The Forever Man: PULSE

by Craig Zerf

  ‘Marine corps master sergeant Nathaniel Hogan reporting as requested, sir.’

  The brigadier’s face registered his approval. ‘At ease, mister Hogan.’

  Nathaniel raised his right knee parallel to the floor and slammed it down as he shifted to the ‘at ease’ position, hands behind his back, thumbs interlocked, left in front of right.

  ‘Stand easy, mister Hogan,’ continued the brigadier.

  Nathaniel relaxed almost imperceptibly apart from the fact that he now looked at the brigadier as opposed to straight ahead.

  ‘So, soldier, what brings you here?’ Asked the Brigadier.

  ‘Simply passing through, sir.’

  ‘We’re looking for more soldiers, particularly non-comms. Could we interest you in staying?’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ answered Nate. ‘I would prefer to continue my journey.’

  The Brigadier nodded. ‘Fine, but I insist that you stay as our guest for two or three days. Take a look around, see what we’re all about. Mayhap I can change your mind. Mister Clarkson here will show you to your quarters and issue you with the necessaries.’

  Nate crashed to attention once more. ‘Thank you, sir. Much appreciated.’ He saluted again and followed warrant officer Clarkson out of the room.

  Clarkson led him to the next room and ushered him in. He went over to a desk and pulled out a sheaf of papers, signed a few and handed them to Nate.

  ‘Here you go, mister Hogan These are permission slips. The yellow ones are for a day’s accommodation, I have given you three. The green ones are for food. One meal per slip. I have allowed you two meals a day, breakfast and supper. Come with me and I’ll show you to your digs.’

  Nate followed Clarkson out of the house, past the armed guards and down the road. Once again it struck Nate that there were next to no civilians present. He didn’t bother to ask Clarkson where they were, figuring that he would find out later.

  The snow had been cleared from all of the roads and pavements and there was no litter. Even the street signs had been cleaned and polished. All of these obvious pointers to the fact that the village was being militarily run.

  After a few turns they came to a small Victorian terraced cottage. Clarkson opened the front door, which was unlocked and showed Nate in.

  ‘Here you go, old chap. The water is running, we’ve set up a gravity feed tower, cold but drinkable and fine for washing in if you’re a complete Spartan. Please feel free to wander. If you’d like to go outside the perimeter one has to get permission from the Brigadier, I’m afraid. The officers mess in the village hall, sure that you can find that by yourself. Any questions?’

  Nate shook his head. ‘No, sir. All self-evident. Many thanks. Oh, maybe one, what about my horse?’

  ‘Shouldn’t worry about that, mister Hogan. The chaps will take good care of it.’

  The warrant officer left, closing the door behind him as he did.

  Nate took a walk through of the cottage. Two rooms downstairs, a sitting room and a kitchen. Off the kitchen was a small shower room and toilet. A stiff towel was hanging over the rail.

  Narrow stairs to the first floor. At the top another two small rooms. Both rooms contained double beds. On the one bed was a set of linen. Sheets, a blanket, single thin pillow and a duvet. There were no personal items to be seen and Nate wondered what had happened to the previous inhabitants.

  Nate decided to take a shower first. He stripped down in the bedroom and laid his clothes out on the bed. His spare clothes were in his saddlebags on his horse so he would have to make do for the meanwhile.

  Naked he walked down stairs, went into the bathroom and turned the shower on. The water was ice cold, only a little above freezing but Nate stepped in, grabbed the sliver of soap and, puffing and blowing, scrubbed himself down and rinsed off. He rubbed himself dry with the rough towel and jogged back up to the bedroom to get dressed, pulling his mink coat tight around his shoulders until he had warmed up. Then he strapped on his boots and went outside.

  He simply started to meander about the village without any special purpose. After a couple of turns he came across a large military tent pitched in a front garden. Steam billowed out of the side of the canvas structure and a strange smell of vinegar and sugar and fruit wafted through the air. He walked over to the open front of the tent to take a look. A single armed guard stood in the entrance. When he saw Nate he nodded, obviously aware that he was around, but he said nothing.

