“The Fool’s Errand”

***Author’s note: This is the second installation of a small fiction project I have been working on. I will post portions of the story during 2018, so stay tuned. Below is part two. Click here for chapters one and two of part one.***

Chapter three: The Crumbling Cathedral

–Late autumn 2019; four months before the Deserter’s Dying Declaration–

The assembled militia guzzled coffee in the church gymnasium. The general had taken a big risk to muster the entire group, save for the patrols out at the time, in one place. He sensed dissension and wanted to deal with it head-on. So close, he thought, our time is so close. Stemming the tide on internal quarrels as their time to act approached outweighed the chance of the Invaders locating and maybe bombing the church. The men assembled, and the general’s keen eye noticed that the men divided themselves into two groups. On one side, behind a few officers, sat two-thirds of the militia. Behind him sat the remaining third.

After roll call, the general asked if anyone would like to speak. The militiamen were not surprised by the general’s informality. He began most musters in this fashion. Normally he would field complaints from young men that their was not enough food and water at their outposts. Other men offered ideas that would allow them to see their wives and families more often. Today, the general thought, these men have fire in their eyes. There will be no talk of visiting families. They want to fight.

He looked on as a major raised his hand. Major Herbert Johnson looked at the general with his hand up. The general knew Major Johnson and respected his opinions. Johnson had been instrumental in recruiting Army veterans into the militia. Johnson was the fifth man to join the militia and had recruited, directly or by way of men he already recruited, almost one-third of the entire militia.

The general swept his hand to the floor and said, “Floor’s yours, major.”

“Thank you, sir.” Johnson began his appeal to the gathered crowd. “Gentlemen, here we sit, on our thumbs, while the Marines die in vast numbers to our south,” he spoke in a low voice. The men strained to hear him. Johnson was a tall, well-respected officer. During the Iraq and Afghan wars, he had served as an Army infantry platoon and company commander before returning home to Minnesota and joining his brothers in running their father’s construction company. Since returning to his home state, the father of two daughters and a son won election to the Minnesota Senate. His salt and pepper hair and measured demeanor garnered him great respect among the younger men in the militia. He was a fiery voice in the pre-war Senate, and the general expected more fire from him now.

“Good American men die by the thousands in the battles in our Twin Cities while we ‘wait’ under our General’s orders,” he continued. A few men clapped and rapped on their tables with their knuckles. “A good man, no doubt, our General,” he said, “but we–the able-bodied men of our region–must ask him: why the hesitation?”

When the battle for Minneapolis and St. Paul started, the Three Rivers Militia bided its time in a suburban town north of the Twin Cities. The men had expected this and melted away into the populace as ordered. After the Invaders defeated and occupied Minneapolis and St. Paul, the militia planned to appear and harass the Invaders to their vulnerable rear as they traced 1-35 south out of Minnesota. No one had expected the fierceness of the fight with the Invaders in Minnesota. As by some miracle, the Invaders’ march through America bogged down in Minnesota. As the Marines and Invaders traded blows in battles all across the Twin Cities, calls for the militia to engage grew. Some Minnesotans lost faith a militia even existed.

Johnson continued, “when the Invaders passed near Blaine to the east, we scattered like roaches on the General’s orders only to reconvene after they passed. We sat out the battle at White Bear Lake, on,” he paused for effect, “the General’s orders. When the Invaders fought–and won, I might add–against the Marines at the State Fair Grounds, did we spring into action against the Invaders?” he feigned ignorance to the crowd. “No,” he said answering his own question in a louder voice. “When the Invaders moved southeast from the Fair Grounds towards St. Paul, our great state’s capital city,” he emphasized every syllable in the last two words, “we surely sprung into action then, right?”

“No,” his supporters answered this time and then rapped their knuckles on the tables. “As the Invaders burned St. Thomas–one of our great learning institutions–we finally woke up then, yes?” he asked, tears beginning to well in his misty eyes.

If Johnson is acting, he’s doing a good job, Tim Meyer thought. But Meyer had known Johnson since Meyer was just a boy. A good man, he thought, this is a heartfelt appeal to the general.

“No,” replied Johnson’s now-somber supporters.

