A Call To Duty

A Call to Duty

The clock struck six and the citizens of Port Stanley became active
again upon the grounds of the Town Square. For forty years the large
clock was the town's centerpiece and sat high, ensconced within the
pitched steeple roof of the City Hall. It loomed with a sort of a
judicial authority, its hourly peal guiding and steering large or
solitary groups of people toward their destination.
In the cool of the July evening, the women would be clearing the
tables after supper as stripling paramours led their shy, doe-eyed
girls into malt shops and listened to Sinatra croon on the juke
box.
The men, after a hardy repast, lit their pipes or cigarettes and
headed for the verdant park with its white latticed gazebo and wicker
benches and lacquered tables. Some sauntered alone; some joined
together for some small banter, others aimed directly for their
favorite spot at the gaming tables.
There, they battled in a game of checkers or cribbage, or engaged in a
fair debate of world politics. Politics were always discussed at the
park, near the gaming tables and the benches that surrounded
them.
The war was still going strong, and Port Stanley had sent some of its
finest young boys across the world to defend freedom.

"Hitler is a stupid fool," said Bill "Stonewall" Bunion, with a
preemptory statement. Stonewall was as old as the first oak tree that
was planted by the founding fathers; some say close to a hundred years
old, but he was still sharp as a whip. He even fought in the Civil War
and was nicknamed Stonewall after Stonewall Jackson.
But there was always a dissenter; not that Hitler was anybody's
favorite, certainly not on the South Carolina coast where the love of
God and family and country was paramount, but every debate had to have
its dissenters.
"Now Bill," said Herb Pike, "Ya just can't make your point by sayin'
Hitler's a stupid fool. You can't be a stupid fool and conquer half the
world, by golly." Herb was usually more of a passive observer than a
debater, but Stonewall had a way of putting him out.
Herb was tall and gangly, and always clenched a pipe stem to his
between his teeth, emitting perpetual plumes of tobacco. His narrow
Adam's apple undulated with every syllable. "The papers say he's a mad
genius. Now I don't go for that Nazi stuff, no sir. But you can't say
the man is a stupid fool," he continued.
Stonewall grabbed his long white beard and stroked it thoughtfully
from top to bottom, eye's narrowed on Herb. "Genius they say?
Poppycock! Ol' General Lee-now he was a genius."
Reggie Winter's, at the invocation of Lee's name, immediately pulled
out his harp and played "Dixie." All the men doffed their hats with
patriotic reverence until Reggie put his harp back in his pocket and
resumed playing checkers.
"Now that ain't debatable Stonewall," Herb continued. "Everybody knows
Bobby Lee was a genius-and a hero. But were talking about Adolph
Hitler, and all I was saying is that he isn't a stupid fool is
all."
"Well maybe he ain't stupid," said Stonewall, pointing his finger at
Herb, "But you'd be hard pressed to say he ain't no fool. Anybody who
thinks they can conquer the world's got to be a fool. Ain't nobody done
it yet-not Alexander the Great, Ghengis Khan, Napoleon, the
Kaiser-nobody."
From one of the gaming tables inside the gazebo, Denton Cribbs counted
out 12 points on the cribbage board, then said to Herb on the bench
below, "He's right on that Herb. Hitler's a fool if he thinks he can
take over the world. Everybody else has failed and so will he. Give our
boys time and you'll see." The men at the tables gave approving nods
and grunts.
"Now hold on everybody," said Herb, feeling the heat. "I never said
Hitler isn't a fool. I just said he isn't a 'stupid fool.' There's a
difference you know."
Jeremy Tate, the city councilman spoke, his jowls flapping. "I don't
see the difference Herb, a stupid fool is a stupid fool in my book.
Remember when Jack McGee, the drunken Irishman got arrested for
planning to blow up the city library because he claimed that there were
communist books on the shelves. After he was caught with the dynamite
he said he couldn't blow up the building because the library was
closed, so turned around and went home. He told Officer Baily he would
return the next morning to finish the job once the library had open." A
few of the men shook their heads in disbelief as they chuckled.
"A stupid fool is somebody who hasn't got a lick of sense," continued
Tate. "Jack McGee didn't have the sense God gave a monkey."
