Dear Mrs. Baby,
On behalf of the regiment, Dr. Agatha and I would like to express our condolences on the loss of your husband, Thomas Baby. We fondly carry our memories of him with us. He has been of great assistance in our time of need, and has contributed to the reclamation of many hamlets in the south which were previously occupied by the Hexagon. I am writing to let you know that the position for an ADC has been made available to you and that the offer stands until the24th of September, a fortnight before our forces advance to Nyack for good. I look forward to your response upon receiving this letter.
Once again, please accept our condolences, and may God bless you in these trying times.
Warm regards,
Gen. Mitchell Agustus Vergs
Big Indian, September 24th, 1992.
Before the sortie, we heard about French troops conducting search parties for officers who had gone AWOL. Every clearing we passed had enemy camps with bonfires as tall as trees. The forest—it was French territory. The jarring stillness of what was an on-going ceasefire had us in distress. I was losing my mind. Every bit of it. I sat still in the pit of our jeep, quiet like a dame, but my trembling body was fighting a battle that made my heart pound and my head spin. Behind a deadpan stare, I was imploring God to get me through the night.
"Lord, have mercy," I said over and over again.
Everyone was cold and distant. Even the volunteers, and you would expect someone from their line of defense to have a friendly face, but no. The only person I was on speaking-terms with was Dr. Agatha, but that was because she was the one who called me up regarding my husband's demise. I felt closer to the general than to anyone else in the regiment, even though all I got from him at the time was the telegram. It was warm and heartfelt. There was an opportunity folded in that stained letter.
I took it.
Our sortie ended when the convoy reached an old estate along the stony rapids. Years-worth of moss and vine hid the oak residence in plain sight. When I was escorted into the premises, I wasn't given any time to look around and examine my surroundings. Then again, the interior was cleaned out. Instead of warm, velvet ottomans and long, leather sofas, I was greeted by drab crates and cold, matted carbines. Instead of rugs, we were walking over yellowish futons and torn sleeping bags. And instead of thriving house plants, dying weeds and vibrant, corner-dwelling fungi. The floors were dull and rotten. I was certain that the home had been abandoned long before the war, and anyone who had been there during that time would tell you the same thing. We were sinking into the planks, and the planks themselves were sinking into the foundation. I treaded fast like I was ambling through quicksand. Any longer and I might have fallen through the floorboards. At the end of the dusty hallway was a small private office. The door was closed, though I saw shadows moving around through the pane. I heard a voice. It was Dr. Agatha's, though she didn't sound well. She was under distress.
"Pope… She's a handful," the doctor fretted.
"She's not a handful. She's a problem."
The soldiers stopped escorting me then and there. When they marched away, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know if I was supposed to knock, stand still, or speak to the door. There was no instruction. I chose to wait it out, but the quarrel beyond the door became heated the more I let time pass. The hotness from their argument was bleeding through the room. I thought someone lit the fireplace behind me. Suddenly, the doorknob twisted open and the doctor came storming out of the office red in the face. In the eyes, too. She had silver hair, a pale complexion, and eyebags which pulled her face all the way down.
"Mrs. Baby," she greeted me with a forced smile, "it is good to see you."
She sounded a bit younger on the payphone, but perhaps the buzz of a call box can change how a person really sounds. Dr. Agatha was older than I thought—fifty-five at the time—though was youthful in so many ways. She didn't act her age nor did she deny that she was aging at all. It was like speaking to a person in their late thirties. Mature and wise, but still relatively young. I was thirty-six, but everything and everyone around me grew cold and stale, leaving my mind in an infantile state that I couldn't get it out of. I was clueless about a lot of things. If anything, Dr. Agatha was an older, wiser version of me if that version of me learned how to adapt to a constantly-changing environment and wasn't so weak and fragile all the time. Well, those were my two distinct qualities. Maybe she wasn't like me at all.
"Good evening, Dr. Agatha," I greeted her back.
I was given a warm embrace. I wasn't expecting one, but it was a pleasant surprise. It felt like I was hugging a friend, a sister, and a mother all rolled into one. I didn't want to let go, but at the same time, I didn't want the others to see what I was going through… or to know that I was going through something at all.
"He was a good man," she muttered in my ear.
He was. My beloved Tommy was a great man.
