Freedom's Sons

by H. A. Covington

  “So you’re going to tell her?” asked Blackwell.

  “I have a better idea, Mr. Blackwell,” said Robert senior. “Suppose we get you checked out of this hospital, then we all go up to the Mount Sentinel National Monument together. We’ll give Allura a call and have her meet us up there, and when she comes, you can tell her. Your call, sir. This is, after all, a free country. Come with us, or head westward to the sea, as you wish.”

  Blackwell hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I’ll come.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Robert senior. “While we’re waiting for Ally, I’ll tell you about Georgia.”

  * * *

  It was a warm and sunny afternoon in late May, and the dirt parking lot at the Sugar Loaf United Pentecostal Church on the NAR side of old Jefferson County was as full as anyone had ever seen it. It was Danielle Tolliver’s seventeenth birthday, and from now on her birthday would become her wedding anniversary as well. Guests had been arriving at the picturesque white clapboard church, a historic building dating back to the early 20th century, for the past forty-five minutes. Everyone was coming by ground car, since Sugar Loaf Road hadn’t been wired for levitational vehicles yet. At least half of the cars bore Montana state license plates; Danny and Johnny Selkirk’s wedding was the biggest cross-border social event in living memory, and included most of two graduating high school classes, Jefferson High on the American side and Cataract High in the Republic. It was also the first time that a minister from the American side of the Road was officiating in a church ceremony on the Northwest side. To everyone’s surprise, the head of Danny’s minor Pentecostal denomination, the Reverend Billy Bob Pritchard, had come all the way from the church’s headquarters in Texarkana to perform the ceremony.

  Major Tom Horakova of the Bureau of State Security was standing outside the church door along with Lieutenant Bobby Campbell the Third, wearing a subdued but neat zoot suit with crisp seams and cuffs. Since BOSS dress uniform was a simple and unrelieved black tunic and cap with no insignia at all, he decided it was best to remain informal. “Besides, the American guests might have taken me for a hearse driver,” said Tom. “I’m actually here in a semi-official capacity, as an observer. Pritchard’s church is small, with only about a million members and most of them online or TV only, but they’re very conservative in their morals and ever since the hate laws have kind of crumbled away Out There they have been more and more open about their Biblical opposition to race-mixing. Not to mention that like most Protestant evangelicals, they have a lot of successful and affluent people in their congregation. In some respects, this is a very significant gesture Pritchard’s making today, crossing the border in more ways than one. It comes close to a political statement. I talked to him a little last night over in Boulder.”

  “You went Over The Road?” asked Bobby Three in surprise. “You sure that was smart, Tom? Things aren’t that mellow between us and them, at least not where State Security agents wandering over the asphalt are concerned. No offense, Ben,” he added.

  “None taken,” said Sheriff Ben Lomax, who was standing beside them, along with Deputy Lewis Brumley. The American lawmen were both in civilian suits, or would have been had either of them been officially there. “I let them use the trailer in the underpass. It was the preacher’s idea. Outreach or something.”

  “Yes, like a drowning man reaches out to a life preserver,” said Tom in a low voice. “Arkansas is almost eighty percent non-white now, the other Southern states are worse, and I think these folks have decided the muddy rain won’t be stopping any time soon, and it’s time to head for high ground. These Community Prosperity Zones near the border are going to need spiritual as well as economic goods and services. I think we may be seeing more of the Reverend Pritchard and his flock.”

  “Where’s Mom and Dad?” asked Bobby Three.

  “Inside the church,” said Horakova. “Your mother is in the vestry helping the bride put the last finishing touches on her dress and lace and veil, the bouquet, so forth and so on. I’m not sure what-all’s involved.”

  “I thought you were married yourself, major?” asked Lomax. “Wasn’t that your wife I met earlier?”

  “Yes, but Marie and I were married at a Blot,” said Horakova.

  “Come again?”

  “Asatru ceremony,” replied Tom.