“As they stood on the precipice of our state’s capital building, doubtless we sprung into action?” Johnson asked. He paused. No one spoke. Johnson took three steps, stopped, and spoke again. He lowered his voice for effect. “And when those bastards tore down our capital, did we attack them with all power? With all our might? With all our essence and being?”

“No,” his supporters repeated their refrain with true, guttural concern evident in their voices. Other men, less supportive of Johnson’s speech, slowly shook their heads. No, they mimed.

“That’s right,” Johnson continued, “No. We did nothing. And now what?” he asked, wiping a genuine tear from each eye. “As they, no doubt turn to desecrate our most holy place in this state–our Catholic Cathedral on the hill–I ask you, sir, will we act?”

The younger men rapped their knuckles hard. “I come to you as a major in your militia,” Johnson emphasized the word your before continuing, “with true concern. I hope you can hear it in my voice. I offer no insubordination. I offer friendship. Love.”

He’s convincing them, thought Tim.

“As a resident of this great State,” Johnson’s voice echoed in the gymnasium, “as a loyal patriot to the United States of America, I ask you: when? If not now I fear that not only will all our nation’s capitals and cathedrals crumble. No. If not now, I fear that our collective backbone and moral stature will crumble. And once we lose that–our moral high ground, we will lose our fellow citizens’ trust and backing.” Johnson paused and pointed to his supporters before speaking directly to the general. “Hold no ill-will to these gentlemen, I ask you, Sir. Blame me if you must, but understand our moral imperative; if not now then when?” he finished.

Johnson’s supporters applauded. Except for a few of his younger, more enthusiastic supporters, the supporters’ applause was vigorous, but respectful. Johnson shook a few men’s hands as he returned to his seat. He raised his right hand to acknowledge his supporters and then sat down. Johnson turned his chair towards the open area between the two groups and looked on respectfully. Applause continued until Johnson indicated with his hands for his supporters to quiet down. Outside of a few younger men, the clapping stopped. The group of young militiamen required a sterner look from the elders before settling down. Men jostled around, shifting their position after the riveting speech. The speech aroused the militiamen’s emotions. They pictured the capital and Cathedral collapsing and the Invader hoards running roughshod over their neighborhoods. The younger men sensed glory within their reach.

The general and his clerk whispered to each other. Then the clerk spoke. “I believe Major Schmidt would like the floor,” he pointed to Major Schmidt who nodded his approval. The clerk and Major Schmidt’s eyes fell to Major Johnson.

Johnson rose from his desk and spoke. “I yield the floor to Major Johnson and encourage all those who supported me to give him an honest listen,” he said and sat back down. His supporters nodded their approval. Now here’s a reasonable man, they thought. He offered a measured, meaningful speech on his position, and then offers the opposition an olive branch. The younger men hissed their dissatisfaction as Major Schmidt rose.

Major Schmidt rose. “Gentlemen,” he nodded to the militia. “Major Johnson,” he nodded acknowledging his foe. “Sir,” he nodded to the general. “Let me begin by thanking Major Johnson for his opinions. This militia holds no man in legal servitude and, therefore, the general values this sort of ‘town hall’ approach to decision-making when necessary.” The militiamen clapped and looked at the general with approval in their eyes and hearts. The young men clapped less and quieter than the others.

“Let me begin by stating that the general and his staff truly believe that waiting the fight out is the proper tactic. In a mechanized, straight-up force-on-force fight, the Invaders would demolish our proud, but rag-tag, group,” Schmidt said. “Our nation’s own Marine Corps is having difficulty handling this enemy. After much back-and-forth, we decided weeks ago that our forces can be better employed in a guerrilla manner from two positions. You all know this. Not one of you objected to this course of action until you saw the Invaders actually go past us.”

Schmidt paused his speech and moved to the map board in the room. Pointing to the map, he said, “do not forget this: it’s a blessing that the Invaders’ momentum stopped here. We anticipated having to follow the Invaders down I-35 and merely harass their rear guard to divide their attention.” He tapped his finger on the southern portion of the Minneapolis-St. Paul metropolitan area and went on, “Instead, our Marine Corps held. Against all odds, our Marine Corps held.” All the men in the room rapped their knuckles in approval of the Marine Corps’ stand.

