by Rolf Nelson
“So let us pray for your continued good health, divine guidance, and forgiveness of our many faults and sometimes failed efforts. Arise, Father Abbot Cranberry, now that you are properly dressed!” The novices and postulants of St. Possenti erupted in cheers, whoops, and clapping, and they all filed by giving firm handshakes, hugs, and congratulations. Before they’d all gone by and given their personal thank, Cranberry was shedding tears of joy along with them.
Scouting
Only accurate rifles are interesting.
—Col. Towsend Whelen
Mickey had taught some of the more meticulous—or borderline OCD, like Alan—monks to reload on the Dillon Precision presses he’d ordered the first month in residence, getting toolheads set up for each cartridge they expected to use, with a separate machine for the four most-used rounds, and a fifth to rotate between the others. Teaching the importance of brass and bullet consistency, trimming, sizing, concentricity, and all the rest took time, and most of the brothers didn’t have the patience or detail orientation to do proper load development and documentation, but those who did were more than happy to become the “ammo-masters.” It was all a part of teaching the art of the rifle.
“How do you plan on doing initial quality control and pricing when we are first getting going?” asked Alan one afternoon while working on a load of .30-06, working with a 180 grain softpoint over IMR 4350. “Going to be a lot of ammo to test for reliability rating. We’ve only got five .22s. Need at least ten thousand rounds test-fired for anything like statistical validity.”
“Good question,” replied Mickey. “That would take a while to do properly. A long while.”
“Oh, that’ll be easy,” said Hugh, relaxing nearby while studying the catechism. “Easiest thing in the world.”
“Oh? And how, pray tell?”
“Free ammo will make you more good friends than free beer.”
The other two looked at him skeptically.
“No. Really. The centerfire things we can do load development here and then test lots in our own guns as needed to make sure it’s in spec. But the .22 is actually a lot more finicky from what I understand, so we’ll need to test more. It’s also why we’re not doing it until we get regular industrial presses to load it: nobody makes hand-loading presses to make 22 long rifle.
“Contact Cade, or Roger, or someone local like them and find out where the nearest Boy Scout troop is. Give them the test protocol to baseline their own guns with the ammo they usually use on a clean bore. Say, something like clean it well, then shoot ten, ten-shot groups from a rest, clean it, and do it again. Measure group size and rate their ammo on anything we care about, like failure to fire, failure to feed, failure to cycle the action, accuracy, number of fliers, if they have a chrono, then velocity and consistency. Bring that data in on any .22 they have, and we’ll give them another two hundred to test the same way for each different .22 they show up with and record properly. Make it like an unofficial competition, with a prize for most accurate records, best group, and maybe most improvement, and hey, free ammo! Make it a semi-regular thing.”
Mickey and Alan pondered “outsourcing” initial QC in that way. “Could work,” said Alan, thinking out loud. “If we gave them enough time, printed up a regular form for them to use—”
“Or whip up a website for them to enter the data directly into. Make it a phone app. Should be easy to do, at least for someone here,” added Mickey. “Write some self-checks in it, give fields for gun make and model, all that.”
“Yeah, we could,” agreed Alan, warming to the idea. “Crunching the numbers would be easy once we have them. Should work. At least it gives us a starting point.”
“And, if they’d done the protocol with their own ammo, they can run through it fast when they are at the plant,” Hugh said. “They show up, tell us which data is theirs, and show us the used targets, and then we give them a stack of ammo to test in their own guns. It’ll happen faster than if we try to do it all ourselves, and we’d get a much wider range of guns to see how sensitive to variations in guns it is.”
“Huh. Yeah. And if we ask them what they pay to replace their current ammo brand, and if they thought ours was better, similar, or worse, that would give us a great idea on how we might price it fairly.”
“Not a rigorous or proper bench-mounted test-barrel procedure in a totally scientific setup. But good enough for a preproduction baseline and price guide, I’d expect.”
The three of them kicked the idea around a bit more, worked out the details, and agreed that it should be workable. Mickey ran it by the abbot while Hugh tracked down someone web savvy enough to make the back end, and Alan worked out the format and details of the testing procedure while Bill was tasked with tracking down likely scout troops and associated parents.
Newcomers
And be not conformed to this world; but be reformed in the newness of your mind, that you may prove what is the good, and the acceptable, and the perfect will of God.
—Romans 12:2
Fall was slowly descending when the first busload of new brothers was delivered to the Abbey of St. Possenti. Frank Bunt, the retired chaplain, had collected and shepherded a score of men. The VA was happy to loan him out for a while. He helped their caseload far more by escorting problematic vets west than he could staying local. They could mark difficult men as “placed, employed, and receiving care” on someone else’s books. Bunt could only shrug at the news that his boss had gotten a bonus for decreased suicide rate and increased offload rate. He didn’t plan on becoming a monk. He was just the regular-world conduit to the monastery ministry. He’d worked with John and some of the others from the Howling Puffin to select and get candidates cleaned up and ready for the trip.