"Then that supports what I'm saying," said Herb. You just can't form a
great army and conquer countries if you haven't got a lick of sense.
He's mad and dangerous that's for sure, but he isn't a stupid
fool."
Fulton Dowdy mumbled something from behind his newspaper. He was
always reading the news and mumbling behind the page, hoping to get
some attention.
"Huh? What's that you say?" said Tate to Fulton.
"I said there's a picture of Marty's kid here. He's in a hospital bed
and some officer is pinning a medal on him."
"Let me take a look," said Tate. Tate didn't budge and the task of
delivering the article fell on Fulton. Because Tate was so fat, Fulton
wasn't so resentful.
"Well I'll be," said Tate. It's Marty's kid all right. Say's here he
got a Silver Medal for bravery. Say's he charged a machine gun nest and
killed some Japs. The boy looks different though-looks awful different,
like he's somebody else and not our Bobby."
"Let me see that," said Stonewall, squinting hard through his old,
marbled, glassy eyes. "Yep," he said, "He's got that look all right.
I've seen it at Bull Run and then Gettysburg before a bullet took me
out of the war. That boy will never be the same. The war's changed
him."
Herb took the paper from Stonewall. He was silent as he read the
article under the caption then said, "If you'd have kept reading you'd
see he's coming home soon after he leaves the hospital. It say's here
that Bobby Tidwell will be sailing home to Port Stanley, South
Carolina," his voice trailed suddenly, "&;#8230;fully recovered from
the amputation of his right arm&;#8230;shrapnel from a mortar
round&;#8230;some minor wounds to his legs." He read loud enough so
the men at the gaming tables could hear.
"My God!" said Denton. "Ya think Marty knows?"
"Of course he knows," said Stonewall. "That's probably why he hasn't
come around for awhile. He's just tryin' to figure things out first. He
needs some time alone."
"Ain't no shame in missing an arm," said Tate. "The boy's a hero after
all, killing all them Japs."
"He's a farmer and the son of a farmer," said Herb soberly. "What the
hell can a farmer do with one arm?" Herb meant the question to be
rhetorical, but the answers came swiftly.
"Why, he can get one of those fake ones with a hook," said Fulton.
That black janitor Scooter Bill has one. He lost his arm as a boy when
a trolley ran him over. He can still mop the high school floors as good
as anybody with two arms."
"How ya gonna milk a cow with a hook at the end of your arm, ya darn
fool?" said Stonewall, abrasively.
" Who say's he has to milk the cows?" said Fulton. "There's plenty of
other things you can do with a hook for an arm, besides milkin'
cows."
"Maybe he won't take up farming when he comes back. Maybe he'll take
up accounting, or politics or something," said Reggie, from the
checker's table.
"Not Bobby," said Parks. "Farming is all them Tidwell's know. They've
had that plot of ground since Paul Revere made his famous ride."
"Poor, poor, boy," said Herb. "I still can't get over that look on his
face. It's like he's looking a million miles away. It must be horrible
to lose an arm."
"It's not just the arm," said Stonewall, his voice hoarse. "It's the
war. The whole bleedin' stink of it. It's the killin' and the maimin'
and the filth and the blood up to your neck of it. The war steals yours
soul and makes you an animal. You never come back the same.
"You take a young farm boy thousands of miles from home and tell him to
kill as many people as he can while other farm boys from other
countries are trying to do the same thing to you. It ain't natural. You
steal their innocence and it's replaced by something almost alien;
their soul becomes like steal-hard, cold, and numb."
Everybody's eyes were and ears were on Stonewall, for they knew he was
there. It was another lifetime, but he was there.
"Won't seem right not to have a hero's welcome for him when he gets
back," said Herb. "We could string some welcome banners and the wives
can prepare a huge outdoor banquet right here in the Town Square. Me
and some of the fellas can arrange a quartet for some musical
entertainment. Tate can talk to the Mayor about presenting Bobby a
plaque or something, saying how proud we are. Imagine, one of our own a
war hero, right here in Port Stanley."
"Not so fast," said Stonewall. "The boy might not want too much
attention. Might make him uncomfortable missin' his arm and all."
