Only by Blood and Suffering: Regaining Lost Freedom

by LaVoy Finicum

  I could do with a drink of water. I thought of the cool spring water flowing in my little valley just beyond the ridge. I had been raised on that water, even so, in this high desert land I had never taken it for granted. For a moment I considered walking over, getting a canteen and coming back. It was not a good idea. The men on the rim had been hearing the firefight that I had waged for the last several hours and they would be keyed up. I had told them I would not return to the basin until the fighting was over. If I walked over there, a friend would shoot me before they knew it was me. Besides that, I might give away the position of my foxhole to some sniper that might be sent ahead of the main assault.

  I slowly turned the spotting scope, studying the land carefully. The scope was on a short tri-pod at the edge of the foxhole. We were shaded and I had planted a few thin bushes to the front of the hole. I could see through them easily enough and they helped to break up the outline of my head behind them. It was a well camouflaged spot.

  Two hours passed as I kept up my watch. I only took a few short breaks, once to reload my empty magazines for my AR, then I was back at the scope. The view of the scope passed by a tree southeast of the basin and I saw a movement. The tree was an ancient black willow that rose above the shorter cedar and pinions. I focused the powerful scope and could see a man climbing the tree. What was the distance from here to that tree? More than 800 yards? A 1000? I took out my range finder. The large tree made a good target for the finder to register the distance. Putting the red reticle of the rangefinder on the tree, I pressed the button: 817 yards. That was a long, long shot. I had made a few 400 plus yards shots while hunting during my life but very few. I was not a marine sniper nor did I have a 338 Lapua or a 50 cal. The Lapua shot a bullet that weighed over 400 grains and the 50 cal was over 700 grains. My 270 was shooting a 130 grain ball and the bullets for my AR were only 69 grains.

  The 130 grain 270 bullet, when zeroed at two hundred yards, dropped over twenty inches at 400 yards and over forty inches at 500 yards. At 800 yards I would be lobbing in the shot. The ballistics on my AR at this distance were much worse. My scopes on both rifles were quality scopes but the AR went up to 9 power of magnification and the scope on the 270 went up to 13 power. My spotting scope was 30 power.

  I watched the man as he climbed higher until he found a perch in a high fork. There he settled in and pulled out a pair of binoculars. I recognized the military dress of the man. He was the DHS agent.

  I pulled back from the spotting scope to consider my options. I really wanted that man. As I thought, I noticed the dust from the rally point begin to advance. As it advanced it grew wider and wider as the men spread out. They were coming. I became anxious inside, feeling different than I had earlier this morning. This morning it was only me that they had been shooting at. Now it would be my family too.

  I tried to rein in the rising anxiety and refocus on the man in the tree. I could see that he was not going to be in the first wave of the attack. He would be watching, gathering intel on our positions, looking for a weak point. I knew that he had some radio communication ability. When everyone else’s electronic circuits in their radios had been fried from the nuclear strike, all the DHS agents had not. Theirs were hardened. He would have the ability to coordinate and control some of the attack.

  I had not much time. I scooped up a pile of damp sand a foot from the edge of the foxhole where I could rest the fore stock of my Winchester. I did not have sand bags or bi-pod to steady this long shot so I rested the rifle on top of the pile of sand. I cranked the scope up to 13 power and looked through it. I found the tree and then the man. He was so much smaller in my rifle scope than in the spotting scope. I put the cross-hairs on him, and because the distance made him so small in my scope, the cross-hairs covered much of his body. I raised the cross-hairs about seven feet over his head and they wobbled with the beating of my heart.

  I pulled back from the scope and picked up a small handful of sand then let it trickle from my fingers. The dust drifted eastward in a mild breeze. Pillowing the fore stock of the rifle a little deeper in the sand I then looked through my optics again. This time I held the cross-hairs seven feet high and a half foot to the side of him. I was trying to compensate for the drift of the bullet. At that distance even a mild breeze would affect the shot.