Dr. Agatha held my hand and brought me into the office where I saw the general of the Fort Lee regiment pouring, General Vergs, himself a glass of whisky. He had salt-and-pepper hair all over him, and looked as tired as the doctor. Actually, he looked like a drunkard, but despite all that, he moved slowly and courteously. The general didn't have a bravado kind of presence nor did he appear weak and feeble. He was old, a little disheveled-looking, but stoic. He was a jaded gentleman.
There was a full glass on the opposite end of the desk where he sat. Beside it—Tommy's badge. With just a glance, he could tell that I was a straightedge. The scent of the booze alone had me shining an ill-defined grimace at him, though I didn't mean to. He took the patches off the table and stood from his throne, abandoning the whisky glasses on the tabletop.
"Mitch," the doctor called his attention, "Mrs. Baby has arrived."
"Mrs. Baby," he walked over to me and reached for my hand. "I am glad that I get to see you in person. I was expecting your response in the form of a letter."
I was sure of my decision. "Well, sir, I believe this is what my husband would have wanted for me."
The general slipped Tommy's patches into my hand then closed my fingers shut. That hand-hold was his form of an embrace. He looked me in the eyes the same way Dr. Agatha did just minutes ago and said, "Fortifying Canadian ties even on the smallest of scales." He then marched over to his desk and continued to converse with me. "Thomas actually told us about you. He said you used to be an aerospace engineer?"
"Yes, sir. T-SIAP, Thunder Bay."
I was the Deputy Director of Engineering at the Technological Science Institute on Astronomical Phenomena. There, I designed the T-3 "Songbird" alongside my mentor, Dr. James Harriet. It was supposed to be the world's first ever HALT rocket (High Altitude Low Temperature). Unfortunately, we never got past the blueprints. T-SIAP had gone into liquidation, and left me with half a legacy fulfilled. I thought that was going to be the rest of my life. I guess not. That trip to Big Indian was life anew. And I'll tell you another thing: it was never the same after that.
"Thunder Bay? And where is that?"
"Ontario," I answered.
He sipped from his glass. "Ontario… I've heard great things about Ontario. OECs, (Ontario Evacuation Convoys), have been sending civilians away from warzones and AOs, (Area of Operations). May I ask why you haven't joined any of them? In all honesty, I was expecting you to decline my offer. Down here, it's a mess."
"Well, I was hoping that I could collect my husband's journal, and perhaps finish his duties on his behalf. I know how much his work meant to him. He was a writer—not a fighter."
"And what about your personal endeavors?" he asked me.
"They died with T-SIAP. My time has been flexible ever since."
General Vergs pointed at the chair in front of his. "Please, have a seat."
I was ready for anything. Mainly, I was ready to die. The world wasn't cruel to me. I wasn't tortured like a stray pup nor was kicked while being down. I just didn't know anyone else that I gave such a damn about. There was only Tommy, and I was willing to follow him anywhere and everywhere, but then again, I couldn't just leave his work unfinished. Even a job like his came with the danger of losing one's life. The regiment—they served on the frontlines.
Tommy—beyond it.
There was a DMZ that stretched from Fort Lee down to Hoboken. That was the only fine line that the regiment didn't dare cross. On the southern border of that dead zone and across the Hudson, the Hexagon had eyes in the sky and would monitor Fort Lee's frontier with intentions of shooting, killing, and aggravating us in the north. They can kill a man from across the river, and grounds for a breach of contract would still be debated upon. In the end, it always got swept under the rug. They killed and killed after that, and eventually, everyone forgot that the DMZ and everything it stood for existed at all. I heard about my husband's trip to Bergen County. That's where he was last seen, but I couldn't get a straight answer from anyone in the regiment about how he died. Killed—yes, I know. But how? By who? I asked myself those questions the entire time I was there, but whenever I queried the general about it, he'd bow his head and answer me, "We're still getting to the bottom of that."
I was handed Tommy's reports on the French-occupied hamlets he spotted during his rounds in the state. Sullivan, Ulster, Dutchess, Orange, Putnam, Westchester—so many counties. Addresses, coordinates, dates, times. The sheets were all numbers, and those numbers were just what the troops needed to conduct their covert operations against Hexagon camps. He could do a lot of things with just a pen and paper. I wondered if I could do the same.