"I think Herb has a great idea," said Tate. "A party for a returning
hero might be just what he needs, and the town's. He needs to know that
we're there to help him. Just leave the Mayor to me. I'm sure he'll
love the publicity considering re-election's just around the
corner."
Everybody began chatting cheerfully amongst themselves and resumed
their games and discourses until the big clock chimed seven. Most
everybody said their good-byes before darkness suffused the sky and
they headed home to their families.
The next day Tate met Marty before passing each other on the broad
steps of the City Hall.
"Morning Councilman," said Marty, nodding slightly. Marty had dressed
up for his meeting with the Mayor and wore the only suit he had owned
for twenty years. It still fit perfectly, with just some wear in the
collar and joints. He was wrinkled considerably under hard, ferret like
eyes and his hands were large and strong for a man of medium
stature.
"Morning to you Marty," said Tate, shaking his hand, feeling awkward
and uncomfortable. After an interminable pause, Tate said, "What brings
you here Marty, anything I can help you with?"
"I was hopin' to catch the Mayor if he ain't to busy."
"Gee Marty, the Mayor's up at Charleston today. His sister's takin'
sick. He won't be back for a couple of days. Anything I can do for
you?"
"It concerns my son Bobby," said Marty, sadly.
"Yes&;#8230;yes we know," said Tate, his hand patting Marty's
shoulder sympathetically. "We were all terribly upset when we heard
about his injury, but your boy's a war hero and the whole town is proud
of him. You must also be awfully proud of your boy, Marty."
"Yes Councilman, I am. He's the only boy I got and I love him more than
anything and I wish it was me that got blown up 'cept my boy. But he
was born at the wrong time. The war took him away when he should have
been home with me workin' on the farm and courtin' pretty girls. But my
boy's on some god-forsaken island across the world, lying on a hospital
bed. I wish it was me instead&;#8230;I wish it was me."
"I'm really sorry Marty. But he'll be home soon and we got something
real nice planned for your boy. The whole town's gonna throw a party,
honoring him. The Mayor already gave the go-ahead."
"That's why I'm here Councilman. I don't want no party for my son.
There's nothing to celebrate," he said, his square chin pointing
resolutely up at Tate.
"But why?" asked Tate, surprised. "It will be good for your boy, and
good for the town. There are a lot of folks in town who have boys over
there. There's the Johnson's boy, Grant, and Jason Thornlake and George
Max's two boys-one fighting in Europe and one in the Pacific. It would
be good for the morale of this town."
"I just don't want my boy paraded for everybody to see and gawk at,"
said Marty. "He's a shy boy and doesn't want any fuss."
"Nobody's gonna gawk at the boy Marty. Lot's of veterans have lost an
arm in battle. Life will go on. He'll be just fine."
"He lost more than just an arm Councilman." Marty's eyes welled with
tears. "I got the letter yesterday. The wounds in his legs turned
gangrene. They cut off both my boy's legs to save his life."
Tate blanched. "But&;#8230;but the paper said&;#8230;"
"I know what the paper said. But that was before they knew the
seriousness of his leg wounds. The gangrene spread like wildfire and
taking his legs above the knee was all they could do. He'll be home in
two weeks and I don't want know fuss made about it. He'll be just fine
once he gets back home to our farm."
Marty turned and walked down the steps when Tate called out to
him.
"Yes, Councilman?"
"If there's anything I, or your friends in this town can do, please
don't hesitate to ask."
"Thank you," said Marty. "You can start by givin' my son some peace.
He's gonna have enough on his mind when he comes home."

Two weeks later, the wind was still and the men sweated under the
waning sun at their gaming tables and park benches. Even the pigeons
waddled lethargically, indifferent to incitements from the old ladies
who held crumbs of bread in their palms.
It was a somber time for the men as they waited for the bus to arrive
with Bobby. Most of them couldn't believe that the strapping, tall
youth who a year ago led his high school baseball team to the finals
and was also a sprinter on the track team was now dismembered from the
waist down and missing an arm.
Fulton mumbled something behind his newspaper but nobody paid
attention. Herb smoked his pipe but was otherwise motionless as he
stared at nothing. Stonewall stroked his great white beard, while
people walked listlessly upon the sidewalks peering through windows of
locked establishments that lined the Town Square.
