illusion of the grim defender keeping to his post and fighting to the end have questioned their validity."
"What happened to those forty? Some get away to live the rest of their lives in cowardly obscurity?" Lloyd asked.
And there it was at last. Goethe's kernel of the poodle. The guilt that laced through his voice with that last statement was what Big Jim Moss had been angling for. What Jim had initially been willing to accept as quiet humility, was actually an understandable case of survivor guilt. With the hell he had been through it was the most natural reaction in the world. Natural for anyone whose friends were slaughtered while charged with ensuring the survival of those that remained. Most men Big Jim Moss knew would have cracked like cheap leather before now and this kid, this man- child, had not only been keeping it together for nearly three years, he eschewed any limelight, wanting nothing more than to keep watch over his High School sweetheart.
In that instant Jim Moss, cattle baron from Texas, felt an inadequacy he'd never before known. At the same time he decided that come what may, Lloyd Foster was going to accept his help. It would be a delicate operation, but with years of business negotiations behind him, Jim Moss knew he was the surgeon for the task.
Reaching for the water pitcher once again Jim stated plainly, "No, Lloyd. You see Santa Anna was the self-styled 'Napoleon of the West;' and while that approbation worked with his troops, and certainly in Santa Anna's own mind, it failed miserably at San Jacinto, a few weeks later when Sam Houston's forces crushed him. But he was certainly a competent enough commander to plan for what some of the defenders would do once the mission walls were breached and his Mexicans began to pour in. To that end, he placed his mounted lancers, next to useless in the close quarter fighting inside the Alamo, but deadly in riding down and killing panicked men running for their lives on the open plain. They all were finished off before they got too far."
Jim Moss read what he had expected to see. Lloyd's face betraying a relief at hearing the fate of those who ran combined immediately with the self guilt he had lived with all this time. Now was the critical time of the surgery. One slip and Jim could lose him. Even worse Lloyd might lose himself. Destined to watch the love of his life die, (Some discreet inquiries by Jim had confirmed this eventually as very likely) Jim had a pretty good idea of Lloyd's life after that. Obscurity would take him out of the public eye and Lloyd would run to that.
But he would never run far enough to run from himself.
Drugs and alcohol would help, and by the time some anniversary or event that would remind people that it was high time to haul the HTS kids back into the glaring light of public attention, some enterprising reporter or corporate big wig (much like himself he thought acridly) would spend like a sailor, moving heaven and earth to find Lloyd Foster. If he were still alive, what they would probably find would make for a far more interesting story than any 'Schonefield Revisited' documentary could manage. There would be a tabloid feast with his demons as the main course. That done, the pitiable wrench that Lloyd Foster would have become would realize that the only true obscurity left to him was one last retreat, one last run, this time through the ultimate exit door. In Jim's mind, it made for one hell of a tragedy, one he was determined to prevent.
"Lloyd. How many children were rescued by the army?"
"Huh," Lloyd was still digesting the thought of long dead Texans succumbing to fear being pin-cushioned by Mexican cavalry. "Well sir," he began, but stopped when Big Jim waved him off.
"Appreciate your manners Lloyd. They're duly registered. But here we are talking man –to-man. You'd honor me by calling me Jim."
Lloyd smiled, "Jim," he said. Then remembering the question. "Ninety six. Ninety seven if you count me," his voice dropping again.
Jim reacted quickly, "I absolutely count you. You were, what eighteen, nineteen at the time?"
"Eighteen," Lloyd said.
"On the threshold of manhood. Still are in my opinion," Then seeing Lloyd start, Jim put up his hands in self-defense. "No offense intended. I'm merely speaking from the viewpoint of my advanced years. No sir! You did a man's job that day, no doubt. And, again, in my opinion, your continued conduct toward your lady defines you as more a man then most I have ever met in my life!"
"Just not brave enough to stand and fight," Lloyd said.
"Tell me Lloyd. Besides adding one more name to the casualty list, what would that have accomplished? " Then before Lloyd could answer, "Nothing son, nothing. Not one damn thing. You received the highest marks in the Tippecanoe Rifles for land navigation and radio communication, but were a mediocre shot at best. No offense intended son. But when something catches my interest, I tend to research it thoroughly. Tell me, when those cadets decided to drop off and rear guard I bet the commander… Braden?"