“This stand will go down in history, and we can turn the tide. But we must use our particular abilities judiciously,” Schmidt went on, “that’s why the general plans to split the militia and harass the Invaders’ main body.” Major Johnson’s supporters hissed. Johnson’s younger supporters even shook their heads and booed. “Half the militia, under the general, will move to Marine on St. Croix north of Stillwater. The other half, under Colonel Arneson, will move to Chaska. Both sides will harass the Invaders and motivate the remaining public to do the same. If we can keep the Invaders in place all winter, we believe the rest of the country will mount a spring offensive.”

“A decisive engagement would be a bloodbath,” Schmidt exhorted the crowd. “Many of us have seen the effects of guerrilla warfare in our trips to Iraq and Afghanistan. Well now the shoe’s on the other foot. Patience, men. Patience.”

“My neighbor’s wife got beat up and taken advantage of in Blaine while we cowered,” a young man behind Johnson said.

“Order, order,” dozens called out. The young men’s boos drowned out the calls for order.

“My sister is missing,” another called out.

“Order, order,” the clerk called out. Major Schmidt tried to talk to the angry crowd.

“Patience?” yelled another man, the crowd quieting down, “You ask for patience and say a battle would be a bloodbath? Patience is a bloodbath. Look around. Open your eyes!”

Johnson’s supporters’ knuckles and voices drowned out Major Schmidt while the general looked on. Major Schmidt turned to look at the general. Seeing the helplessness in the major’s eyes, the general rose to speak. The men quieted down. The general moved to his side, pushed in his chair, and walked to Major Schmidt placing his hand on the major’s shoulder.

“Thank you, major,” the general said, the entire militia’s focus shifted to the general. “Thank you, major,” he repeated, dismissing the younger man.

“Gentlemen,” he began, but a disturbance near the door divided the men’s attention. “Gentlemen,” he called out waiving his hand to gather the militia’s attention. But then, noticing a patrol entering the room to the side, even the general glanced over. The entire militia looked to the door where a sergeant entered the door with his patrol and a plume of steam and snow following him. The sergeant walked towards his company commander.

The sergeant in charge of the building’s security intercepted the sergeant and the pair exchanged whispered words.

“Sir,” the sergeant of the guard called out to the general.

“Yes?” the general asked.

“Sergeant Martinez has important news from the front,” he called out. Sergeant Martinez and his squad had just spent four days attempting to link up with the Marines. Their secondary mission, should the linkup have proved too difficult, was to paint a picture of the Marines’ battle with the Invaders.

“Let’s have it,” the general said.

Sergeant Martinez approached the center of the room and began reporting the partol’s findings in a quiet voice to the general.

“Sergeant, share it with the men. No secrets here,” the general said. A sentry ran the man coffee as Martinez turned to the group.

“Gents, good news and bad news. The good news is quick,” he started, “the Marines are holding in Burnsville from what we could see, and the Invaders look to be setting up semi-permanent structures. I think they’ve conceded they won’t move through here quick.” The men nodded their approval but focused for the coming bad news. “Bad news: the Invaders are sacking the cities. Minneapolis is unrecognizable. St. Paul too. The surrounding neighborhoods and suburbs show scant signs of life. We think the populace is holed-up in their houses, because the streets we so silent.”

The men shook their heads as Major Johnson’s followers seemed to grow. “What do you mean the cities are unrecognizable?” one called out to Martinez.

Martinez turned to the general who nodded that he could respond. “About half the skyscrapers were down or close to being completely destroyed,” he responded. “We think they are using all the sports stadiums as supply depots, and the hospitals are all burned down.” The men were quiet, unable to comprehend their cities and homes in ruin.

Major Johnson rose to his feet. All eyes turned to him. “Sergeant Martinez, how was the capital?” he asked. Every set of eyes moved to the young sergeant.

“Leveled,” Martinez responded. The men looked on. No one spoke. Their eyes returned to Johnson.

Johnson looked at Martinez. “And the Cathedral?” The men leaned forward in their seats. The general felt the tension. I’m about to lose these guys, he thought.