  “Outdoors, very simple bridal gown, horned helmet for the groom, lots of wheat and ritual cutlery and mead,” explained Bobby Three. Inside the church, the organ began its preliminary overture. Bobby looked at his watch. “They’re going to begin in a couple of minutes. We might as well go in.”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus!” exclaimed Brumley suddenly. “Look!”

  At opposite sides of the parking lot, the last two arriving guests, two elderly men, had parked their vehicles and were now walking toward the sidewalk that led to the church door. “The old man with the cane, that’s Elwood Tolliver coming down from the left side of the lot!” snapped Lomax.

  “And that’s Ray Selkirk coming from the right!” said Bobby grimly.

  “Christ, it never occurred to me he’d come!” said Lomax. “Elwood hasn’t set foot on this side of the Road for forty years! It’s an ironclad matter of principle for him. Why the hell is he breaking it now?”

  “Maybe Elwood figures if a Northman’s taking his granddaughter, it’s time to settle up,” suggested Brumley. “One way or the other.”

  “You figure that lunatic of yours is packing?” Bobby asked Lomax.

  “Is yours?” replied the sheriff.

  Bobby thought quickly. “Look, this is supposed to be a wedding, not the last battle of the War of Independence! If either of those two geezers reaches under his jacket, we need to charge fast, grab both of them, disarm them, and throw them into separate squad cars until the ceremony’s over. If it doesn’t look like they can play nice during the reception, we take them to our respective lock-ups to chill.”

  “That works,” replied Lomax. “Let’s see if it’s needed.”

  The two old men stopped at the head of the walk and stared at one another, or glared would probably be a better word for it. Finally Tolliver lifted his bad leg and he spoke.

  “I just got one question, Ray. Why the hell did you do this to me? You had me cold that day. Why didn’t you put the goddamned bullet through my head and be done with it?”

  “The thought did occur to me,” growled Selkirk. “Two reasons. The first was that Carol wouldn’t have wanted that kind of vengeance. I sure as hell did. Then, anyway. But I knew if she’d been there she wouldn’t want you dead, so I just gave you something to remember us both by.”

  “And the second reason?” demanded old Tolliver.

  Selkirk looked at the church, with the organ music wafting from it. “I let you live because I knew this day would come. This day, or something like it, however many years it took.”

  “Now, don’t you even start in on some long tard-ass speech about peace and reconciliation overcoming the wounds of old war and hatred and all that happy horse shit!” snapped Elwood. “I won’t believe one damned word of it!”

  “And I wouldn’t offer it,” said Selkirk. “Elwood, let me explain something to you. We Volunteers were all scared back then, scared of dying, scared of getting shot or just plain murdered by your crew, scared of the terrible things that might happen to our families and our loved ones, sometimes even scared we were doing some things God might not be able to forgive. But the one thing we were never, ever afraid of was that we would lose. However God might judge our sinful souls, He was always on our side. Had been since the first time the white man laid aside his computer and his television set and his big bowl of nachos and picked up a loaded rifle, and showed himself worthy of God’s love and assistance. That’s what I mean when I say I knew this day would come. We won, you arrogant piece of Amurrican cop-shit, and now you’re finally over in this part of the county where you can see that blue, white and green flying in the sky!”

  “You’re a real son
-of-a-bitch, Ray!” snarled Tolliver.

  “It’s been said,” Selkirk agreed. He turned and walked down the sidewalk into the church. After a moment, Elwood Tolliver followed him grumpily. The others followed them in, and soon the sounds of Lohengrin rose from the organ into the big Montana sky.

  EPILOGUE

  Winston Wayne’s Escape

  Well, my name is Joe McTeer, and I was a Volunteer

  In the War of Independence long ago.

  I got out of Coeur d’Alene and hooked up with Winston Wayne,

  And we headed down to southern Idaho.

  When the rising was put down, we very quickly found

  That in our own homes we could no longer dwell.