  It was hard to steady the cross-hairs. I drew in a breath, let most of it out and squeezed the trigger. The rifle recoiled in my arms and I lost view of my target as the barrel lifted from the shot. I worked the bolt of the gun back, discharging the spent cartridge. In the same motion I slammed the bolt forward, charging the chamber with a fresh round, and brought the rifle back to the sand pile. Looking through the scope, I found the tree. The man was gone from the fork. Had I got him!? At the base of the tree a man rose from the ground and darted from view.

  A mild “wing” at best. He moved too well to be hit seriously.

  “Damn.” … I needed to quit swearing. I didn’t like my girls hearing me talk like that.

  The dust cloud from the approaching men had spread out to rim a quarter of the basin. They stopped in the thickness of the trees less than a quarter mile off. It became still as the breeze died.

  Dan and the ranchers had done a good job of clearing the limbs and brush away from in front of the basin. Once the attackers got within a hundred yards of the rim they would have little cover. It was hard for me to believe that they would make such a bold attack that promised massive casualties, but they had little choice. If they did not prevail over us, they and their families would starve. If they did prevail they would not spare any of us, men, women, or children. They were fighting for food to stay alive and each mouth cut the pie a little thinner.

  Turning my left wrist towards my face, I read the hands on my watch: 11:58 a.m. Returning the gaze of my spotting scope to the trees in front of me, I could tell that the men had crept closer to the edge of the clearing. They stopped a hundred yards back from the cleared zone, two hundred yards from the rim.

  I leaned my Winchester against the back of the foxhole and picked up my AR. Peering through the rifle’s optics, I found a man laying half concealed behind a sage brush. I had no sooner laid my crosshairs on him when the familiar whistle blast pierced the stillness of the air. The man sprung from his hiding with a wild yell. There was a matching chorus of yells as more than 250 other men rose from hiding and charged forward.

  Within thirty-five seconds they would be upon us. The noise of the gunfire and screaming men became a distant blur in the back of my mind. I seemed to be in a focused tunnel as my reflexes took over. Running man, cross-hairs, pull trigger, running man, cross-hairs, pull trigger. I was firing as fast as I could while still trying to make every shot count. After a lifetime of shooting running rabbits, running coyotes, and running deer, this was no different. Men were falling but there were so many of them coming.

  The sprinting men had covered a third of the ground and my AR’s action locked back as my first magazine went empty. Muscle memory made the quick change of magazines one flawless movement of my hand. I was firing again. My family in the defensive emplacement next to me were shooting ARs and we were laying down a withering amount of lead.

  The charging men in front of us covered another third of the distance and started to falter, then broke. Their charge stopped in the middle of the cleared zone as their courage evaporated. It was the worst thing that they could have done. In confusion, some started to fall back while others looked for cover, and still others continued a timid advance.

  They were closer and moving slow. They made great targets and it was devastating for them.

  My second magazine went empty. As I inserted a third one I looked to my right. In horror I saw men breaching the rim three hundred yards off. There had been only one person with an AR in that part of the rim. The rest of them were shooting bolt action or lever action rifles. They could shoot only four to seven shots before needing to reload and the reloads were much slower than our ARs.

&nbs
p; The men to our front were retreating and I turned my fire to the failing emplacements. I could tell that Dan, Sandy, and my daughters had done the same. Besides us, there would now be supporting fire for the overrun emplacements coming from those positioned below at the house and barn.

  It was too much for our enemies. They fled as fast as they had come and we did not let them go freely. We fired until there was not a fleeing person to be seen.

  The dust began to settle amidst the cries and moaning of the wounded and dying. I looked at my watch: 12:16 p.m.

  Chapter 29

  FRIENDS

  Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends

  —John 15: 13

  March 15th

  I sat on my seat and leaned against the back wall of my foxhole. I listened to some men crying from pain while others moaned. For the second time this day my body had been charged with adrenalin, and for the second time, I sat as it drained out of me. I felt depleted, exhausted.