“Destroyed,” Martinez’s voice was drowned out by the men’s cries before he even finished the word. Johnson’s men stood up and pointed to the general’s less enthusiastic supporters. They yelled. Their anger made their faces turn red. Where the two groups of supporters mixed, men stuck their index fingers in to other men’s chests. A few men twisted each other’s collars as the two groups jostled back-and-forth. After 20 or so seconds, the calmer men prevailed. Men remembered everyone in the room was on the same side of the war. The collective anger in the room narrowed to the general. All eyes were on him.

A captain stood up–a well-respected, Johnson supporter named Berg. He motioned for the crowd to quiet, and it did.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he began, “I think we can all agree the fighting in Chaska–so close to Burnsville–will be a bit more fierce than in the Stillwater area, yes?” The men nodded unsure of Berg’s point.

“I think we can all also agree that the leader of a unit should be in the toughest spot for his men, fighting alongside them, no?” Berg asked the men. Nods again.

“And yet, I can’t help but notice that the general has saved the Stillwater command for himself,” he said. The room exploded. Men on the general’s side were now invigorated by the personal insult. The general stood still and watched dozens of men yell at dozens of other men. Fights began. The general’s clerk even swung at the captain and connected. The general turned back to his seat. Defeated, he thought. Ousted. As he turned to collect his papers before abdicating, he saw a man standing straight and taut in the middle of the fray.

The man stood with his arms up, his extended palms facing away from him. When the militiamen noticed who the man was, they started quieting each other down. The scrapes between the Johnson men and the general’s men slowed as other men intervened and point to the man with his hands outsstretched. After a few moments, silence and stillness surrounded the man. There he stood with his arms extended. He remained quiet and erect. His steadfastness quieted the entire crowd. Finally, he spoke.

“Captain Berg,” the man commanded. No one spoke. “Captain Berg,” the man repeated.

“Yes, sergeant,” Captain Berg said.

“Permission to speak, sir,” the sergeant said.

“Go ahead,” Berg said.

“You believe the general considered self-interest in positioning himself in Stillwater versus Chaska. Am I correct?” the sergeant asked.

“I have no way of knowing that. It was a suggestion,” Berg  seemed to sneer. Everone in the room knew what he had just accused the general of.

“Very well,” the sergeant paused, took a deep breath, and asked, “would the general’s assignment of leaders he is closest to indicate his steadfastness in his course of action?”

“It may,” Berg responded.

“In that case,” the sergeant began, before the general cut him off.

“Sergeant Meyer, that’s enough,” the general said. The sergeant ignored his general and continued.

“In that case,” he restarted, but the general interrupted him again.

“Tim, don’t,” the general implored.

Unperturbed, Sergeant Tim Meyer spoke to the militia, “In that case, why has the general, my father, placed both me and my brother Tom under Colonel Arneson in the Chaska unit?”

The general–General Michael Meyer–hung his head.

Captain Berg spun to the general, “Is that true?”

Sergeant Tim Meyer turned and faced his father. General Michael Meyer locked eyes with his youngest son. The sergeant smiled and winked to the general. The general found his son Thomas’ eyes in the crown. Michael noticed Thomas’ red eyes and found himself fighting back tears. He did not fight the tears well. Thomas nodded to his father. “Yes,” General Meyer answered to Berg, “both of my sons will be in the Chaska militia.” A tear fell down his cheek. The militia quieted and most of the men nodded.

No one knew what this meant. No one knew what to do. No one knew what would happen. The room was silent for almost ten second before Major Johnson spoke. “Major Schmidt,” he asked, “I believe you have the floor? Permit me to speak.”

Schmidt looked at General Meyer. Meyer nodded. “I yield the floor to Major Schmidt.”

“Thank you,” Schmidt began, “gentlemen, I believe we’ve had enough for today. I reiterate my call for action but, given the general’s great sacrifice, I once again pledge my allegiance to his judgment. I encourage my supporters to recommit to their general.” The men nodded.

I may have kept my command and we avoided a slaughter, but . . . my boys, he thought as he slumped down to his chair.