"There was a noticeable difference in how we've been conducting operations ever since his untimely demise," said the general. "My men are now sweating bullets in our Fort Lee outpost. Medics are on standby 24/7 as injured troops come in every two days. I've withdrawn countless men. Hell, I've seen jeeps ride up to Nyack more than I've seen them ride further down. I hate to admit it, but the Hexagon's pushing us back. It doesn't matter that we've established a DMZ. If they beat around the bush, they can ambush Fort Lee from behind, and that's what scares me the most. Covert is what we do best, but when we fight in the dark, we need those numbers, that information. Thomas gave us just that. Can you do the same?"
"I can try my best, sir."
You know, for me, a person could be so many things. A person could save so many lives, and second to dying, that's what I wanted to do. I wanted to help. I wanted to save people. Tommy did just that. Who was I to do the opposite?
"I have militiamen coming from Chestnut Ridge," he informed me. "Their captain—you'll be riding with him when you begin your tasks."
"And when do we start inspecting more hamlets?"
"Within the upcoming fortnight."
General Vergs then handed me my husband's memoir. It was old and crumbling, but the sight almost brought a tear to my eye. Antique leather withering in years and years of dust and condensation. His sweat, his prints, his skin. It felt similar to placing your hand on the shin of a dusty buckaroo. Bound by thread, held closed by straw lace. The journal transported me back in time, and all of a sudden, it was as if he never left. Tommy—he was in the room with me.
I felt him.
Sept. 13, 1992
We rode out of Katonah as soon as the guys seized their camp. Our volley fires caught the attention of nearby enemy outposts and did the task of herding civilians and volunteers away from the French hive. Everett found bugs underneath shrubs and cameras fixed on branches. The town was tapped. Once we readied our jeeps to exit the AO, 1Lt. Miller ordered us to burn the storefronts to keep French forces from coming back, but with the Hexagon testing Hudson waters, it doesn't look like we're coming back either.
A few pages were torn out after that last entry, but I was able to read the depression left from his pen. It was on the bottom-right corner of the page.
"My dearest…", and then nothing. That meant it ended on "my dearest".
"I hope you know that there's no rush." General Vergs placed his palms flat on the desk, letting out a deflating sigh. "Sure, we have men riding back with cuts and bruises, but it doesn't mean we need you out there just yet. Take your time and get used to the process. That's all I ask."
"Don't worry, General. I'm a fast learner."
I shook his hand, and in the blink of an eye, I found myself being ushered to a tent outside the home. Cradled in my stick-thin arms was a bedroll. On top of it was a handheld radio, a sheathed bowie knife, and a pocket pistol. The gun they gave me was rather cutesy—a Smith & Wesson Escort. It had a pearl white grip that was smooth to the touch, a nickel slide that shined even in the dark, and a frame small enough for my tiny mitts handle. The pistol didn't come with a holster, and so, I did what all the other volunteers did and stuck it down the front of my trousers. The piece was heavy. It was quite literally pulling me down, and even made me wonder how the others managed with those sidearms strapped to their hips day and night. For that alone, I commended them. Once I made it to my resting quarters, I dived into the flaps of my tent and onto the tarp-covered ground inside.
My body didn't want to move. My arms were dead and my legs were heavy. No man could see me frown nor hear me weep. But for some reason, being isolated from the rest felt less lonely than being out there in the world. I didn't want to leave nor did I want an ounce of moist sun on my dry skin. I wanted to sleep forever. Hours went by, and my back was still glued to the ground—my eyes to the fold in the tarp. I didn't like being anywhere. Everywhere I went felt the same… It felt dismal. The quiet was unlikeable, undesirable, and made me want to jump off a ledge and crack my head open. At least the paranoia made me feel alive. It made me want to stay alive. That long quiet—it made me yearn for the opposite. I was slipping away, but then Dr. Agatha came to my quarters.
The lady slipped a bowl of stew through the gap of my tent then quickly retracted her hand without saying a single word. I'd say, at that time, that was the most hospitable anyone has ever been toward me. As I said my thanks, I watched her silhouette jolt then turn back facing the opening of my tent.
She said in response, "You are welcome, Elisabeth." The doctor called me by my first name, and sounded like a close friend in doing so. "May I come inside?"
"Of course, Doctor."
Ever since the sortie, I was longing for a friend. Tommy was a million friends in one, and when I lost him, I lost them all. After the telegram, Dr. Agatha's visit was the next thing that soothed my poor heart. She didn't have to say anything. She won my heart in the way she wore a cordial smile all while tripping and stumbling her way through the tent. Her "upsy-daisy's" and "pardon me's" were things only an individual so down-to-earth would say. Her and the general—they were decent folks, and I expected them to be on high horses. Gladly, I was proven wrong.