  Nate peered in to see a long row of villagers working over large catering pots that were suspended above cooking fires. Opposite them were another group of people working at a preparation table, slicing vegetables, peeling fruit, measuring and weighing. It didn’t take Nate long to realize that they were pickling vegetables and turning fruit into preserves for the winter. Planning ahead. Everyone had their heads down, working hard, so he didn’t talk to anyone. He simply watched for a short while and went on his way.

  On the outskirts of the village in what looked like a horse paddock, he saw a large group of children, eight years to around twelve, marching around the arena. Instead of rifles they carried tools. Spades, garden forks, picks and shovels. A corporal called out time, berating those who fell out of step and complimenting those who marched straight and proud. The children wore khaki shirts and trousers and each had a square badge on their chest. A flag with a red cross of St. George and a sun and a moon in the top corners. On their right sleeves a small rectangular flash of white with the words, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few”.

  The sight sent a shiver through Nate as memories of school history lessons and photo’s of rows of Hitler Youth Children flashed through his mind.

  The corporal saw Nate watching and beckoned to him to come over.

  ‘Greetings, Master Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Taking a look at out budding troops, I see.’

  Nate nodded. ‘Very impressive. Do they learn to shoot?’

  ‘Oh yes. Field craft, weapon craft, doctrine, fitness, survival training. The Brigadier says that these are the future of our new world.’

  ‘When do they get time for schooling?’

  ‘They receive rudimentary reading, writing and arithmetic skills. The Brigadier believes that too much focus on intellectual pursuits will be damaging to their development as soldiers. Some of the more feeble ones, ones of less physical strength, are selected for more cerebral offerings.’

  Nate kept his face devoid of expression and simply nodded and went on his way.

  Next he came across a group of four civilians, a man and three women of indeterminate middle age. Standing near them was an armed soldier. Two of the women were sweeping the snow off the roads and sidewalks and the other two were polishing the road signs. The soldier nodded a greeting but the civilians kept their eyes downcast and avoided looking at him as they concentrated on their menial tasks. As Nate drew away he heard one of them coughing, a deep wracking cough that sounded like the precursor of real problems.

  Nate continued his aimless stroll, noting that all of the sidewalks and roads were clear of snow, the signs all polished and the fences newly painted. The village was in parade ground condition. No longer a village and now an obvious military base. Once again he wondered where all of the inhabitants were.

  He walked alongside the blast wall until he came to one of the sentry towers. It stood four meters high and was constructed from steel scaffolding. A ladder ran up the side to the platform.

  Nate gave the sentry a shout. ‘Hey, soldier. Mind if I come up?’

  The soldier peered over the side, took in Nate’s rank and gave a thumbs up. ‘Help yourself, sir.’

  Nate shimmied up the ladder and stepped onto the platform. The area was around six square yards, three-foot high railings and a 7.62 mm machine gun mounted on a swing mount that was attached to a steel stanchion.

  The marine nodded to the soldier. ‘Nathaniel Hogan, marine master sergeant.’

  ‘Private Johnson, sir. Surrey territorials.’
>
  Nate pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered. Johnson accepted with alacrity, a huge grin on his face.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Ran out of these over a month ago. Commissioned officers only.’

  Nate lit for both of them and then gave the rest of the pack to the private.

  ‘Here, take them. I’ve got more.’

  Johnson slipped the pack into one of the pouches of his webbing, his face still agrin.

  The two soldiers smoked in silence for a while and Nate surveyed the land. About six hundred yards from the rear wall he could see a group of people working in a field, scraping the snow to one side and digging up something that looked like potatoes. Three armed guards stood close by them. He also noticed small groups walking through the forest. Groups of threes and fours. Each with a soldier.

  ‘What are they doing?’ He asked Johnson.

  ‘Laying traps, sir. Rabbits, birds, small game. The meat is brought back and either used straightaway or smoked and salted for storage. Also general forage, wild carrots, tubers, fruits. The Brigadier has set up a system. We need to be fully self sustaining ASAP. No relying on old generation tinned foods and such, sir. We are the new generation.’

  Nate dragged on his cigarette. Said nothing.

