William Forstchen - One Second After

“Appreciate that,” Hunt replied softly, “but I think you have other responsibilities now.” John said nothing.

“I heard about your role on what people are now calling the Council. I think it’s darn good you’re part of that. They need someone like you. Focus your efforts on that; don’t worry about us.”

“These are my kids, too, Dan. I worry about them.”

Outside came the echo of Washington’s voice, chewing someone out. He sounded like a Marine DI again, the right edge of sarcasm but, in respect to the traditions of the campus, at least no overtly sexual, scatological, or downright obscene phrases thrown in.

“To survive, to keep these kids alive, we’re selling our services,” Dan said quietly. “But there’s a lot more behind this as well.”

John stood up and walked to the window, empty cup in hand, and watched as Washington, finished with the inspection, now started to run the kids through some close-order drill.

“What is that out there?” John asked.

“First Platoon of Company A of the Black Mountain Militia,” Dan said.

“What?”

“Just that. Charlie Fuller and I agreed on it a couple of days ago. A hundred and fifty kids so far. The other two platoons are out on a conditioning run up to Graybeard and back. We’d have more, but that’s all the weapons we could find so far. Company B will start forming up once we get more weapons.”

“Isn’t this a little overboard?” John asked. “Hell, I know Washington’s a good man, a great man actually, but come on, Dan. What is he doing out there, getting turned on with old memories, that it’s Parris Island or Khe Sanh again?”

“In truth, John, yes. I guess you heard about the riot at the gap.”

“Yes.”

“It was then that Charlie realized something, and Washington had most likely put the bug in his ear already: we need an army.” John sighed.

“Three weeks ago those kids were dozing in classes, trying to sneak up to Lookout Mountain with their boyfriend or girlfriend, or maybe, just maybe, studying for exams. Now we’re making them into an army?”

“I was younger than them when I lost this,” Dan said, and he slapped his left leg, a hollow thump resounding. “You were a lieutenant at twenty-two yourself.”

“Yeah, but Dan, this is a college. A small Christian college up in the mountains of North Carolina. Somehow it just doesn’t feel right to me.”

“Where else in this entire valley are there four hundred young men and women, in fairly good shape to start with, intelligence pretty darn good, already imbued with a sense of identity for the school and those who lead it, like you, me, Washington?”

“I don’t know,” John sighed, watching as the column went to right flank march and two girls screwed up, Washington in their faces and reaming them out so that one was crying as she tried to march.

“We had six hundred kids here, on the day before things went down,” Dan said, now at John’s side and watching the kids drill.

“About a hundred and fifty have left, trying to strike out for home. That was hard; you were not here for that meeting in the chapel. A lot of praying, soul-searching. I advised them to stay. Told them that if anything, their parents would want them to stay here until this crisis was over, knowing that they would be safe. Most who left are local, a day’s walk away, but a couple of them are from Florida, said they felt they should try and get home.”

John shook his head. The ones trying to get to Florida were most likely now facing hundreds of thousands heading the other way.

“The rest agreed to stay. Remember how several years back we had all those discussions in faculty meetings about orienting the college more to service? A couple of other colleges in the area, our rivals, were touting that all the time, so we put into the curriculum community service. That’s what we’re doing now.”

“Dan, there’s a helluva difference between kids working at a homeless shelter or community day-care center and drilling like an army.”

“I don’t think so, John. The times, as the old song went, are a-changin’.”

The column of students turned and marched back across the green, weapons at the shoulder, and the sight of it sent a chill down his spine. He looked back at Pyle’s painting and then back to them.

My God, no difference, John realized. The tradition of close-order drill was a primal memory left over from the days when armies really did go into battle that way, shoulder to shoulder. Today it was supposedly about discipline and spirit and the fact that soldiers were at least expected to march. But no different, no different from what he used to talk about with such enthusiasm at the Civil War Roundtable and see at reenactments.

The difference was, though, this was for real. From close-order drill Washington would take them to elementary tactics: fire and movement, holding a fixed position, laying down fields of fire, assault of a fixed position, marksmanship, leadership in combat, emergency first aid, infiltration tactics, hand-to-hand combat, how to kill with a knife, how to kill with your bare hands.

The sight of them drilling such struck home, as forcefully as what John had been forced to do in the park.

“Washington thinks the world of you,” Dan said. “By the way, he told me what happened in the park. Said you handled yourself well.”

“Handled myself well? I puked my guts out.”

“No, not that. First time you shoot someone, if you got any heart in you, any touch of the divine spark, you should be horrified.” He looked off.

“I lost my leg during Tet. The day before that, though, I was on point, turned the corner of a trail, and there he was….” He sighed, shaking his head. “The Thomas Hardy poem, remember it?”

John nodded. “‘I shot at him and he at me, And killed him in his place.’”

“Well, I got him first; he was walking point for his unit and we just ran into each other. Before I even quite realized it I emptied my M16 into him. Hell of a firefight exploded, and I was on the ground, lying by his side, and I could hear him gasping for air. Do you know what he said?”

John was silent, half-suspecting.

“He was crying for his mother. I understood enough of the language to know that….”

His voice trailed off and John could see tears in Dan’s eyes.

“The kid I shot,” John said, “certainly wasn’t calling for his mother. He died filled with hate.”

“Perhaps he sees things different now,” Dan replied. “I know it’s not orthodox with some, but I have a hard time not seeing God as forgiving, even after death.”

John tried to smile. There were some on campus who were rather traditionally “hard-line” in their views of salvation. Dan had never voiced this view before and it was a comfort, for the memory of that twisted kid’s final seconds lingered like a recurring nightmare.

“Washington told me how you reacted and the kids know that, too. Remember, this is a Christian school and the reaction could have been bad if it seemed you were cold-blooded about it. So a lesson was taught there, John, but it’s what you said as well that resonated.

“Washington and later Charlie Fuller told me that at that moment we as a community were balanced on a razor. Charlie had made the right decision, but he did not know how to see it carried through correctly.

“You did. At that moment we could have sunk into a mob or, worse, a mob that would then follow a leader, even a leader of good heart like Charlie, but still follow him with bloodlust and thus would start the slide.

“You’re the historian; you know that of all the revolutions in history, only a handful have truly succeeded, have kept their soul, their original intent.”