"Yeah, Braden O'Day." Lloyd said.
"I bet Braden," Jim continued barely pausing, "said something to you the upshot I'm guessing being something like no matter what happens keep on that radio calling for help. That and get the kids in the clear. Am I right?"
Lloyd - Witness
The fight for the building was over. Braden and Lloyd had remained at the edge of the woods observing the savagery of the aftermath. Smoke still rose from all quarters of the building, most likely from the series of explosions they heard while making their way back. The faculty had made a fight of it. There were enemy causalities strewn about from outside the building and its immediate environs. Up to a couple hundred yards away on the flanks the boys observed enemy soldiers being treated by their comrades. Both figured the front of the building would present the same scene. Whoever was in charge certainly wouldn't be happy. This was apparent by the execution style murders that took place in full sight of the boys. It was the cafeteria staff being butchered.
"Jesus, Lord God!" Lloyd gasped as the three women were first manhandled, slapped, then forced to their knees beside the back exit of the school. Questions of some kind were being asked but the answers were apparently not to their captors liking. Even hidden over 150 yards away both Lloyd and Braden could distinguish the ladies that had served them lunch for most of their lives. Mrs. Donna Hardesy, the head of the staff, had her head and hands raised in an appeal to heaven. She had always assured each and every child had a hot meal regardless of their ability to pay on that particular day or not. As stern as any of the teachers, lunchroom clean up was conducted under her watchful eye, and woe to the student that rushed through their assigned clean up chores.
They killed her first. Pistol shot to the back of the head that splattered her whites with gore a split second ahead of her body tumbling forward.
Next came Clara Boarth, HTS class of '21. Working her way through junior college, Clara was less than a month away from taking a belated trip to South America. In fact, just that morning she had showed the seniors her passport, which had come in the mail only the day before. To the boys watching helplessly that seems a lifetime ago and not the few hours that had passed. Once forced to her knees Clara too had folded her hands and begun to pray. Like Mrs. Hardesy, a single pistol shot killed one of the nicest people every to grace the halls of HTS.
Mrs. Sara Beth Warren was Harrison's tough-ol-bird. If Mrs. Hardesy was the lunch staff's stern but fair matron; and Clara the bright ray of sunshine at the serving line, Mrs. Warren was the camp commandant from Hell. Never seeming to have a good day in her life translated into never seeming to have a good word for anyone. "Move on. Let's keep the line moving," was the extent of her lunchtime vocabulary. As if she knew she was being watched by her former charges, she stayed in character to the end. When asked a question shortly before being beat down she replied by flipping her assailants off! A moment of confusion ensued as the universality of the gesture was apparently lost on the recipient. Once on her knees she was threatened once more. Her double bird answer was now fully understood.
Her murderer's reply was to unload an entire pistol in her face.
Both boys wept silent tears. Lloyd then suggested that they b
ring up the rest of Harrison's ROTC 'Tippecanoe Rifles' and make a fight of it from the wood line. They certainly would have inflicted considerable carnage, being armed with the M-1's Headmaster Morgan had bought from Fort Sheridan's clearance sale as well as the element of surprise, but Braden had nixed that idea.
"Mr. Morgan said our job was to protect the kids and move them to the Breakers road and that's what I intend to do."
"But," Lloyd whispered in protest.
"No buts Lloyd. Look any second now whoever's in charge of those guys is going to get them organized. Once that happens, my guess is that their going to probably fan out and head this way. They have to realize that Harrison's a school, but they're already wondering, where's the kids? Then they're gonna look right at these woods, see the dirt road and head this way. So let's catch up with the kids. Hopefully the girls have kept them moving. Lloyd, I know you're angry, so am I, but you have to keep your head. It's on you to raise the military or the police, somebody on the radio. Tell them what's happened here and tell them to come a-running. That plus your aces on land nav. Your job will be to get them to the junction. Head 'em south from there. Help's on its way. Morgan said it's coming from that direction. You're not our
Their Bit Page 7