"I hope you like the stew. We used the last of our provisions to make that. I didn't want our greens to spoil, so I had Everett cook them right away."
That name—I read it in the memoir.
I wondered if maybe I could query whoever that was regarding my husband's death. I just needed to know how he went. I mean, I was his wife for crying out loud. I was the one who lost him. I was the widow. I was the one who grieved and mourned which meant, out of every one in that camp, I—me, that dead man's spouse—deserved to know what happened to him, and I had a crippling suspicion that everyone else already knew. They just didn't want to tell me. Maybe it was too ugly, too morbid, but it didn't matter.
I deserved to know.
Not even a second passed and I was already writing a list of questions in my head. She saw that I was ready to barrage her with them. That yearning for an answer—for closure—it was seen in the scowl which I failed to hide. I was a people-pleaser, and my efforts to show the doctor that I was "alright" might have been self-defeating in a way. She saw right through me. I mean, she'd see right through anyone. That was her gift. To her, we were all open books she could just hold and understand, and it wasn't through a similar pain that she developed an understanding of our predicaments. When she cared, she cared. It hadn't even been a week of being on talking terms, and already, she was looking after me.
I didn't want to be rude and interrogate her, so I brushed it off. "You have no idea how much better a long, cold sortie makes a hot stew."
Oh, I meant that. Before hot stews and hearty meals, it was just plybread. Apparently, when the Hexagon invaded the cities, French "masters" bought civilians as slaves to do all sorts of things—farm, fight, drive, entertain—and these tasks were all done in the countryside where the French put up wheat farms and whatnot. "Master Camps" is what they were called. Bread was supposed to go around so that the meat portions from our rations could go to the Hexagon soldiers' fill. That meant less consumption of MREs, and that meant less costs going to shipping and transport of livestock. By the way, they pilfered our livestock and crops. That's why, where I was from at least, an area that didn't have much resistance nor people brave enough to go out and hunt game meat, we got our fill in the form of old, stale baguettes. Barely bread. There wasn't a shortage or anything like that. Those French masters ate like pigs. That's all there was to it. Even the simplest, freshest, genuine bread, they couldn't give us. We were living in hungry, hungry times.
The doctor was pleased to hear my response and began rambling on about the camp, though my senses were dialing up a notch. It had been too long since I felt at home. The hot bowl, the warm lantern, the cozy futon—it was all sensory overload. My body wasn't prepared to feel safe. My mind wasn't ready to rest. I didn't know why I was resisting. The eyes in the back of my head were scanning left and right like the windshield wipers of a car. I was sitting down, but it felt like I was still on my tiptoes.
"Elisabeth?"
I was staring into the void.
"Elisabeth? Are you alright?"
"Y-yes, ma'am." No. I wasn't.
Uncanny… It was all uncanny. My guard was kept up, but for what? Impending doom—that's what I was feeling.
"Perhaps you should rest. I didn't mean to intrude."
And I didn't mean to push her away. I reached for her hand and asked her to sit down once more, but we heard troops calling her from outside. She looked at my groggy face as if it was up to me if she could leave my tent or not. I gave her a gentle nod. As she left my tent, I peeked through the flaps and saw militiamen entering the camp with Hexagon artillery. That French badge was plastered all over those enemy vehicles. It sent chills down my spine. It said: "œil pour œil."
Eye for an eye.
* * *
I was able to get the name of the militia that my husband served in. Palisades Reconnaissance or "Pali' Recon"—a fifteen-man unit within the Fort Lee regiment. Although Tommy was General Vergs' aide-de-camp, he spent most of his time riding with the team's captain. In his memoir, he called him his best friend. A "brother from another".
"Mrs. Baby," he greeted me the following morning as I made my way back to the general's office, "Captain Finer at your service." The man stood at a staggering six-foot-five. He was so tall that his gut stared me down at eye-level. His calm yet booming voice shook the floors beneath us. It had more weight than my entire being, and that was him speaking with his inside voice. His chocolate eyes were as brown and as smooth as his skin. He had the body of a gladiator yet the face of someone who didn't know how to cross a street. The man looked big and mean, but friendly all the same. Rugged but dapper.
"Good morning, Captain." I snapped into an ill-postured salute. I mean, I wasn't a fighter. I had no strength and no muscle. Just skin and bones. However, the man was kind enough to acknowledge my greetings and even returned the salute in a laid-back manner. It still wasn't as sloppy as mine.