  I rested, listening to the unhallowed sound of dying men. Then, not far from my foxhole, a wounded man called out a name.

  “Bishop. Bill. Bishop. Please, I hurt. I’m so thirsty, just a little water, please.”

  “No! No! No!” The words raced through my head. “Not that.” It was our weakness, our Achilles heel, an appeal to our compassion.

  On the ground between my foxhole and the emplacement that sheltered my family, lay a man writhing in the dirt.

  “Bishop, oh Bishop, I’m so thirsty …” he broke off and started to cry.

  A figure rose up from the emplacement next to Dan’s. It was my old friend Bill. He held a canteen and no gun.

  “Stay back Bill, stay back!” I called out.

  “I can’t Jake. You know I can’t.” And he walked towards the crying man.

  I watched and prayed. On he came till he knelt in the dust by the man. Gently he raised the man’s head and pressed the canteen to his lips. Even from this distance I could hear the man swallowing the water. He drank and drank. With my own body craving water, I empathized with the wounded man. I could not help but blink tears from my eyes as I watched the act of compassion.

  Setting down the canteen, my large old friend scooped up the wounded man in his arms and stood up. He turned to go and a shot rang out. Bill shook from the impact. With the man still in his arms, Bill’s back arched and then this giant of a man fell like an old redwood tree.

  My family had been watching as I had and when Bill fell, horrors of all horrors, HayLee-H sprung from her emplacement and ran towards him. That caused me to spring from my foxhole and I ran with all that I had in me. I hollered at HayLee-H but she would not stop. I must stop her! I must get her to safety! Dust kicked up before me and then I heard the report of the rifle. I sprinted on. More gunfire.

  “Please dear God, please,” The silent prayer wrung from my heart.

  HayLee-H’s long blond ponytail flowed behind her and her fair face was fixed. Determined to help a fallen friend, she could not be dissuaded.

  How the mind does it I do not know but, as my body raced, my mind slowed down. Like pictures from a camera flipping slowly before me, frame by frame, I watched my daughter run. The fluid movements of her athletic body, her fair skin and beautiful face, so much like her mother. The fear in my heart was driven by the love I had for her.

  I reached her before she reached the Bishop. Still sprinting, I bent my shoulder. I planned to catch HayLee-H in the midsection and fold her over my shoulder that I might carry her to safety. Just as I bent forward, HayLee’s face went slack and she stumbled. Before she could fall I had her over my shoulder, without breaking stride, I continued my race forward.

  Subconsciously I heard more gunfire as I exerted myself. My running legs pounded the ground, my heart thumped my chest, my lungs on fire. The edge of the emplacement opened before me and in we went, head first. Crashing to the floor, I rolled to the wall and HayLee lay on the floor.

  I rose to my hands and knees struggling to catch my breath. KayLee-K was already next to HayLee. Her cheek was close to HayLee’s mouth and nose hoping to feel a breath. She had two fingers pressed to the side of her throat feeling for a pulse.

  I did not move. KayLee-K did not move. No one moved. The only sound in the trench was my ragged breaths. My breathing began to slow and still KayLee-K did not move. At length my breathing returned to normal and KayLee-K sat up. She looked me in the face, and I knew that my daughter was gone.

  Chapter 30

  SORROW

  I will weep bitterly … because of the spoiling of the daughter of the people.

  —Isaiah 22: 4

  March 15th

  As in the day that KayLee-K had learned of her mother’s death, so it was this day, there were no tears. I cradled HayLee in my arms and carried her to the ranch house as KayLee-K followed. In the basin we were sheltered from sniper fire. As we passed the barn mothers and daughters were weeping over the bodies of their husbands and brothers who were just slain.

