Virginia v. Alvin Scheer
DIRECT EXAMINATION, CONTINUED
BY MR. STENNINGS:
Q. What happened then, Alvin?
A. Well, I left to go east. Good thing I left when I did, too, because they closed the state border down right afterwards.
I sort of joined up with the big convoy leaving Fort Hood for Oklahoma. There must have been forty or fifty thousand vehicles, all told, what with the Army and all the civilians who decided to get out of the state while they still could. Some of 'em was plainly on the side of the federal government. They were pretty easy to spot: big BMWs and Mercedes cars with bumper stickers saying things like "President Rottemeyer" and such. I think a lot of others just wanted to avoid getting caught up in any fighting. Some looked like they just needed to keep sucking at the Federal tit to survive. They were mostly driving beat up old jalopies.
Couldn't say I really blamed any of 'em very much. Can't say, neither, that I thought much about it one way or the other. Like I told you right off, I got room in me to blame only one person for all the troubles, mine and everyone else's.
Anyway, it took a while to get past the border. Took longer still to fill my gas tank what with all the cars and trucks needing gas, and the Army taking over gas stations. It was nearly three days before I managed to get across Oklahoma and into Kansas.
It was around Oklahoma City that I saw the first riot. Seems some of the locals gathered and went after some of the folks runnin' away from Texas. Next thing I knew, there were people runnin' and screamin'; even some shots bein' fired.
No, I never did know who was shooting. The feds said the local folks. The locals blamed the refugees. The refugees blamed the local police. The local police said it was the feds what done it. And why would local cops lie?
Anyway, I got out of the area in a hurry, I can tell you. I didn't need the police looking too carefully at my truck. Fortunately, with all the diesel fumes from the Army as it passed by, they were mostly occupied trying to keep from chokin' while puttin' down the riot.
* * *
Fort Hood, Texas
Amidst clouds of lung-wracking diesel fumes, just as its nose was edging into Oklahoma, the tail end of Third Corps left Fort Hood. The Corps now stood at less than full strength, much less. In a way, Hanstadt was saddened to see how many had taken a variant of the choice he had.
In another way, of course, he was pleased. Kind of heartwarming to see so many troops who won't fight for that murdering cunt in DC.
Despite this, Hanstadt waved goodbye—fondly—to those who had decided to stay with the Army. He couldn't blame them, really; couldn't put on any airs of moral superiority. How it might have gone had his retirement not been fairly secure he could not say. Certainly it would have made the decision to throw in his lot with Texas somewhat harder.
Though Washington had never announced the move of the Corps in advance, it was anticipated in all corners. Even now, Hanstadt expected a Texan detachment to show up momentarily to take charge of the post. Most particularly, did he expect the Texans to want the contents of the Ammunition Supply Point, the ASP. There had not been enough trucks, enough willing manpower, or enough time to do more than empty a fraction of the munitions to be found there. Still, he had done what he could to help the Corps commander take whatever could be taken.
That was one way to make sure that none of the rest was destroyed, he thought, not without some degree of mirth.
Hanstadt paused in his reveries at the sound of footsteps padding softly up behind him. He turned to see his driver, Chris Perez, a young man from Long Island, New York who had—somewhat unexpectedly—elected to stay with his old boss.
"Yes, son?"
"Sir, we got a radio call from the MPs who stayed behind and are manning the front gate. There's a Texas National Guard two-star and he wants onto the post."
"Ah. That would be General Schmidt. My compliments to him through the MPs and have them ask him if he would be good enough to join me in the Corps conference room."
"I'll join you in a minute, Chris," Hanstadt said to the driver. "Then you can take me to Headquarters. I need to change, after all."
As he said so, Hanstadt looked around him. Fort Hood seemed so different, now, with the departure of Third Corps. Not merely empty of manpower, it seemed to have been emptied of a certain spirit, in part a fraternal one, as well.
* * *
Rio Brazos, Waco, Texas
Shadowing Third Corps north on its way from Fort Hood, through Waco, through Fort Worth, Denton and Gainesville to Oklahoma, followed a platoon of Combat Engineers of the 176th Engineer Battalion under the leadership of their diminutive platoon leader, Jose G. Bernoulli.
Some said "diminutive." To most of his platoon he was "Little Joe." They meant it with affection and respect.
Lieutenant Bernoulli, despite his Italian forebears and the name he bore, considered himself Texan, first and foremost, American—a close second, and Mexican last of all. He never considered himself Italian. So far as he was aware that was just a name that came over with some Neapolitan sutler to a company of Spanish conquistadors.
Bernoulli, a graduate in engineering from Texas A&M, looked over the bridge complex spanning the Brazos and added a few details and an explanatory note or ten to the drawing on the pad of paper before him. Then he tore off the sheet and handed it to one of his squad leaders with the words, "The rest of the platoon and I are heading east to the Trinity River. When you're done prepping these for dropping wait until the demo guard"—the combat unit detailed to secure a facility, usually a bridge, that has been prepared for demolition to prevent an enemy from interfering with that demolition—"shows up and brief the platoon leader or company commander. Leave two men—two good men—with them and join us. You'll find us somewhere along the river between"—Bernoulli consulted his map—" . . . hmm . . . Oakwood and Riverside. Questions?"
"Couple, sir," answered the Sergeant.
"Go ahead," said Bernoulli, his face showing—and restraining—a considerable degree of impatience.
"One; do you think it's really going to come to that?"
"Yes," Bernoulli answered, simply.
"Okay . . . then where the hell is all the demo we're going to need going to come from?"
"That, Sergeant, I do not know. Maybe General Schmidt has an answer. I, for one, do not."
"Right. All right then, what if I can't find you?"
"Good point, Sergeant. If I haven't seen you by this time tomorrow I'll send someone to the middle of Oakwood to lead you to us. Fair enough?"
"Yes, sir. I'll get on with the job then, sir."
Bernoulli thought briefly and reconsidered. "Hmm. Let me see that sketch."
When the sergeant had returned it, Bernoulli looked it over again, thought a bit more and scratched out one section of the drawing. "Don't prep this section, Sergeant, unless and until I give you the word. We'll try to stretch out what demolitions we have because if the general can't come up with more, a lot more, we just won't have enough."
Fort Hood, Texas
He restrained himself from an impulse to salute that, after decades of habit, had become nearly as ingrained as breathing. "I'm Colonel—retired—Hanstadt, sir," said the now civilian clad man to Schmidt, rather unnecessarily as Schmidt knew Hanstadt from various Corps meetings he had attended over the years.
"Retired?" questioned Schmidt. "Why?"
"Well . . . if I hadn't retired then I could hardly volunteer to become your new G-4, could I, sir?"