"I hope you don't get pestered when I say my condolences," he said.
"Why would I be pestered?"
"I know some people who get sick of it."
"Sick of condolences?" I asked him.
"Bitter people," he answered me, "short-tempered people."
I wagged my head then gave him a smile. "I'm not bitter." I wasn't putting up another façade or anything. He seemed like a nice person. Wasn't rubbing me the wrong way or anything. I had yet to come across someone snarky and unpleasant, and the captain was neither of those things. He was a gentle giant.
"Then it looks like you and I'll get along just fine."
My husband was the operator of HMMWV-020, "020" being the last three digits of the unit's serial number. He was the one who drove the Pali' captain and his squad around, and also cruised the streets solo when he was out marking down enemy camps. I didn't know how to drive at all, so the captain drove instead. We rode a sedan. It was ugly on the outside, but the soft seats made the whole sortie a lot more comfortable than the one the night before. Well, also because the ride was significantly shorter. We weren't driving across multiple cities. We were just making our way to one of the forest's clearings.
In the backseat was a pair of Hexagon fatigues. I never understood why they were called "The Hexagon" if the shape of their emblem was a triangle. I was well-aware that "L'Hexagone" was France's nickname, but they could've gone the extra mile and incorporated a hexagonal shape somewhere in that badge. It would've made more sense.
"ŒIL POUR ŒIL"
I asked him about the uniform in the backseat. Captain Finer told me that Pali' started interfering with Master Camp operations after Tommy was killed, and that he was shot down along the DMZ while delivering a message back to Edgewater, but that's all he had to say about it. He claimed that he wasn't there when it happened. Reconnaissance was watching Tommy's every move all the way from Palisades when the whole thing went down, though it seemed that the Hexagon was doing the same from across the Hudson, armed with the very gun that took his life.
He told me, "That was the very same day we witnessed their NYC-bound snipers."
"So, he was shot dead?"
His eyes had to be on the road. I mean, the man was driving, but I could tell that he was doing the same thing General Vergs did. He was averting his gaze out of shame, but he didn't need to feel that way. "Yes… I'm sorry." I didn't know why half the regiment felt so ashamed of themselves. Perhaps, they just really adored their former ADC.
"You don't have to be."
He wouldn't accept my comforting words. All he did was tuck his lips and nod like he was concealing a balled fist under the dash or preventing a head vein from bursting. The captain looked like he wanted to say something, but he kept his stare on the road and sat quietly in his seat. It did say "brother from another" in the memoir. He might have been grieving as well. I don't know. I didn't want to push it. I quickly began to understand what he meant by "bitter people". He wasn't bitter, but even I couldn't muster up the courage to give him my regards. It was the right thing to do, but for some reason, I just couldn't. I thought maybe it was getting old for him. It was for me, though I wasn't going to shun their sympathy aside.
The ride got quiet after that.
For a second time, I asked him about the French fatigues in the backseat. He said to me that if I ever heard about Hexagon officers going AWOL, that was reconnaissance men exfiltrating their camps and relaying information to the general. I did remember seeing him enter Big Indian with enemy artillery the night before. They had just come from gathering intel from a convoy near Palisades, and even captured an infantrywoman from a nearby outpost.
"My guys have her tied up in a church along Esopus Creek. I'm going to be conducting an interrogation while you transcribe everything we say. It sounds like an easy enough task. You think you can do that?"
There wasn't any other answer to it. "Yes, sir."
We parked on Rohaly Road. It was a quick saunter away from the church. I didn't like the look of it. They had disassembled mortars and gun crates scattered along the steps underneath the main archway. I was always under the impression that chapels and churches were labeled as "civilian refuge", and that the Hexagon respected that as a rule. Unfortunately, Pali' was forced to treat it as some sort of mini frontier. A stronghold if you will. There were body bags peeking from under the ground. Probably six, seven of them. I didn't care if they were "friendlies" or not. Blood was spilled before a place of refuge, and that was enough for me to know that nowhere was safe.
"St. Vier," the captain muttered.
"I-I'm sorry?"
"St. Vier—that rat we're going to interrogate. I don't want you anywhere near her. Is that clear?"
The captain looked more nervous than me. Even stared at me as if I was the enemy. No amount of calmness was able to hide the ebbing shade of his skin. I saw right through him, but even though he was experiencing a silent panic attack, he seemed to have it under control. For me, that level of fear and anxiety would have been heart-attack-inducing. To him, it was merely butterflies in his stomach.