A long and uneventful bus ride with stops for meals, occasional stretches, two scenic items of interest, and little else, had left the twenty veterans tired and quiet as they shambled off the bus stairs, not sure what to expect. A ranch with some freshly plowed fields, an expanse of rocky and unplowed fields, a large but obviously new garden, neat lines of young trees and berry bushes in newly planted orchards, oddly placed trenches and rock heaps, and a whirling twenty-man game of Ultimate Frisbee in the nearby field wasn’t it.
Half a year and more of clean living with good people, good food, hard work, a sense of mission, meditation, prayer, and steady visible progress had left the founding members of the abbey changed men. They were healthy, thoughtful, strong, and confident again in spite of more than a few missing parts. The constantly changing activities and schedule had become routine. The consistent learning and exploring new things, leavened with the regular rhythm and routines of daily living, gave them a calm and purposeful way of going about life. The Frisbee game was just one of many things the brothers did to entertain themselves in their low-tech and hard-working corner of the world, and they looked forward to greeting the novices. One brother, missing a left leg from the knee down, took a tumble in the middle of a throw when his prosthetic twisted out of place. The rest of them took it in stride and slowed to a walk while continuing to play as he rectified the situation. The brother catching the pass had a glass eye and a scarred face, and his robotic left arm was used more for balance than catching or throwing. After one team scored, they came over to where the new brothers and founders were gathering and introducing themselves.
Abbot Cranberry appeared and shouted a heartfelt welcome. He blessed them, and their arrival, the bus, and the bus driver and enthusiastically invited the latter to stay for lunch. “Nothing fancy, but it’s hot, healthy, here, and the company can’t be beat! Welcome, you must stay at least that long!” The founding brothers had read the briefs about the men who were coming and had paired up and picked who they thought would make good matches ahead of time, so each just had to find his new squad-mate and make him feel welcome, showing him the basics, answering questions, and making sure he dropped off the novice’s minimal gear in his own, personal, private room.
The “old t
imers” novices and postulants had done enough construction that each new arrival had a room, and there was enough space for everyone to eat. The new brothers would learn to swing a hammer and build rooms for the next group. But the new men all appeared to be relieved that they’d have their own private little space and regular time alone if they needed it. As one said, it wasn’t basic training: it was more like advanced training in an alternate universe, a universe more benevolent than the one he was used to.
* * *
After a proper introduction was made, they retired to the refectory, which at the moment meant the tables set up on the concrete slab in the arena, not far from the mostly built if roughly finished kitchen, to have lunch, say prayers, and then read them into the order by taking vows. It was a solemn occasion, but the postulants wore very large smiles in spite of that, and the more senior brothers showed them around and started their training in a low-key way right after the meal.
* * *
Abbot Thomas, Prior Mathews, Novice-master Finnegan, and Chaplain Bunt talked for hours, discussing the newcomers’ backgrounds and issues, how things had progressed at the abbey, who the next batch of arrivals would likely have and which of their skills might be helpful, how long each group would take to adapt, how long before the next group should come, and an endless spiral of details about psychology, spirituality, finance, medical treatment options, and local interactions with what had happened to date.
“The first weeks, Frank, I have to tell you, I was praying a lot. The trip here, then almost getting robbed was startling enough. Then the permit situation gave us a fright, though that worked itself out. When we had injuries from the gas explosion, I thought it surely couldn’t get worse. Then Hugh came back from the emergency room telling me he just shot and killed three men….”
“Excuse me?” The normally unflappable chaplain sounded surprised for the first time in as long as Thomas had known him. “He did what?”
Cranberry explained.
“Oh, yes. I think I saw some brief news story on that. One day and gone. What came of it?”
“The four of us attended the funerals of the deceased. I introduced Hugh as “Brother Spartan” for anonymity and security. They joked about it some, darkly, and more than a few want to adopt their own monastic names in Greek or Latin. We might yet.
“The funerals were pretty sparsely attended. Alan, also known as Brother Foramen…” Bunt looked at him blankly. “It’s Latin for hole, as in bullet holes. I’m not the only holy monk here now.” The chaplain chuckled. “He showed the bullet holes in his robe and the recovered bullet to the parents—all devout Catholics, which I’m sure helped—who were mortified. They all said they knew their kids were going down a bad path but didn’t think they would shoot at a man of the cloth. Cops, yes. They’d known too many with no respect for the law, and while they were sad, they knew it could have been much worse. We prayed for them and asked for forgiveness for the dead and their actions, and they did, I think quite honestly, also forgive Hugh, who was acting to protect the innocent. I didn’t follow all the connections, but it was complicated. Apparently, one of the dead thought he was the father of little Hugh. I’m still not sure who is.”
He sighed heavily. “It was stressful on us all, but we’ve had no gang troubles since then either.”
“What about the police?” asked Chaplain Bunt. “Any blowback there?”