  ‘These people owe a lot to the Brigadier,’ continued Johnson. ‘We were on exercises in the area, using the local base, only a couple of hundred of us. The bulk of the boys were in Afghanistan when the power went. Within a day the Brigadier had a plan, reckoned that the base was indefensible as well as being unsustainable. So we decamped to this village. If it weren’t for us it they would all have starved. Now we have food being stored for the winter, running water, defenses. The continuation of our civilization. And it won’t stop here. In time we can expand, bring more people under rule. Make more people safe.’

  Nate nodded. Whatever he thought, it was obvious that the Brigadier had achieved a great deal in a small amount of time.

  ‘Right then,’ he said to Johnson. ‘Thanks for the info. See you later.’

  He climbed back down the tower and continued his circuit of the wall finally ending up at the village green.

  There was a large army tent erected in the middle of the green and he could see through the entrance that it was full of trestle tables and a variety of chairs. Most of the tables were full of people sitting down and eating and there were still long queues at the chow line as people waited patiently, bowls in hand, to get some sustenance.

  Nate could smell the food from where he stood and it seemed to consist mainly of boiled turnips, potato and cabbage. Way in the background a slight smell of meat. Probably rabbit. The villagers looked lethargic, faces pale and movements slow. Whenever he caught someone’s eye they immediately looked down, their faces showing obvious fear.

  The marine contemplated missing dinner as the smell of the turnips was turning his stomach but he hadn’t eaten since that morning so he figured that he had better try to get something into his belly while he had the chance.

  He continued past the green to the village hall where Clarkson had told him the officers mess was. The front doors were closed and he let himself in. The first thing that struck him was the atmosphere. Someone, a young girl it seemed, was playing a piano in the corner. Classical renditions of pop songs. The place was well lit with candles and mirrors and a fire crackled away in the hearth, filling the place with warmth. And the smell of the food immediately made his mouth water.

  Fried chicken, mashed potato with butter, peas, gravy, corn. There were bottles of red wine at the tables as well as jugs of water and fresh fruit juice. It was as if he had entered another world. A world of privilege and power. And then he realized; that is exactly what he had done. Outside were the new world peasants. The grubbers of dirt and the wielders of plows. And in this room were the leaders of the elite. Soldiers. Warriors. Men with power.

  Nathaniel took a deep breath and walked into the room.

  The brigadier, who was sitting at the top table, saw him and beckoned to him.

  ‘Mister Hogan. Join us.’

  Nate walked over and sat down next to the commanding officer.

  ‘So, mister Hogan,’ continued the Brigadier. ‘You’ve had a good look around. What do you think.’

  ‘I’m a sergeant, sir,’ responded Nate. ‘Not my job to think.’

  The Brigadier smiled. But only with his lips, no humor touched his eyes. ‘I give you permission to think. Go ahead.’

  ‘Very efficiently run outfit, sir,’ said Nate. ‘Not sure if I’d want to be a civilian.’

  The brigadier raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, sir, never been one for grubbing in the dirt and surviving on turnip soup.’

  The brigadier nodded. ‘I see. You appear to have come across the lower echelons being fed. The tent on the green. Yes,’ agreed the brigadier. ‘It’s a tough life for them. However, better than being dead one might say. But what you do not know, mister Hogan, is those were only a part of the community. The lowest and least skilled of the village. There is another kitchen closer to the gates where the middle echelons are fed. Those are the people with more discernable skills. Blacksmiths, engineers, farmers, farriers and such. Their fare is substantially better than turnip soup.’

  ‘As good as this?’ Asked Nate.

  The brigadier laughed. ‘Of course not. We are officers. The enlisted men get similar food, no booze. But the middle echelons get a meat ration and bread with their soup. An adequate amount of calories to survive and to work.’

  ‘There seem to be many empty houses, sir. Casualties?’

  ‘No,’ answered the brigadier. ‘Thanks to us there were very few casualties in the village. We’ve had, perhaps, a ten percent die back. Diabetics, people whom were on various life giving drugs that ran out, the elderly. The empty houses are part of the new order. One is assigned housing depending on ones usefulness to the community as a whole. The lower echelons share housing. Four to a room, male and females separated. The middles echelons get their own house, ranging from a three bedroom for the farrier down to smaller one or two beds for farmers and assistants. The doctor has a very decent digs as does the priest.’