Tate wiped his fleshy face with a handkerchief he kept in his back
pocket. First, he folded it neatly into a tight square pad and patted
his forehead meticulously before completely unraveling it and burying
his whole face into it. The eccentric ritual always seemed to irritate
Stonewall.
After wiping his face, he would shove the handkerchief back into his
pocket, only to retrieve it a moment later and repeat the pattern over
again. Tate's face was heavy, and great drops of sweat slid down upon
his belly, leaving a large, wet, round spot on his undershirt. He
discarded his suit jacket long ago, laying it neatly over the back of
the bench.
Mentioning the obvious, Tate said to Stonewall, "Hot, ain't it?"
Stonewall, always in a debating mood, replied, "More wet than hot, I'd
say, Councilman."
"Well, maybe it is more wet than hot. But it's all disgusting just the
same. Sometimes I hate the south and its miserable summers," said Tate,
plaintively.
"Maybe you'd rather be on some volcanic island with a bunch of Japs
shootin' at ya," said Stonewall, irritated with Tate's whining.
"Look, I didn't mean anything by it," said Tate angrily. Everybody knew
Tate's dad got him a draft waiver during the Great War. His dad was a
Senator with influence before he dropped dead from a stroke. Tate spent
the war years chasing girls and spending the summers at his parent's
resort in Vermont, while American Doughboys were dying in muddy
trenches on the other side of the world. "I was only mentioning the
weather. Everybody knows how bad I feel about our boy's over there.
Why, if I was a little slimmer and younger, I'd be right there with
them."
"Yeah, sure Councilman," said Stonewall, contemptuously. "Just like you
did in the 'Great War."
"I resent that, Stonewall. There were good reasons why I couldn't join
the army."
"Name one," mumbled Fulton, hiding behind his newspaper.
"Flat feet. They won't let you in if you have flat feet."
"Your feet don't look flat to me," said Stonewall. "But if that's the
story, then stick to it."
"It's no story!" said Tate, patting his forehead with his rag. "It's
the truth and you can all go to&;#8230;" Tate stopped his
condemnation when he realized that Doctor Cranklin was seated nearby
playing checkers. He was the town's only podiatrist and had examined
the Councilman's feet on numerous occasions for corns and could attest
that he had a perfectly normal arch. In an instant, Tate was florid
with shame. However, Doctor Cranklin was mercifully mute.
Then Herb strategically interjected, "Gentlemen, is this really
necessary? Let's not attack each other over what might, or might not
have happened. Just let the past be. I'm sure there's something in our
past we would all like to bury if we could."
Stonewall was especially hard on people who skirted hard work and duty
for the pleasures of life and felt that Tate fit that bill. He was fat
from over-indulgence and reeked of wealth and a pampered life in a time
when people were still pulling up their boot-straps from the depression
and trying to eke out a meager living. Therefore, Stonewall wasn't
about to let it go so easy.
"I lost a grandson in the Great War, Councilman. He was my son's only
boy. He also had flat feet. You remember Daniel, don't ya? He didn't
live in a big house or go to the fancy school's like you did. He didn't
have nice clothes or wear shiny leather shoes. His dad gave him the
only dollar he had saved so he could buy stamps to send letters home.
He wrote one letter home before he was gassed to death and found buried
in a mud hole. Flat feet ya say? Why, it never crossed Daniel's mind
when it came to doing his duty. You and your flat feet be
damned!"
Tate's shame turned to fury at Stonewall's accusation of
cowardice.
"You old fool!" he said to Stonewall, as everybody became starkly
quiet. "You shriveled old fool! You think you can lord yourself over me
just because I didn't take up arms and fight some lousy war that I had
nothing to do with? War is for fools and you're the greater fool. You
think there's honor in bleeding to death in some foreign country? For
what-for a medal to pin on you're chest? War is a futile waste of life
for nothing other than some tyrant's greed for land or power. It's none
of my business and I'm still alive because I had the good sense to stay
out of it. You infer that I'm a coward, but I'm still alive and have
all my parts, while kids like Bobby Tidwell are returning home maimed
and invalid. Ask him, you old fool, if he's proud he did his
duty."