"Yes, sir."
Just before we entered the chapel, I readied the memoir and flipped it on an empty page. I was eyeing the depression left on the paper. The marks were deep, and some of the ink had bled through. Tommy must've used his trusty quill until the end. That flimsy, rusty fountain pen—I remember and miss so dearly.
I put on my golden reading glasses then entered the building. The air beyond the archway was hot and thick. It felt solid like a big, wholehearted backhand to the face or an aggravating push from an ill-tempered ghost. I didn't expect it to be so hot, but at the same time, all the windows were boarded up, and the front doors were sealed before we even arrived. The air was stale. Our brains were being sucked out through our ears, and beads of sweat quickly formed on our lips, our necks, and our chests. We were practically baking to a crisp inside that chapel, but the French infantrywoman tied to the priest's throne remained cool and reticent. Calm like a bomb.
Her gob was taped up, though with a menacing glower, she told us all the ways she wanted to get her hands on us. She wanted the smoke. Captain Finer was cool about it as well. He wanted me to look away, but I couldn't help but feel rage brewing in my gut. This woman stared me down with intentions to kill, so I did the same to her. She just appeared more intimidating than me, but I was ready to draw my gun and put her on the receiving-end of a cathartic mag dump.
I was a forgiving individual, and that infantrywoman was hairs away from eating lead still. My head was fuming. Captain Finer held my hand and sat me down on the front-row pew. I knew he sensed my displeasure as my face was doing that contorting-thing again. I was about to cry, yell, and roar simultaneously, breaking the church down with a rageful exhalation. Of course, I was not capable of doing that nor could I have survived exerting that much energy out of my straw build, though I had been through the wringer and I didn't want to go through it again.
He repositioned my hands on the memoir and chimed in my ear, "Ease up, Baby." His voice was icy and rid the hate in my chest. Not all of it—just enough to proceed with the interrogation. The captain walked up to the altar, drawing in the soldier's eyes with his magnetic scowl. That was when the questioning began.
She was rather cooperative, and told us a lot of things. Hamlets and coordinates weren't spilled, however she gave us information regarding the state of the Hudson during that time. As General Vergs' outpost in Fort Lee began deteriorating, Hexagon ships were able to enter the Hudson. So, not only did they have NYC-bound troops operating across the river, but they had French ships operating on the river as well. It was the seed of a long journey for me, but for the rest, the end was nigh. Now, I knew nothing about the war. I wrote down every word, every stutter, but I couldn't get it through my head what they were talking about. I felt stupid. All I knew was that France turned to the hammer and sickle, and in a trice, bombs started falling from the sky.
Despite all the intel St. Vier provided, Captain Finer wasn't ready to end the interrogation. He was just warming up. Me? I was already putting my hand to rest.
"The French are playing offence. That goes against the rules."
"Rules of what?" St. Vier's accent was thick, and her r's slid like butter.
The captain yelled, "What else?! The damn DMZ!"
"You Americans are retards!" The Hexagon guard spat at his foot and shimmied in her seat. Her ropes were sliding down at the speed of my hand reaching for my sidearm—ever so slowly. "The buffer zone is not a real thing! Your forces are just too pussy-footed to traverse it."
"Not a real thing?" The militia head glanced at me then at the journal. I handed him the memoir and sat back in my pew, shielding myself from the French guard's piercing glare. "July 16, 1992," he read from one of the older entries, "The 'Tin Can Talk' at Verrazzano. Impossible that you don't remember. It's either you're really stupid or you're forcing yourself to forget, and the latter's the worst of the two."
"Breaking unwritten promises doesn't necessarily constitute a breach of contract now, does it?"
"General Bernard made that promise himself, you slippery snake. We withdraw our men and this is how you repay us? You stab us in the back?" He stashed the memoir in his back pocket. "Your general talks about peace, meanwhile, you've got guys on the DMZ leaving copper casings just before the gates of Fort Lee. Yeah, I think that constitutes a breach of contract when every promise made and every fine line read is completely disregarded."
"You think we had a say?" The infantrywoman cackled in a how-do-you-not-get-it sort of way. "Who are we to call the shots? We just follow orders. I don't care if it's a breach or not. I'm here to do what I'm told because I don't want to find out what happens if I don't. I think you can see who's to blame in this scenario. If it helps, I can see the tyranny left by the general's decisions, but I'll tell you this: every man, every woman, and every dreg for themselves. We do what we do to survive, and following orders seems to be doing right by us so far."