  Ah, but many’s the lonely cave some form of comfort gave,

  And the folks up in the Sawtooth knew us well.

  Well, the snow was falling fast on a February night,

  When the cabin up near Redfish came in view.

  The weather was severe, but a guard was posted near,

  Though the dangers on a night like this seemed few.

  But some rotten little spy went and called the FBI,

  And may I live to even up the score.

  For it’s when we awoke in the dawn, it was no joke

  To find the flashing LED lights at the door.

  “Come out, you rebel band!” yelled the agent in command,

  “You haven’t got a prayer, don’t got a hope!

  Give up and do it fast, or we’ll hit you with gas,

  And we’ll kill each man we sight on with our scope!”

  Says Winston to his men, “Well, boys, here we are again,

  And I could swear I’ve seen this same old flick before.

  We held out for sixteen days, and we set the world ablaze,

  If we have to we’ll hold out for sixteen more!”

  The house was set on fire and as the flames rose higher,

  We fired through every window all around,

  With the tear gas and the smoke we were nearly overcome,

  But we never thought to lay our weapons down.

  Then a well-aimed sniper round knocked Ted Langenheimer down,

  And he rolled across the floor to try and hide.

  His AR was blown away and he stared down with dismay

  At the blood that bubbled crimson from his side.

  He says “Commandant, I’m done. Throw me down the Thompson gun,

  And I’ll hold them so you boys can make your break!”

  He kicked open the door and the Thompson roared,

  And he blew one agent right into the lake.

  While he kept them all pinned down, we got out the side and found

  That they hadn’t yet destroyed one SUV,

  Oh generous and brave, young Langenheimer gave

  Up his life so his people might be free.

  Well before they could reload, we were halfway down the road,

  With an armored Humvee snapping at our heels.

  We turned the Escalade and we threw our last grenade,

  And we blew the Hummer off into the fields.

  Driving like a lunatic, on black ice inches thick,

  The temperature was eight or maybe nine,

  With the low clouds in the sky, their choppers couldn’t fly,

  And we made it to a safe house down in Pine.

  We lost three men that day, but seven got away,

  And we all went on to fight to free our land.

  Albert Walsh was killed one night in Porterville,

  Pat Murphy fell with Murdock’s gallant band.

  The Commandant and me, also the other three

  Lived to see our flag at Longview hoisted high.

  Every year we all make a trip to Redfish Lake,

  And we drink a toast where Langenheimer died.

  —The Second Generation, Songs of Freedom album

  ©Bifrost Music, Seattle

  XXXVIII

  REMEMBER, REMEMBER, THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER

  (50 Years and ten days after Longview)

  And the band plays Waltzing Matilda,

  And the old men still answer the call.

  But year after year, their numbers grow fewer.

  Someday no one will march there at all.

  —Australian song commemorating

  the battle of Gallipoli, 1915

  At 7:30 sharp on the morning of November first the whistles blew again, as they had done at the same time on the same day fifty years before.

  The NDF’s first wave that rose to cross the Interstate-5 bridge in that dawn half a century ago had numbered over 22,000 men, with as many more behind them in the second wave. On this morning, fortunately without rain, not quite three thousand people began to move across the bridge from the Washington side into Portland, Oregon. The bridge was no longer used for traffic; in order to make it passable for levitational vehicles the engineers would have had to tear down the iron superstructure over the asphalt and essentially rebuilt the archaic structure from the ground up, and so it was decided to build a new bridge down where the old 205 crossed the Columbia, and preserve this one as a historic monument.

  On both sides of the old I-5, large crowds stood in the chill morning air, some sitting on bleachers which had been set up for spectators. As the line consisting mostly of elderly men began to move, applause and cheers rang out. Television cameras from news outlets all over the world focused on the marchers from various vantage points, including cherry pickers and some mounted on the bridge’s superstructure. The old men were mostly dressed warmly in civilian clothes, but a few retired old soldiers and sailors and airmen wore uniforms from a lifetime of military service to the Republic. Their chests were decked with medals from the War of Independence, the Seven Weeks War, and numerous Aztlan border campaign ribbons. Iron Crosses were as common as summer dandelions.

