Stan Block's Story

"We ain't doing it!"

"We sure as hell have to, Stan! You better believe it!"

"We've gotta keep going, we don't have time for this!"

"You wanna let them get secure, get comfortable at your own high school?"

"We could die!"

"Son, THOSE KIDS are gonna die!"

I huffed. I was tired and covered in dirt. I sat in my father's Ford Bronco, contemplating what he was suggesting we bring to transpire. We had our guns, and the foreigners had used the high school as a target zone. There was shooting; we could hear it from up over the hill. It wasn't that long ago that we'd had our own scuffle with an advance team of six men who came up through our little farm on the coast. Now half of my family was dead and my father was suggesting we go on a suicide mission to rescue kids I hadn't spoke to in a year or two.

"Listen, son, we'll set up on either side of the valley, it can't be too far a distance from the top of the berm to the staging area. We've gotta take potshots at officers and equipment like radios. You know what their radios look like?"

"It's the ones that look like backpacks, right?"

"Exactly. I know you can hit them, you'd pick the hairs off a rhino's ass if you had to, boy."

"What about Jimmy and Robert?"

"I'll put Robert up on the opposite end of the school, down from you. We'll triangulate our fire lanes. Jimmy stays with the truck until we need to leave."

I sighed again; I was starting to shake, and my breath quivered.

"I know you're scared, son, but we've got to make a difference. We've got to do something here. It's up to us, as a society, to pull this together and do what the Army can't. I gave 18 years of service to doing that, and I got some medals, but this one ain't for medals, or glory, or college money: this is about our people, you see? And YOUR people are stuck inside that high school. If we can distract those men long enough, tear up some of their gear, we're helping secure what's left after this is all over." He turned back to the steering console. "You may not believe me or understand, and that's fine. But you're going up there and you're gonna shoot your gun for your country and your people. South Carolina was the first state in the Union to secede and declare themselves independent, and thousands of young people like yourself stepped up to defend it. This is our Fort Sumter, Stanley; if you don't help those kids in there, you're going straight to Appomattox."

Dad got out of the truck and started shouting at Jimmy and Robert. I sat there, thinking about what he said for a few moments before I got out after him. My rifle was loaded up; I hadn't hardly fired a shot since we'd been away from the farm, and Jimmy now seemed pissed that he had to babysit the truck. I did the best I could in being involved, but my brothers knew me better than anyone else in the world. Robert gave me a look of, "I feel you, bitch,", to which I avoided eye contact with him. Dad kept explaining things, Jimmy continuing to argue, and before I knew it, the three of us were hiking up the trail to scout good spots to shoot from.

"You understand where I want you, Robert?"

"Yeah, over past Stan, by that clump of trees."

"Good. Stanley?"

I looked halfway between where we were and Robert's clump of trees; about a third of the way between there was a small hump in the pass that barely plateau'd long enough for me to lay down.

"That hump there. I can see in the school from there."

"Good, boys. Listen, I'll give you guys a signal when I'm ready to shoot, by which you'll have to be ready, too. When we stir up the nest, I'll give you the signal again and it'll be time for us to boogie back down into the treeline. Got it?"

"Yeah, Daddy."

"Stan?"

I was focusing on breathing without sounding out of breath. I was scared. I let it all kind of sink in when I saw how many soldiers and parachutes there were out there; it was the only thing I could think of.

"Stanley Block, you get your head in this game or by God, we're all gonna die. You understand me, son?"

I looked at my Dad.

"Yeah, Dad, I understand."

"Good." He took a moment and looked at us. "I love you boys. You know that, right?"

"Yes, sir." Robert replied.

"Okay." He looked at us with desperate eyes. "Okay. Remember, boys, aim small, miss small. Robert, what're you aiming for?"

"Buttons."

"Stan?"

"Patches or lapel pins."

"Good, boys. I'll see you soon. Good hunting."

Dad took off in the opposite direction, staying low as he went. He was moving fast; he'd explained a couple of times that the way he moved in hunting, which had always perplexed his kids, was a result of his learning to stay alive in Vietnam as a Navy EOD man. All I could think about as he shuffled away was how he had shuffled through the dirt in Vietnam the same way, his Remington 700 ADL kept down below his butt, hand bound around the receiver as though it was made attached to him, and his homemade ghillie pants waving around in the breeze that had decided to pick up and cool us off. I turned and began traversing the terrain, my younger brother 10 paces ahead of me, and all manner of yesterday's expectations flown away.

I arrived at my point. I scanned over the area a bit more, trying to gain my bearings over the steadily-busying environment. After a minute, a red light flashed in my eyes; it was my father's laser pointer, and I could barely track him across the way from me with some type of towel that matched the color of the dirt around him covering his head. That was my cue. Slowly, with caution and ease, I brought my front sight post up over a man in a red beret. It had some kind of insignia on it, and he had some stripes running down his arm to his cuffs, which was a good sign. He was waving a pistol around, had a radio operator nearby, and he was listening with one ear to the receiver. I drew the bead up on him, waited for him to stop, and started to exhale.

I felt the trigger break and the bullet dropped down on him; it landed in his neck. I snapped that bolt up and open, then back and closed with a forceful pop and got my sight picture back up on the radio man, who was attempting to apply pressure to the officer's neck. I shot him in the left side, right under his armpit, and he collapsed on his officer. After I put two bullets into his radio, I put another bullet into a man's collarbone on the inside of the school, looking out from a window. I was now empty.