Stonewall grabbed the cane at his side and shook it a Tate. "Why you
fat, lazy, good-for-nothing," he said, shaking with rage. He bent
forward as if to stand but his old legs gave out and he fell back into
his seat. "Your lucky I'm an old man, or I'd give you the whipping you
deserve. You're a disgrace to this country."
Herb tried to intervene. "Please gentleman, we've been friends a long
time. Isn't there enough fighting in the world for everybody? Let's not
start a war right here in Port Stanley."
"I'm with Herb," said Cribbs, pretending to scrutinize his cards.
"Besides, it's too hot to be arguing amongst ourselves."
"Wet!" said Stonewall, obstreperously. "It's too wet!"
Cribbs ignored him.
"Hey," said Fulton, peeking above his newspaper. "Isn't that Marty
walking toward us?"
"Sure is," said Herb. "Isn't he picking his boy up today down at the
station?"
Marty's head was pointing down and his hands were buried deep into his
pockets. The brim of his hat concealed the distraught look on his
face.
Tate lifted his huge bulk off the bench and approached Marty. "Hello
Marty, everything okay?"
The men stopped playing checkers and cribbage and waited anxiously to
hear Marty's reply. "My boy's dead, Councilman," he said, his head
hanging down like a wilted flower.
"But&;#8230;I don't understand, Marty. How can he be dead? He's
suppose to come home today."
Marty's voice was a mournful whisper and everybody strained to hear
him. "An Army official drove up to my place this morning while I was in
the barn milkin' the cows. He said the hospital my boy was in, was hit
by a bomb last week. They couldn't find him anywhere. The only thing
that they could find was this."
Marty opened his palm to reveal the Silver Star Bobby had received for
bravery. "Why don't you take it for now Councilman. Maybe you can
display it in the City Hall for awhile. I reckon Bobby wouldn't mind
too much."
"Gee Marty," said Tate. "We don't know what to say except&;#8230;
were really sorry about Bobby." The other's uttered their condolences
from where they sat.
"Thank you," said Marty, raising his head slightly, his eyes rimmed
with tears. "But my son was only doing his duty. He would tell ya that
himself if he could. He had a high opinion of duty, even though he knew
he might not make it back. He was a good son, and I'll miss him."
Marty handed Tate the medal, and Tate was acutely aware of the irony
and was ashamed. "I'll&;#8230;I'll take good care of it Marty," he
said.
Marty nodded with an absent, far away look and then with stoic
resignation, said, "Well, the field's ain't gonna plow themselves. Good
evening to ya gentleman." The sadness was perceptible as it bore down
heavily on Marty's shoulders, and he walked almost drunkenly as he made
his way across the Town Square to his car.
Just then the large clock chimed and startled awake everybody from
their melancholy. Most of the men went home to their families, while
some still loitered, speaking in hushed tones.
Tate heard Stonewall's hoarse voice behind him. "Councilman," he said.
His voice was more beseeching than angry.
"What is it now, Stonewall?" said Tate, fearing another assault on his
character.
"It's never to late to do your duty."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we should make sure Bobby gets a proper burial-here, in Port
Stanley."
"But, you heard what Marty said, Bobby was blown to bits. How are you
going to have a burial without a body?" asked Tate, perplexed at
Stonewall's suggestion.
"You have his medal, don't ya? We can bury the medal in place of Bobby.
That way Marty can have peace once and for all. Otherwise, the man will
never have any rest, I can assure you of that."
Tate sat down on the hard wooden bench and it creaked and shifted
slightly to one side. He took his handkerchief from his back pocket and
began to fold it into a small, padded square. "What makes you so sure
he'll have his peace if we bury his boy's medal instead of his body?"
he asked, padding his forehead.
"Because I once had a friend who fought along side of me at Gettysburg.
His name was Morely Pepper. We grew up together in the same town, went
to the same church, fished in the same pond, courted the same gals. He
was his mother's only son, whom he shared with eight sisters. His old
man disappeared in a boating accident and they never found his body.
His mother never got over the fact that he just disappeared without a
trace so she took to weeping and wailing at the slightest provocation.
It went on for years and she took laudanum to calm her nerves just so
she could sleep. She was such a pitiful creature who was being crushed
under her own travail. They would call it a nervous breakdown
today.
