The Long Road Home, Part 3: A Victoria Falls omake
Private Marcus A. Hayes had had an interesting few months. There had been precious little news of the war or peace negotiations. What little they had learned had been denounced by the more zealous among them as obvious Communist propaganda. Early on, one of the die-hards had refused to listen to the tough looking First Sergeant Khan, told her bluntly that he was a man and a man would never let himself be ordered around by a woman.
That man had spent some time in the 'cooler' as the lock-up of the camp was called and continued to do so every time he disrespected the sergeant until after three weeks, he had decided it wasn't worth the defiance to try and ignore her orders.
Besides that, they had settled into an uneasy sort of routine in the camp as time went by.
They would work on the upkeep of the camp, play baseball or football or basketball on the crude court that had been erected, physical training, play chess or cards or checkers or a million other board games in the snug little barracks. Anything to keep busy. He hadn't heard back from home--no one had. Even though his parents had to know he was alive. It made him feel a little sick. Did they really not care? Had he been abandoned?
Eventually, he decided that he had been forgotten. Or maybe his government had gotten the message and decided to just tell his family he was dead to spare them the shame. Either way, he felt a dull numbness beginning to overtake him. He sought solace in Sunday services, even attending the ones given by the Communist chaplains if only because it gave him more time to pray. It helped that their sermons seemed so focused on forgiveness and love and brotherhood. The parts of the Bible that had always appealed to him more than the fire and brimstone.
Who is a God like you, who pardons sin and forgives the transgression of the remnant of his inheritance? You do not stay angry forever but delight to show mercy. You will again have compassion on us; you will tread our sins underfoot and hurl all our iniquities into the depths of the sea.
As the summer dragged onwards, Marcus grew bored and restless with the constant
nothing of the camp and eventually, decided he might volunteer for work outside the camp. If only to keep himself from going barrack-room crazy. He had seen it happening a few times now--there had been outbursts, arguments, even a few fist fights between soldiers as arguments about whose fault this whole situation was or what was going on in the outside world boiled over. A group of five men attempted a breakout. None of them were killed, but all of the three of them that managed to get out past the wire were recaptured inside a week.
Marcus didn't need that. So he went to the board where they were allowed to sign up for work. There were a few categories: agriculture, public utilities, domestic service, transport and handling of stores. He chose agriculture.
Within a couple of days he had been formed into a work party with nine other volunteers. Early one morning, along with a shotgun toting guard, they had been loaded into the bed of a wood-fired truck to be taken to their workplace. The truck puttered down gravel roads and bumped over potholes, leaving behind what had been urban once and moving into more rural areas.
It was a beautiful country. He could see fields stretching out all around them as they drove, stalks of corn, beginning to grow towards maturity in huge fields. Fields of soybeans, wheat, tomatoes, and other crops. It was amazing, really. And reminded him a lot of home. At last, the truck turned off the main road into a sinding drive and pulled into the rough courtyard of a circle of farm buildings. The guard, along with his companion from the cab up front, stood off to one side as the ten of them hopped down into the dust. It was warm, a late July morning and already beginning to get hot. They had been provided work uniforms--light blue cotton drill trousers and jacket emblazoned with bright 'PW' on the backs, breast pockets, and down the seam of the right leg. No way would they blend in. They had also been given brimmed hats to wear against the sun.
Waiting for them was an older man with dark skin and graying, curly hair. He was maybe a little younger than his own father, and a few other men and women dressed for work. Broad hats, work gloves tucked into back pockets, denim jeans and boots, gingham shirts. The sort of thing you wore back home. He looked at the guard, a gruff looking man with corporal's stripes, who nodded at him.
"Well. I guess you all are the Vicks that wanted to get some work done. Well, we have work for you," the man said. "I'm Samid Abadah. These are my workers. That's Jorge, Sam, Lilia, Bobby, and Steven. They'll be supervising you, so listen to them. What we're starting on today is planting lettuce out to our west--it'll be ready for harvest come fall. Just do what you're told and we'll get along fine. I'm told Corporal Zabielski will be keeping an eye on all of you. Let's get to work."
