, the next we’re together with a lot of other poor souls waiting to talk to God. You know what I mean.”

John could see that the mere recollection was painful. All the worst nightmares possible most likely kept him up night after night. No quick, near-instant deaths. A woman with two teenage daughters. What chance did they have? And the sergeant knew it.

John decided to tell him a bit about Jennifer, a choice to perhaps share a bit of the misery to help bond. The sergeant listened sympathetically.

“At least you were with her at the end, sir.”

“Yes, I’m grateful for that. Also the most painful moment of my life, but yes, at least grateful that I know what happened, unlike you and General Scales. Does he ever talk about it?”

Again a moment of silence.

“Some nights I can hear him praying about her; that’s all I’ll say.”

“I understand.”

It was obvious the sergeant was not going to offer more. He did try, a bit woodenly, to ask about what assets John had, even as to where the Black Hawk was stashed, to which John just smiled politely and replied that he’d prefer not to answer. The sergeant finally relented and stood up to leave.

“Sergeant.” As he spoke up, John held his coffee cup back up. “Can I hit you up for another cup—this time straight, no cream, no whiskey, no Xanax. Okay?”

The sergeant smiled. “Sure thing.” He returned a moment later with a steaming cup and a plastic MRE pouch filled with hot stew. John took both gratefully.

“Again, sir. No wandering about or talking with other personnel. If I have your word of honor, I’ll leave the door unlocked. There’s a bathroom down the hall; we managed to get water running for the toilets, but no hot water yet. I’ll loan you a razor, soap, and a heat packet from an MRE for shaving if you want.”

“I’d appreciate that, Sergeant. I really would.”

Several minutes later, he was in the bathroom, looking into a mirror, as always shocked by his appearance. It seemed he had aged ten years in the past two. His hair, cut short, had gone nearly entirely gray; the rough stubble of a beard actually was looking white, his features gaunt, eyes a bit sunken, complexion sallow. It was the look of his world, again reminding him of photographs of long ago, the aged and chiseled features of boys in their early twenties after a couple of years with the Army of the Potomac, having survived Antietam and Gettysburg and all wars since.

The sergeant came in, offering over a disposable razor that looked fresh, a small, still-wrapped packet of soap, a small toothbrush with a travel-size tube of prewar paste, and a plastic MRE bag, its chemical charge having been activated and the pint of water within hot to the touch. John thanked him with genuine gratitude. For the first time in more than two years, he was no longer struggling with an old-fashioned straight razor. He splashed some of the scalding-hot water onto his face, opened up the soap pack, rubbed it on to the stubble, dipped the razor into the hot water, and began to shave. When he turned on the faucet, a trickle of rusty-colored cold water dripped out. Several nicks and a lot of scratching later, he looked back up at his red-faced image in the mirror.

Well, if they are going to shoot me, he thought, at least I’ll look halfway decent. The bag of water was still hot, and on impulse, even though the room was freezing cold, he stripped off his heavy flannel shirt and sweat-encrusted undershirt, leaned over the sink, poured several ounces of the water on his head, and scrubbed a bit with the small bar of soap, his short hair so oily he barely worked up a lather. Alternating between the freezing-cold water and what was left of the warm water in the bag, he rinsed most of the soap out. How he longed for a full shower, but the building was without heat, and at least he now felt semicivilized as he pulled the graying T-shirt back on and heavy flannel shirt over it. He finished up by brushing his teeth with real toothpaste, a heavenly feeling after two years of charcoal mixed with mint leaves.

Coming out of the room, he found the sergeant loitering in the hall, and thanking him, John handed the razor back, the sergeant motioning for him to keep the small bar of soap, toothpaste, and brush. He realized the sergeant had shown a subtle act of trust. Even though it was a modern disposable razor, a desperate man could still cut his wrists with it, an act unthinkable to a man like John, and the sergeant knew that.

“You almost look like an officer again,” the sergeant said, offering a smile. “Don’t let your stew chill down; the coffee has nothing in it. Chances are when the general finishes up with whatever it is that bit him in the butt, he’ll want to talk to you.”

“So you wanted me to look good and well fed before the execution, is that it, Sergeant?” John said it as a joke but saw that it had misfired.

“The general follows the rules, sir, same as me, and I believe you as well. In his eyes, you are a standing officer in the American army. There will be no summary execution, sir; you will have a proper court-martial. Yes, we executed some in Richmond and Roanoke, and that was for the same kinds of crimes you faced with that Posse group. So, sir”—and his voice now took on a harsh warning edge—“do not insult General Scales in my presence, sir, by implying he would act in any way contrary to the Articles of War.”

John admired this type of loyalty and extended his hand in an offer of apology, which the sergeant, going formal, did not at first return.

“Sergeant major, I hold the general in the same respect as you do. I know I am under arrest by orders from Bluemont, not by the general’s.”

“I suggest you get some rest, sir,” the sergeant said. He drew back and offered a salute, which John formally returned.

“Thank you for your help.” He paused, continuing to hold the man’s gaze. “And my sympathies regarding your family, regarding all our families, including that of General Scales.”

There seemed to be a flash of easing down on the sergeant’s part. He nodded and turned away while John went back to his assigned quarters.

The stew was barely lukewarm. He downed it hungrily, gulped the black coffee, unrolled the sleeping bag the sergeant had provided, and, in spite of what he figured was his condemned status, he was asleep within minutes.

“Allright, Colonel Matherson, out of that sack and on your feet.”

Momentarily confused, John sat up. How long he had been asleep he wasn’t sure. It was dark outside, Scales standing over him holding a Coleman lantern that was hissing loudly, turned up to full illumination.