  They moved slowly, almost at a shuffling pace, unlike the steady and relentless march across the same bridge under fire fifty years ago. Some even carried the same weapon slung on their shoulder that they had borne on the morning of combat. Not all the marchers were elderly veterans of the NVA and NDF; some were wives accompanying husbands, as well as children and grandchildren walking slowly beside their relatives should they need support, in some cases pushing them in wheelchairs. In the lead was a small handful of a dozen or so German men, the last survivors of Conrad Baumgarten’s Stormtroopers who had broken the American barricade on that morning. Baumgarten himself had died the year previously, and they were lead by Sergeant Major Günther Thiessen, who had served twenty-five years with the colors and recently retired from running a government guest house in Montana.

  Jason Stockdale was among the marchers. The retired chancellor of the University of Montana was now aged 78, but straight as a ramrod, and the cane he flourished as he strolled along the right-hand traffic lane of the historic bridge was merely for show. He was jaunty today in a fawn fedora, ascot, and corduroy jacket with patches on the elbows, as befitted an academic type. His handsome wife who walked beside him was wearing tweeds and sensible shoes. Jenny Stockdale hadn’t gotten older, but better; she was living proof that a woman of 69 could be beautiful. Carter Wingfield’s order that NDF women not take part in the opening attack on the battle morning had always rankled a bit with Jenny, and she’d let her husband know in no uncertain terms that this time she was coming across the bridge at his side.

  Jason chatted for a while with another elderly couple walking at their left. He introduced himself and Jenny. “Shane Ryan,” returned the other man, also wearing the old Party fedora and the NVA roundel. “This is my wife, China. We’re from up in Dundee.”

  “I know you, you’re Carter Wingfield’s daughter!” exclaimed Jenny. “Didn’t I meet you and your husband once during the war, when Red Morehouse came out to Montana? You two were his escort and driver. Only it seems to me you were a little taller.”

  “That was probably my sister, Rooney,” said China. “She and Shane did a lot of
work for Red. I was with the South Sound Brigade right up until just before Longview, then my dad more or less abducted me for his staff.”

  “I kind of put a word in for you myself,” commented Shane.

  “I know, dear,” replied Mrs. Ryan with a smile.

  Stockdale spotted another couple moving up beside him, a little old man with a bit of a stoop and a tall, thin white-haired woman with a beaky nose and a bit of a scowl, wrapped in a shepherd’s coat and a warm toboggan on her head, who was being pushed by him in a wheelchair. Both wore the Old NVA piped roundel. “Hey, another boy-girl team,” Stockdale said. “You know, comrade, seems to me I actually remember you from back on the day itself. Name escapes me, though. Getting senile.”

  “I’m Cody Brock,” said the little old man. “Foxtrot Company, First Battalion, Fourth Infantry. I remember you too, I think. You were the G Company CO, name of Stockton, right?”

  “Jason Stockdale,” replied Jason. “This is my wife, Jenny. Jenny, this is Comrade Brock, or Lieutenant Brock as he was back then. We walked together for a while the first time we took this little stroll, when there weren’t so much by way of cheering crowds.”

  “Nice to meet you, comrade. This is my wife, Emily.”

  “Yeah, it’s coming back to me—you said you’d just gotten married to some Third Section James Bond chick,” said Jason. “This the same lady?”

  “That would be me, all right,” said Emily.

  Cody spoke over to Jenny. “I was an eighteen-year-old lieutenant at the time, and some idiot gave me a company to command.”

  “The idiot was General Frank Barrow!” snapped the woman in the wheel chair in front of him. “He seemed to think a lot of you, God knows why.”