"Morely and I were advancing on the Yanks under heavy fire when we were
hit by a canister shot. I was hit in the leg, but Morely disappeared
into a million pieces. I thought about his mother and how she would
surely die if Morely didn't return home to her. I looked for some
remnant of him but all I could find was a piece of his jaw and some
teeth. I knew it was his because there was no mistaking those teeth of
his. They were all crooked and pushed outwards like a rotted picket
fence. I took the piece of his jawbone and put it in my bag to deliver
to his mother.
"When I was sent home because of my wounds, I brought the remains of
Morely to his mother. She wept immediately, but not the kind of weeping
like when her husband disappeared in the river. After a while, she
dried her eyes and looked at me with a content, almost calm look on her
face. She had a part of Morely that she could lay to rest. She didn't
have that with her husband. That's why she was so sad. With Morely's
jawbone and teeth, she could finally be at peace.
"Marty will never be at peace unless we bury something representing his
son," said Stonewall. "That's the best duty you could do for him right
now, Tate. It will bring him closure like it did with Morely's
mother."
"I suppose your right," said Tate, looking at the slightly scarred
medal in his palm. "I'll make arrangements with Marty and the Town
Council right away."
"One other thing Councilman," said Stonewall.
"Sure."
"I, uh&;#8230;I had no right to accuse you of dodging the war. We
all have our reasons for how we live our lives, and it ain't none of my
business how you conduct yours. No hard feelin's?"
"No hard feelings, Stonewall. You were right about everything you said
though. I did dodge the war. My father kept me out of the war because I
was afraid. I was afraid I would be taken away from the gourmet dinners
and the champagne parties and the soft women and the rich comforts that
my parent's money afforded me. I was afraid I would be taken away from
the worldly pleasures I was accustomed to and end up like poor Bobby
Tidwell."
"Bobby Tidwell is probably better off dead than returning with half a
body," said Stonewall. "I've seen plenty of young men go mad from their
injuries after returning home from the war. People just ain't ready to
accept the terrible realities, and people like Bobby would have just
been a reminder of the horror of it all."
"I think I would rather be in Bobby' place, than right here in mine,"
said Tate, morosely. "At least he died a hero-I'm a living
coward."
"Some would say there ain't no dead hero's, Councilman, only dead
people."
"Oh, I don't know about that, Stonewall. He lost his life doing what
the world values highly-protecting his country. I lost my dignity doing
what the world disdains, protecting my love of self. Suddenly, I
despise everything I tried to protect."
The amber streetlights glowed dimly against the setting sun as
merchants began to close their shops for the evening.
"Well, Councilman, life will go on. I should know; I've been around for
the most part of a century. But for now, I'd better move these old legs
of mine on home before my grandchildren form their own search and
rescue party."
"Let me give you a ride home, Stonewall. It's awful hot tonight."
"You mean wet, don't ya Councilman?" said Stonewall, with an
ingratiating grin.
"Wet&;#8230;wetter than a whore riding bareback on a two hump camel,
sir. Have it your way. Now, will you be taking a ride home in such
miserable, wet, weather?"
"No thank you, walkin' always does me a world of good. Go home
Councilman and forget about everything tonight-cept the symbolic burial
of Bobby Tidwell. It'll be good for Marty, and good for the
town."
"Sure, Stonewall&;#8230;sure. I'll take care of everything."

Tate sat down on the bench and stayed until the sun crept behind the
shops that lined the street. The humidity hung in the air like a heavy
blanket and Tate could only dream of his days frolicking on the cool
Atlantic beaches while drinking the sweet lemonade his mother had
made.
The memories made him ache for his mother again, but she had died when
he was beginning his adolescence. It was his father who would raise him
for the most part, and it was his father who would shield him from the
discomforts of life.
Now, it was Tate who suffered. He suffered from what all men suffer
when they retreat from their conscientious callings-a deep void, a lack
of self-worth, and a feeling of complete failure.
"Oh, what can I do," he said to himself. "I've succeeded in life, but
failed as a man. I'm a hypocrite and I'm not worthy to hold Bobby's
medal. Why did Marty have to give it to me? Why?"