"You talk about your badge as if you have higher chances of surviving here rather than with your friends."
"I have none."
"Then tell me this…" Captain Finer grabbed the piano stool and brought it closer to the altar. I knew we were going to be there for a while. "What do you believe in?" he asked. "Why won't you resist? Why does your badge sit so poorly over your pocket, soldier?"
"What are you implying, Captain?"
"Enemy of my enemy."
Bang!
At first, I thought Captain Finer shot her in the gut, his pistol at knee-level, but then I saw a shadow creeping down the aisle and heard the front doors swinging on their rusty hinges. A Pali' soldier with a thick lip brow came marching to the altar with a flask in his grip and a smoke stuck between his lips. His loud steps were accompanied by the chimes of his many dog tags. He wore them around his neck, around his wrists, and on his hip. There were names: Cooper, Hopper, Dennis, Brooke, Neal, and many others. Dead friendlies, I assumed.
His presence made the captain look wary, like the man who had just entered the chapel was a threat to everyone in the room. I thought he was a threat. His demeanor made me forget what type of badge he wore on his chest. He looked like he wanted to kill all of us.
The captain greeted him, "Miller…"
That was another name I read in the memoir. It had something to do with burning storefronts and fighting on the offense. Tommy made him sound like a belligerent extremist, and those words, when put into action, were not lost in translation. Captain Finer couldn't keep the first lieutenant away from the French guard. He could have, but that would've meant that he had to lay a hand or two on him. I wanted to leave, but I was bound there by the militia head's silence. I was waiting for an "outside, Baby" or an "Elisabeth, come with me", but I guess it wouldn't have been wise to leave St. Vier alone with the first lieutenant. He didn't even utter a single word, and already, he was causing a stir.
"Ah, I see you've become acquainted with the rat." Miller asked.
The lieutenant then smacked the captive upside the head and left a hand-shaped bruise sizzling on her cheek. He did it a second time on the other, listening to her cry and bleat like a gutted goat. I didn't know if it was right or wrong what he did, so I looked over at the captain to see what he thought about it. There was pain in his eyes. The first lieutenant grabbed her by the collar and continued the interrogation.
"Listen here, you skank! I've got guys in my ear telling me that we have an 'eyes-and-ears' situation happening in Leonia, and that your little convoy near Pali' was a smokescreen to keep us from sniffing out their trail up north."
Captain Finer said to him, "Smokescreen? Well, what the hell are they doing in Leonia?"
"They're trying to sandwich us on the northern border of the DMZ. They already have control over Edgewater, and Hexagon ships are set to sail through the Hudson in a matter of weeks. If they secure Leonia, they'll have enough forces to push us back from Fort Lee for good. Hell… even without it, they already do."
"I mean, we can write to O-Peck. Let them know what we know and handle the situation in the meantime."
"Over-fucking-peck? Cap—"
"Miller, we don't have time for that. Fort Lee's been under siege for God-knows-how-long now. If we avert our attention from it, the French might not need to wait weeks before advancing. Leonia's probably just another smokescreen. Let it pass."
The first lieutenant stared me up and down before querying the captain once more. "And if they ride over Degraw?"
"Then we wouldn't need to write, would we? It'll be O-Peck's predicament—not ours. Even now, it's not ours."
"And who are you?" The lieutenant asked me without looking my way. I was caught off-guard by that and by the way he leered at my blouse after looking away from the captain. I couldn't speak. I was scared of him.
Captain Finer stood by my side and answered his question for me. "Elisabeth Baby—our new ADC."
"Baby?" Almost immediately, he stopped gazing and said in all honesty, "My condolences." He smiled at me for a good two seconds before turning his attention back to St. Vier. The lieutenant drew his blade and pressed it against her neck all while yanking her by the hair. "What do we do about this cheese-eater? She can't go back. You know that. We also don't know how sly this gal can be, and I don't have time to fuck around and find out. I did with the last cooze, and our observations were concluded with her on the run and a comrade getting his dick stump cauterized in a bar in Katonah."
"Jesus, Miller."
I never cussed, I never swore, but if the captain's response to Lieutenant Miller's colorful vocabulary was "Jesus", then I might as well have said that vicariously through him, or at least nodded in agreement. He sure had a way with words. His fingers tightened around the grip of his blade all the more. I didn't think he was willing to let the infantrywoman go nor was he okay with taking her back to Big Indian. That menacing frown which spoke a thousand words transferred to the lieutenant, and the French guard was left with the same panicked face I wore when I had just arrived at the scene.