  ‘As do you, sir,’ interjected Nate.

  ‘Yes, I am the commanding officer. My place used to belong to a city trader. Now he is one of the lower echelons. Good for nothing but wielding a spade. No discernable skills whatsoever.’

  ‘And what are the empty houses for then?’ Enquired the marine.

  ‘Newcomers, such as yourself,’ said the brigadier. ‘We accept all comers, interview them, allocate them a job and in return they get food, shelter and safety.’

  Someone put a full plate of food down in front of Nate and he concentrated on getting it inside him. The brigadier sat silently for a while, sipping on a glass of red wine. After a minute or so he stood up. Immediately everyone in the room stood to attention.

  The brigadier waved them back down. ‘As you were, gentlemen. I grow weary and shall take my leave.’ He left the hall followed closely by his two armed guards and everyone sat down and continued with their meals.

  Warrant officer Clarkson, who was sitting on Nate’s left side, offered the marine a glass of wine. Nate nodded his thanks.

  ‘He’s a great man, you know,’ said Clarkson. ‘What you see is just the beginning. Soon we shall start to expand our net. Bring in more villages and towns under us, set up communications via fast horse. Expand the central army to include a militia. Create centralized farms and production units. Everyone will have equal access to food and shelter.’

  ‘Except for the military,’ rejoined Nathaniel.

  ‘Well, obviously, yes. For any civilization to achieve, one must have a ruling class.’

  Nate said nothing.

  ‘You seem skeptical, master sergeant.’

  ‘I don’t know if skeptical is the correct word,’ answered Nathaniel. ‘Perhaps incredulous is closer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Milit
ary rule? Armies are run to fight wars, not to rule civilizations. Look at Hitler, Adi Amin, Stalin, Genghis Kahn. Power can be gained by the barrel of a gun but never held.’

  ‘You misunderstand, master sergeant. We do not seek to conquer. We seek to help. We have no political agenda at all.’

  ‘War is the continuation of politics,’ argued Nate. ‘And before you say that you aren’t at war let me tell you – you are. What would happen if you stood your soldiers down and disarmed them?’

  ‘Obviously there might be a breakdown of discipline,’ admitted Clarkson.

  Nate snorted. ‘A breakdown of discipline? The people would rise up and slaughter the lot of you.’

  Clarkson shook his head vehemently. ‘No way, master sergeant. They understand that what we are doing is for the best. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. As I say, a few may become a little undisciplined but not much more.’

  ‘Bullshine,’ said Nate. ‘They won’t even look a soldier in the eye. They’re all living in terror. While you have taken their houses and split up their families and dine on fried chicken whilst they subsist on turnip water. Wake up, man.’

  Clarkson had gone pale with rage as he stared at Nate. ‘Master sergeant,’ he said. ‘You are dismissed. You are no longer welcome in the officer’s mess. Please leave this instant.’

  Nathaniel stood up. ‘I’m sorry, mister Clarkson. I didn’t mean to offend. Especially after being given such a welcome. It was churlish of me in the extreme. I shall leave first thing in the morning after extending my thanks to the Brigadier.’

  Nate bowed and walked slowly from the hall and into the night. A light snow was falling; little eddies of wind causing it to swirl about the marine’s head like moths around a flame.

  He took out a cigarette, cupped his hands against the wind and lit up. Then he walked back to his digs, deep in thought. He didn’t know why he was so riled up. Most of what Clarkson said was true; the bulk of the villagers would have died by now if left to their own devices. The brigadier had created a safe haven in a world gone mental. The bulk of the villagers were eating, albeit subsistence rations. But the whole thing stank like a nine-day-old kipper. Sometimes, just because you could do something, was no real reason to go ahead and do it. One thing was for sure; the brigadier was on one huge power trip. Nevertheless, thought Nate, whilst the situation was not to his liking it wasn’t actually broken. People were safe and alive, far be it for him to blunder in righting wrongs that were not even considered wrongs by many of the people involved.