Just then, from Tate's position across the street, he fixed his sullen
eyes on a heavy, ominous shadow, looming from behind the drawn shades
of Port Stanley's, "First Community Bank." The hulking shadow moved
frenetically back and forth; its limbs gesticulating wildly, its form
bending and struggling and staggering, and the shock of hair jerking
violently with each motion.
Tate knew that Bank Manager Joshua Harding sometimes stayed after hours
finishing the books, while his secretary Jean Wilson swept and mopped
the smooth, wood planked floor.
The shadow disturbed Tate immensely, for it suggested some type of
violence behind the curtain. Its form was ugly and swung its self out
of site for an instant and then returned to the back lit frame of the
window. It was a menacing apparition of threats and evil
manifestations.
Tate's heart beat against his chest like a sledgehammer, like a child
waking up from a horrible nightmare. But it wasn't a nightmare; it was
real, and happening just a hundred feet from where he sat.
Tate's mind raced along with his heart. "This is none of my business,"
he thought. "What can I do? I'll call the police&;#8230;yes that's
it. But by the time they get here&;#8230;it will be to late. Tate
struggled with his conscience. "No time for that&;#8230;I must do
something, but what? No! This is not my fight. Why should I end up
dead? Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's just an angry customer bending
Joshua's ear. But the shadow&;#8230;the shadow."
Tate heard Stonewall's hoarse voice in his head. "Your duty," the voice
said. "Do your duty!"
Tate rose from the bench and found himself stepping rather quickly
toward the bank. The voice was still urging him on. "Duty!" it
commanded. He could hear the savage, ordered curses from the man as he
stood just outside the door. He could also hear the tearful, obsequious
cries for mercy from Mrs. Wilson, though obviously terrified, her voice
was strangely resigned to her certain fate.
Again Stonewall's voice resonated through Tate's mind. "Do your duty,
Councilman. A man is not a failure if he does what his heart tells him
to do. Act upon duty--duty to your country, duty to God, duty to your
fellow man. Or regret that you ever lived."
Tate turned the knob on the door but it was locked. He then reared his
heal back and slammed it against the lock bolt, almost knocking the
entire door off its hinges. Tate's large bulk worked as an advantage
and the man was caught off guard. Both men stood frozen for an instant,
starring at each other, unsure of their next move. Tate could smell the
heavy odor of liquor emanating from the man's panting breath.
The man stood over Mrs. Wilson, his blade pointing downward. He was
tall and muscular; his face dark and narrow, his eyes cold. His cheeks
were a patchwork of bloodied, narrow lacerations, probably inflicted by
Mrs. Wilson's finely manicured fingernails.
To Tate's left, Mr. Harding lied in a pool of his own blood, which
formed into a small stream, and moved along a slight declivity towards
Tate's shoe. Mr. Harding had been stabbed through the neck.
Suddenly feeling no fear, but fueled with outrage, Tate threw himself
upon the man, squeezing the life out of him by compressing his lungs in
a great bear hug, slowly crushing the life out of him, oblivious of the
mortal wound to his own body. Mrs. Wilson ran out screaming, her
hysterics alerting Officer Baily, as he walked his beat nearby.
When Officer Baily arrived he found two dead men and Tate sitting on
the floor, his back slumped against Mr. Harding's desk, with a knife
plunged deep into his belly. "My God," cried the Officer, shocked at
the mayhem. He went to help Tate, but Tate waved him off.
"It looks like I'm done for," he gasped. "But at least I did my duty,
you see. Now I can die with honor. Tell Stonewall I did my
duty&;#8230;Tell him&;#8230;Tell him&;#8230;thanks."
Officer Baily was confused, but nodded his head in affirmation. "I'll
tell him," he said. Then he added, "You're a real hero, Councilman. Do
you know that you saved Mrs. Wilson's life?"
Tate smiled weakly before he gave up the struggle and exhaled his last
breath. His body went limp and his muscles relaxed, revealing the
Silver Star he held in the palm of his hand.
It was stained with blood, the mixed blood of hero's who answered the
call of their conscience and did their duty-whether on a battlefield on
the opposite side of the world, or in their own backyard-they followed
their heart and chose courage rather than retreat.
Jeremy Tate gave his life to save another, and with that he had shared
the highest honor bestowed upon any human being-the reverence and love
of his fellow man.

The End