"I don't think they'd let me walk off on you."
"It's up to you to make them. Oh, I appreciate your kindly thoughts, Doc, but you'll think differently as soon as you're Captain. You'll know you have to cut your losses."
McCracken did not answer. Morgan turned his head to Carter. "Gather them around, Dad."
They crowded in, shoulder to shoulder. Morgan looked from one troubled face to another and smiled. "The Barclay Free Company, a provisional unit of the United States of America, is now in session," he announced, his voice suddenly firm. "I'm resigning the captaincy for reasons of physical disability. Any nominations?"
The silence was disturbed only by calls of birds, the sounds of insects.
Morgan caught Carter's eyes. Dad cleared his throat. "I nominate Doc McCracken."
"Any other nominations?" He waited, then continued, "All right, all in favor of Doc make it known by raising your right hand. Okay - opposed the same sign. Dr. McCracken is unanimously elected. It's all yours, Captain. Good luck to you."
McCracken stood up, stooping to avoid the rock overhead. "We're evacuating at once. Mrs. Carter, give the baby about another tablespoon of the syrup, then help Ted. He knows what to do. You'll follow Ted.
Then Jerry. Margie, you are next. I'll assign the others presently. Once out of the canyon, spread out and go it alone. Rendezvous at dusk, same place as under Captain Morgan's withdrawal plan - the cave." He paused. Morgan caught his eye and motioned him over, "That's all until Ted and the baby are ready to leave. Now back away and give Captain Morgan a little air."
When they had withdrawn McCracken leaned over Morgan the better to hear his weak words. "Don't be too sure you've seen the last of me, Captain. I might join up in a few days."
"You might at that. I'm going to leave you bundled up warm and plenty of water within reach. I'll leave you some pills, too - that'll give you some comfort and ease. Only half a pill for you - they're intended for cows." He grinned at his patient.
"Half a pill it is. Why not let Dad handle the evacuation? He'll make you a good deputy - and I'd like to talk with you until you leave."
"Right." He called Carter over, instructed him, and turned back to Morgan.
"After you join up with Powell's outfit," whispered Morgan, "your first job is to get into touch with Brockman. Better get Mrs. Carter started right away, once you've talked it over with Powell."
''I will.''
"That's the most important thing we've got to worry about, Doc. We've got to have unity, and one plan, from coast to coast. I look forward to a day when there will be an American assigned, by name, to each and every one of them. Then at a set time - zzzt!" He drew a thumb across his throat.
McCracken nodded. "Could be. It will be. How long do you think it will take us?"
"I don't know. I don't think about 'how long'. Two years, five years, ten years - maybe a century. That's not the point. The only question is whether or not there are any guts left in America." He glanced out where the fifth person to leave was awaiting a signal from Carter, who in turn was awaiting a signal from Art, hidden out where he could watch for the helicopter. "Those people will stick."
"I'm sure of that."
Presently Morgan added, "There's one thing this has taught me: You can't enslave a free man. Only person can do that to a man is himself. No, sir - you can't enslave a free man. The most you can do is kill him."
"That's a fact, Ed."
"It is. Got a cigarette, Doc?"
"It won't do you any good, Ed."
"It won't do me any harm, either - now, will it?"
"Well, not much." McCracken unregretfully gave him his last and watched him smoke it.
Later, Morgan said, "Dad's ready for you, Captain. So long."
"So long. Don't forget. Half a pill at a time. Drink all the water you want, but don't take your blankets off, no matter how hot you get."
"Half a pill it is. Good luck."
"I'll have Ted check on you tomorrow." Morgan shook his head. "That's too soon. Not for a couple of days at least."
McCracken smiled. "I'll decide that, Ed. You just keep yourself wrapped up. Good luck." He withdrew to where Carter waited for him. "You go ahead, Dad. I'll bring up the rear. Signal Art to start."
Carter hesitated. "Tell me straight, Doc. What kind of shape is he in?"
McCracken studied Carter's face, then said in a low voice, "I give him about two hours."
"I'll stay behind with him."
"No, Dad, you'll carry out your orders." Seeing the distress in the old man's eyes, he added, "Don't you worry about Morgan. A free man can take care of himself. Now get moving."
"Yes, sir."
FOREWORD
This story was tailored in length (1500 words) for Colliers as a short - short. I then tried it on the American Legion magazine - and was scolded for suggesting that the treatment given our veterans was ever less than perfect. I then offered it to several SF editors - and was told that it was not a science fiction story. (Gee whiz and Gosh wollickers! - space warps and FTL are science but therapy and psychology are not. I must be in the wrong church.)
But this story does have a major shortcoming, one that usually is fatal. Try to spot it. I will put the answer just after the end.
NO BANDS PLAYING, NO FLAGS FLYING
"The bravest man lever saw in my life!" Jones said,
being rather shrill about it.
We - Jones and Arkwright and I - were walking toward the parking lot at the close of visiting hours out at the veterans hospital. Wars come and wars go, but the wounded we have always with us - and damned little attention they get between wars. If you bother to look (few do), you can find some broken human remnants dating clear back to World War One in some of our wards.
So our post always sends out a visiting committee every Sunday, every holiday. I'm usually on it, have been for thirty years - if you can't pay a debt, you can at least try to meet the interest. And you do get so that you can stand it.
But Jones was a young fellow making his first visit. Quite upset, he was. Well, surely, I would have despised him if he hadn't been - this crop was fresh in from Southeast Asia. Jones had held it in, then burst out with that remark once we were outside.
"What do you mean by 'bravery'?" I asked him. (Not but what Jones had plenty to back up his opinion - this lad he was talking about was shy both legs and his eyesight, yet he was chin - up and merry.)
"Well, what do you mean by 'bravery'? Jones demanded, then added, "sir." Respect for my white hair rather than my opinions, I think; there was an edge in his voice.
"Keep your shirt on, son," I answered. "What that lad back there has I'd call 'fortitude,' the ability to endure adversity without losing your morale. I'm not disparaging it; it may be a higher virtue than bravery - but I define 'bravery' as the capacity to choose to face danger when you are frightened by it."
"Why do you say 'choose'?"
"Because nine men out often meet the test when it's forced on them. But it takes something extra to face up to danger when it scares the crap out of you and there's an easy way to bug out." I glanced at my watch. "Give me three minutes and I'll tell you about the bravest man I've ever met."
I was a young fellow myself back between War One and War Two and had been in a hospital much like this one Arkwright and Jones and I had visited - picked up a spot on my lung in the Canal Zone and had been sent there for the cure. Mind you, this was years ago when lung therapy was primitive. No antibiotics, no specific drugs. The first thing they would try was a phrenectomy - cut the nerve that controls the diaphragm to immobilize the lung and let it get well. If that didn't work, they used artificial pneumothorax. If that failed, they did a "backdoor job" - chop out some ribs and fit you with a corset.