  I carried HayLee up the steps of the porch to find her border collie standing before the door. The dog stood upon its hind legs putting a paw on my waist. He sniffed the body of his master, and with soft worried whines, dropped back to the porch. KayLee-K opened the door for me and I entered with the dog following us. In the house I laid HayLee on my bed then sat down on the wood chair from my desk. KayLee-K knelt on the bed beside the body of her sister and the dog lay upon the floor. With a wet cloth she carefully wiped the dust from HayLee’s face and the trace of blood from her lips. Undoing the hair band that tied HayLee’s long pony tail, KayLee-K unwound the braid and began to brush it.

  I sat watching a sister render some of the last acts of service that one could give to another. There was, once again, nothing that I could say. There would come a time when my words might lend comfort, but not now.

  I leaned back in the chair and rested my body. My heart… I was struggling to understand what was in my heart. As I watched KayLee-K care for her sister’s body, a solemn and peaceful feeling filled the room. That comforting feeling crept into my aching heart. I wanted to hate. I wanted to hate the man who had killed HayLee, the men who had come against us, the men who hated us. But I could not hate them. When I tried to hate, the feeling was washed out of me by the vision of an old bishop giving water to an enemy, by the vision of a daughter running to the aid of the fallen, both willingly giving their lives for another.

  This world had become brutal and men had become monsters, yet, in it all, there was still beauty, there was still love.

  I could not hate them,but I would kill them … It would not be many hours before dark and in that darkness I would hunt them. I would hunt them, I would kill them, and I would drive them from my land, my home, and my family.

  KayLee-K finished caring for HayLee then lay down beside the body and closed her eyes. I sat quietly and watched the sunlight travel across the bedroom floor as the hours passed by. Our enemies had not given up the fight. For them only one choice remained, conquer us or die. Die from fighting or die from starvation. They had come close to succeeding with the mass attack they made this morning. It had cost them dearly and they would not make another daylight assault. They had not sufficient food to give them time to lay siege against us. Their next attack would be under cover of darkness. In the darkness we would be unable to see to shoot them until they were upon us. In the dark mayhem, many of them would shoot each other but there was no other choice for them to make now.

  The room began to grow dark as the sun slid from the sky. I would hit them before they hit us. I stood up. KayLee-K was already sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Daughter, I know you intend to return to the emplacement to fight but I’m asking you not to go. I could not bear to lose both of you. For your father’s sake, KayLee-K, please don’t go.”

  KayLee-K nodded her head and I walked out the door.

  I walked out of the house and past the barn. At the place where the path cr
ossed the stream, I knelt down and drunk deeply of the cool water. At the rim of the basin it was now dark enough that I was safe from sniper fire. Walking across the battle field, I jumped into my foxhole. In the darkness I felt for my AR and found it. From my tactical vest I withdrew the soft case that held my night vision scope. From practice, I was able to exchange my daytime optics with my night vision by feel, using no light.

  It had been dark when I had started this fight and it would be dark when I finished it. I walked toward their rally point. They were rested and now gearing up for the attack. They did not expect me. They did not expect a lone man to come against so many.

  There was firelight ahead, dancing off the green boughs of the cedars and pinions. It was easy to walk quietly in this sandy country, and as I drew close, I eased into the soft branches of a bushy cedar tree. Putting my rifle to my shoulder, I panned the vicinity.

  In an open area beyond the firelight, men were gathered in groups of what looked to be twenty-five men to a group. There were five groups, running from right to left. They were sitting, resting, waiting for orders. At the fire’s edge the agent was kneeling on one knee, talking to five men who were standing before him. I could hear the indistinct sound of his voice as he talked. With his hand he pointed, jabbed and waved as he emphasized the directives he was giving. The elbow of the arm that was not waving or pointing was resting on his knee that was raised. There was a wrapping around the thigh of that leg. I had indeed winged the man as he had sat in the black willow earlier.

  He had a cap on his head with the bill turned backwards. Strapped over the cap and to his head was an NVD, a Night Vision Device. It was a monocular made for the use of one eye. It was turned upward and above his eye. In this position it would be off. Once he pulled it down it would be on, covering his right eye.