With the farm workers leading the way, the group was led out down another dusty graveled road between growing rows of corn and squash and beans to an empty field, already furrowed and awaiting planting, the earth dark from having been sprayed down with water. Overhead, a lattice of poles kept up a shade to keep direct sunlight off delicate seeds. Soon, Marcus had developed a pattern as he stooped to plant seeds into the soil. It was good. It helped him keep his mind clear, more than that, it elt good to be doing something with his time besides sitting around and waiting. Around noon, when the overhead sun began to get too hot, they were fed by the farmers, along with the guards. It was simple. Bread, smoked meat, tomatoes, and other food that was no doubt pretty much directly from the soil here. It was
good though. Finally, in the late afternoon, they were loaded back into the truck and taken back the way they had come that morning.
The next few weeks blurred together as it became a normal routine to wake early, work all day, and return to the camp at night. The activity also meant a paycheck--he was paid the Commonwealth minimum wage (in Commonwealth dollars) and permitted to purchase extra luxuries and whatnot at the camp's post store, which had been meant mostly for the guards but also served prisoners who had money to spend. Unsurprisingly, the work also made him enemies. There were some among the prisoners who view doing any work of any sort as a complete betrayal and they shunned those who they viewed as being too influenced by the Cultural Marxists.
Marcus wasn't sure how to feel about it. On the one hand… maybe he was being too influenced by them. On the other hand, he appreciated being able to
do something. To work with his hands and get good, honest sweat on his brow. To put his hands in the soil again and grow something instead of… constantly thinking of all the death and misery he had seen on the Raisin. The weeks dragged on and the summer turned towards fall. The tall stalks of corn needed harvesting, so too did the soybeans, the tomatoes, the lettuce---there was so much of it! And it seemed, so few hands. Harvest took a good, long time but at the end of it Marcus looked at the bins and silos full of produce with a glowing pride, as if it had been his father's own crop he had helped pull from the soil. He had been even prouder when Mister Abadah had shaken his hand (and the hands of the other Victorian volunteers) and thanked them for all of their hard work.
Perhaps these Chicagoans weren't such evil people. All of them that he had met had been honest, hardworking folks. None of them had tried to preach to him about Communism or the machine state. The only ones who
did preach, honestly, were the chaplains and they usually stuck to the Bible. He had come to appreciate their sermons, too. The focus on forgiveness, on brotherly love, and commonality helped. It felt better than if they had stood there and talked about fire raining down on sinners and the destruction of cities and the fires of Gehenna.
Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar. For whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen.
What little news there was had not been promising. Rumor had it that there had been peace negotiations underway, but as fall began to turn towards winter there was talk that it had broken down, that the war was back on. There had been murmurings, then. Some had said that must mean that Victoria was going to finally seize victory from the Commonwealth. Others fretted about what that meant about getting home. The weather got colder. Snow came and there was no more work to be done.
Then, one day, early in the new year, the POWs were assembled. They were assembled every day for role call, usually by the First Sergeant. Sometimes by Lieutenant Colonel Vincente. Today, it was the Lieutenant Colonel. They stood, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together against the freezing weather, wondering why they were waiting now that roll call was done before finally, the man spoke.
"Men, I think you will be happy to hear that your time with us is going to be at an end soon." A murmur went through the assembly before NCOs silenced it.
"I have received word today that a peace treaty has been signed between the Commonwealth of Free Cities and Victoria. Unfortunately, there is still a civil war ongoing within the borders of Victoria. You will be remaining in our custody until that conflict has ended. Once it does, however, you will all be free to go and you will be returned to Victorian territory. If that's what you want. We would send you home sooner, but with the snow finally dumping down and the lakes freezing over, it just isn't feasible for now. And besides that, we think it would be immoral to send you into the middle of that conflict." Another murmur. Who wouldn't want to go home? There was a civil war? Was this a trick?