"Miller, please," begged the captain. "Nobody needs to die today."
"Then what do we do with her? We bring her back to camp and treat her like the rest? Treat her like a fucking volunteer? What are you? Nuts? Think, man!" He pointed the knife to his temple and proceeded to lecture the two of us about living and dying. The man sounded poetic, but I didn't pay attention to him. "Being nice and giving people chances—that shit comes at a price. You won't always get the reactions you expect. Some people tend to act differently than others, and that case applies to her. Believe me, Cap, this is the best thing for us right now." The lieutenant silenced St. Vier's cries by hitting the butt of his knife against the side of her head, scolding her as he did. "You don't have the right to anything, ya hear?! You don't have the right to speak nor the right to look me in my goddamn eyes! The next time you do, I swear to the cross, I'm gonna take this knife and I'm gonna—"
"You're going to need a trusty," I took my chances and said to the room. As expected, Lieutenant Miller let out a resounding scoff. Captain Finer, on the other hand, thought that I was onto something. That's because I was. I told them that, "We can chain her up and starve her. Not to death, but just enough to ensure that we can solicit answers from her anytime we need to. I'm certain that whatever she told us here is just barely scraping the surface. There's more to all of this, and we can't get the answers to everything in just one sitting. It takes time. I'm sure it does."
"So, you're saying we…?" Lieutenant Miller asked.
"Take a gamble and trust the process." I felt good about my answer. Captain Finer seemed to like it, but even though he called the shots, it seemed that it was up to the unhinged lieutenant to make the final decision.
"I'm not too sure about this, Baby," he said.
I was quick to answer back. "Sparing one's life yields some sort of exchange. Believe me, she'll remember this—all of it."
Finding a compromise was never his style, though I guess he ran out of preachy things to say. He scoffed a second time, but it was in agreement with my response. Finally, the torments on that poor guard had come to an end. She was bleeding from her mouth and scalp, still crying like a mule. When the lieutenant exited the chapel, the captain followed. That was when I tended to the woman's aid.
A chilling panic settled in my stomach, and soon, took control of my body. I realized that the captain's presence was what made me feel a bit strong and "macho", for as soon as he left, I was but a stray wandering dangerously close to the jaws of a tied beast. Despite my timidity toward the captive, I wanted to make sure if she was okay. With one hand, I reached for my handkerchief and the other went for the Escort. It didn't alarm her. It didn't make her flinch. Given that I was a Pali' rookie and she was a Hexagon operative, I guess she thought my actions were justified. Although I wished her great suffering at the beginning of that whole "discussion", in the end, her pitiable state got to me. Eventually, I stopped holding onto my pistol and nested the hankie in both hands.
"It's okay…" I stepped forth. "Don't worry, I'm not going to harm you. I come in peace—"
"Do you really?" I guess we didn't come in peace. She was right about that. Nonetheless, she knew I didn't have it in me to put her down. I mean, I armed myself just seconds ago, and even then, I wasn't much of a threat to her. "This is the part where you spit in my eye and kick me while I'm down, right?"
"No." I unfolded the cloth and wiped all the muck off her frowning face. "This is the part where I clean you up and bring you to the car."
She must have been surprised by my sudden change in demeanor as she appeared dumbfounded once I started nursing the bruise on her head. The tension in her shoulders released, and she was able to catch a full breath uninterrupted by a hiccup or a stutter. "Thank you," she mustered the courage to look me in the eyes and express her gratitude, though I didn't accept her thanks.
I wagged my head and told her, "No. It's nothing."
In all likelihood, she thought that I was befriending her, but there was a reason as to why I suggested she be brought back to camp instead of being killed in that chapel right then and there. Everyone wanted answers and explanations because, without them, we were all blind as bats. I was looking for answers to a different question, and I was hoping that she could entertain it for me.
The need to push my luck with the regiment was no longer felt as I was already under the impression that they were keeping my husband's death a secret from me. Maybe there was a reason why they wrote to me. Maybe there was a reason why no one else volunteered, or at least, was selected to become the general's aide-de-camp, but they weren't throwing any clues my way either. They asked me to be there, and when I showed up, they grew silent… Almost like they were afraid of me. But I was starving for an answer… for closure.