“No. They were thankful. Those two officers are alive because of our actions. Possibly an orderly or two as well. They know a couple of others on the force who might need our services when we are able to fit them in. They think we’re a little odd, but they’re definitely on our side.”
“I meant blowback for you, really.”
“Oh. I hate looking at things on a balance of payment scale, and thinking ‘well, several innocent lives saved, three guys with a long history of bad interaction with the law, one of which was in the country illegally, so it’s all okay.’ But at the end of the day, that’s why we are here. It is how much of the world works, and good men go crazy trying to pretend it isn’t. I think they’ll have a more eternal view as they get older. I see in them more acceptance of divine will even now. Not a merely passive, fatalistic acceptance, but a deeper understanding that not everything must balance out here and now for God to be just. Some of the confessionals and discussions are intense. But they are turning into as rock solid a group as I could ever wish.”
“Think the new ones will jell the same?”
“I do. I do. It’ll be different for them, but I am certain of it.”
“How’d they do on the range?”
“They were kids in a candy store. Even with that old hardware. The mix of intense focus, competitiveness, random chance with bad ammo, and the vagaries of wind, all makes for a most useful piece of training. You have to be deeply in tune with the world as it is, and have good self-control, to do well. The weekly competition with only ten rounds and a random draw of target distances and spotter makes you really think about what’s going on and how well you help train the others.”
“They are shooting competitively now?”
“We all are.” He grinned at Frank’s bemused smile. “Yes, even me. Quite the experience. I had never fired a gun before Mickey took me to the range back home. Now I know what an en-bloc clip ejecting sounds like, how to clean a gas-operated rifle, windage for M-72 Match for various speeds, and elevation adjustments for range. Knowing what match means would have shocked me a year ago. I can even safely draw and fire a revolver similar to the one that landed me here. It was a revelation that I find it very satisfying. Of course I’m nowhere near the top shooter, but on any given day I’m rarely the bottom score either. I credit my spotter. And God, of course.”
Bunt looked at Mathews. “You?”
McKale nodded. “Not enthusiastically at first, but now it’s more fun—and honestly humbling—than frustrating. I am one of the worst shooters here, but I can’t blame my Arisaka; I shoot just as badly with any other gun. Progress is slow. But I am starting to understand the Abbot’s inspiration.”
Bunt smiled faintly and nodded. “So when do new rifles get handed out?”
“They’ll draw their pieces a week or so after they’ve settled in and gotten out most of whatever might still be in their systems. I have been amazed to see how much personality each arm and shooter have. It will be fascinating to see how it goes.”
“I bet it will.”
“Are you staying here for it?”
“I think… I think I will. Stay here for a week. Get a feel for it all. Watch it in action. Help the men I’ve been seeing for a few weeks get settled in. Then, go back and get the next batch ready.”
“Sounds about right.”
“How are you holding up, just two priests on the ground leading a platoon like this?”
“We are holding our own. They present very different challenges than my home flock, but there are some amazing talents and abilities as well. It balances out. But eventually, yes, we will need more ordained hands around. Even after these men are promoted from postulant to novice, they will still have much to learn, and it will be years before I have any idea how many will become ordained themselves….” Thomas paused to consider what had been said. “So you’re figuring about three-week intervals?”
“To start with. Once things get rolling, we can shorten it up.”
“My thinking exactly. But of course we can always adjust if things get out of hand. Nothing says we have to stick to a strict schedule. I’d rather get it right than do it fast.”
“Yes. Yes we can stay flexible…. Still think this was the right path?” Bunt’s question was rhetorical. Thomas beamed in reply.
“I do. This may well be the most meaningful thing I ever do. The fate of all humanity may never hang on the actions of these fine men, but already I cannot imagine anything else I’d rather be doing or anything I could be doing that is more important. These are new men, Frank. They’re really alive. Confident. Aware. Faith
ful. Strong. And growing more every day. Oh, sure, they’ll want to leave before long, but while they are here, they are… really alive!”
* * *
They continued to talk while working with some of the brothers at various tasks; kneading bread, leading catechism class, or small-group confessionals and counseling, picking up rocks in the field—the initial deep plowing had, indeed, ripped a lot of stone suitable for construction from the earthy depths, and a daily chore for at least one team was to spend some time tossing rocks into the dump trailer.
Thomas had found that a combination of 1-on-1, small group, and whole-abbey thanks-giving and confessional sessions worked best. Not everyone was equally comfortable with his sins and foibles, but knowing what some others thought and had done helped each man open up and confront his inner demons. They could admit it (even if only to themselves), talk it out as needed, work it out, move on past it, and know they are not alone at any step. It was a formula that was making a lot of progress. Training was on track to ensure that everyone had some sort of marketable skills when he returned. Simple things like food handling and preparation would always be needed, and they’d arranged to have a certified man in the second group of inductees who could certify the rest so that they would all have at least one provable skill.