"Part of this treaty is a clause that permits free movement. If you want to stay here, or hell, if you just want to go somewhere that
isn't Victoria, we won't stop you. You will be free to do so. All you have to do is let me or the First Sergeant know and arrangements will be made. Let me stress that you are under
no obligation to stay here. If all you want is to go back to Victoria, that's just fine. As I said, you will be provided transportation back home. The choice is yours. If you do choose to stay, we will need to inform your government. Something for all of you to think over. That is all. First Sergeant, dismiss the parade." Marcus was left thinking. Uncertain. As always, when he was unsure, he found himself turning to God. That Sunday, after the usual service, he awkwardly approached the chaplain. He was a mild man with a pleasant smile and bright-white collar beneath his neatly pressed uniform. Father Keegan, as he insisted on being called.
"Private Hayes, was it?" He asked as he tidied up the altar. "What can I do for you? By the way, I appreciate hearing your voice during the hymns. You have a very fine baritone."
"Thank you, sir. Father." Marcus corrected himself clumsily. He hadn't spoken one on one with the man before and felt… awkward.
"Of course. What can I do for you?" The father was clean-cut, with a regulation haircut, sharp chin and nose.
"I'm… troubled," Marcus admitted, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that the others had already filtered out of the chapel. A few lingered still in prayer, but they weren't paying him or the father any mind.
"What troubles you? Like I say every week, I'm here to listen to your troubles or confession if you wish. None of what you tell me goes to anyone else, especially in the confessional."
"It's nothing that serious," Marcus blurted, then stopped, embarrassed. "It's just, I have two paths to take in front of me and I'm not sure which way I'm meant to go. Before… this…" This war. This camp. Whatever it was that had landed him here. "...I always had an idea of where I was going or what my life would be like and now I'm not so certain."
"I understand. It can be heard to be sure what to do when things that were your solid foundation don't seem so solid any longer. It's times like that I turn to God for help."
"Yes, me too. I just don't really know what He wants me to do," Marcus said, his voice quiet. "...I have the chance to go back home again and…" He hesitated. "...um…"
"You don't know if you want to go back there," Father Keegan said. "I understand. It would be intimidating, having to go home after everything that's happened. Of course, you don't have to--but I imagine you know that."
"I do," Marcus said, brow furrowing. "...I don't even know if my family knows I'm alive, though. They might think I'm dead."
"They might. As far as I know, we've never received anything beyond acknowledgements of your notes that we passed on," Keegan said thoughtfully. "What makes you not want to go home? Besides that."
"I…" Marcus frowned. "...The people here are good people," he said after a moment. "Not that people back home aren't. It's just… If I go home, I'm a soldier again and… I think I want to farm more than I want to fight now. There's good soil here. An honest living. It's…" He hesitated, not sure how to put into words. "I want to beat swords into plowshares. I want to grow and nurture. I---I have had enough death to last me a lifetime, Father. What I saw on the Raisin would freeze a man's blood." Death. So much death.
"I understand that. Don't you have a family there, though?"
"I don't know if I do," Marcus admitted. "I haven't heard from them. I've heard things are rough back there and...well…" He glanced over his shoulder again, not wanting to be overheard. "I don't want to fight any longer, Father. It's… I wouldn't wish war on anyone. Not ever again. And if I went back, someone would make me fight, wouldn't they? But it's my home. I should want to fight for my home, shouldn't I?"
"There are those who would say that," Father Keegan conceded. "It sounds to me like you know what you want, but you're not sure if it's the right choice."
"...Yes," Marcus said. "Yes, that sounds about right."
"I can't tell you what the right path is, Private Hayes. It wouldn't be fair of me to tell you to stay or go--that would be
my decision and not yours. You should look into your heart. Think about it. That's the only way you can know for sure. My advice would be to pray on the matter and see if the answer is found inside your heart."
Marcus just wasn't sure he wanted to know what the answer inside his heart
was. But he knew it. He knew it already and had probably known it when he had decided to ask the Father for his help.
"I…" Marcus heard his voice crack and tried to constrain it. But the feelings inside of him refused to be contained and he could feel the pain and sorrow welling up inside of him. The regret and anger and despair. The fear of what would become of him once that terrible threshold had been crossed.
"I don't want to go back." And then he wept like he was a child.
forums.sufficientvelocity.com
