Posted by: EastCentralMSMilitia Apr 23 2006, 12:23 PM
The Old Man
by Old Bear
The old man watched as the young men, looking warlike in their
cammies, left to join their militia units. He had been too old to fight
in the last war and did not even bother trying to join for this one. He
envied the young, with their strong bodies, their enthusiasm and
energy. Slowly he walked back to his small house. He lived alone
now. His wife had died several years’ back and his children were
too busy making money to bother to visit more than once or twice a
year. The old man took off his “city” clothes and neatly folded them.
Then he took out some well worn pants and shirt that were more suitable for the woods and
indeed had spent many days and nights there. Last he put on his old field boots and was
pleased with how they felt after not being worn for so long. On his belt he placed his hunting
knife and canteen. Going to the closet he took out his rifle with loving hands. He removed the
bolt and inspected the bore, knowing that it would be perfectly clean and shiny. Replacing the
bolt he gathered the rounds from several boxes of his hand loaded ammunition and put them
in his pockets. He checked the scope mounts to be sure they were tight and put his hat on his
head. In a small rucksack he put several sandwiches, that he had previously made. Now he
was ready. He left the house by the back door and walked across a neighbor’s field. He simply
could not stand having the people of the town make jokes about him. They would yell out and
ask if he was going off to the war, then they would laugh. He left by the back door.
After walking for three hours at a steady, but not stressful pace, the old man found what he
was looking for. The road crossed a narrow bridge about 500 yards from the forest at that
point. It was this road that the militia had taken to engage the enemy and it was this road they
planned to march back in triumph. In time the old man found a large oak tree that he could,
with difficulty, climb. Tying his rifle to a long rope, he worked his was up the tree, until he found
a decent place to sit. He could see the bridge clearly from his seat in the tree. He carefully
drew his rifle into the tree and used a short section of rope to secure it to the tree, while he
used another section to tie himself to the main trunk of the tree. He would hate to fall asleep
and fall out of the tree. He slowly nibbled his lunch and took sips of his water. Once or twice he
dosed off, but the rope held both him and his beloved rifle safely in the tree. The sound of far
off gunfire jarred him awake. A few men in cammos came walking across the bridge. They did
not march, but walked at a fast pace, occasionally glancing over their shoulders as they
moved. The old man took out his knarled pipe and filled it. He took a match from his waterproof
holder and struck it with his thumbnail and lit his pipe. As he smoked he watched the direction
the smoke drifted and how fast it moved. Soon the knowledge of wind direction would be
important. He also liked smoking his pipe. As he waited his mind wandered. He found himself
thinking more of the past these days. He thought of his wife and the things they had done
together. At times the memories seemed more real than the present. They had their little
sayings that meant a great deal to them, but would mean little to others. Both having grown up
watching “Disney”, they had often used words or phrases from their childhood. One such
phrase was from the Davy Crocket Series. As Crocket’s friend was dying at the Alamo, he said
to Davy Crocket “ Give them what for Davy”. From her deathbed, his wife had looked him in the eye and said “ Give them what for Davy”. That was why an old man was sitting in a tree on
a warm summer afternoon, instead of puttering in his garden and waiting to die, like a civilized
gentleman.
Now more men were coming across the bridge. Some were wounded, many had no weapons.
It would not be too long now the old man thought. He untied his rifle from the tree and retied it
so that if he dropped it, the rope would prevent it’s falling to the ground. The old man doubted
that he had the strength to climb down and back up again. Now several vehicles were crossing
the bridge. Many times they seemed to take little notice of the men struggling along on foot
and the men had to either get out of the way or be run down. The old man loaded the
magazine of his rifle. He emptied the ashes from his pipe, refilled it, but waited to light it. Now
the sounds of fighting were much closer. A large number of men came down the road. Many
did not even try to cross the congested bridge, but swam or waded across the stream to the
other side. Several officers were trying to organize some resistance along the stream, with
limited success.
Some of the patriots were digging fighting holes near the stream, while others were dragging
logs, rocks and anything else they could find to make barricades. The route of men became a
trickle and then stopped. There was a time of quite, while the road remained empty. Then
came the vehicles of the enemy, supported by large numbers of men on foot. The old man
sighed. The young always expect things to he easy and glorious. To them war is a wonderful
game. The old knew better. That is why they choose the young to be soldiers instead of the
old, but choose the older to be generals.
The old man now lit his pipe and took up his rifle. The fighting was fierce and brutal along the
stream, but in the end the patriots, under cover of a rear guard, had to give ground. As the first
of the enemy’s vehicles drove onto the bridge the old man’s rifle spoke and a hole appeared in
the driver’s forehead. The vehicle swerved into the bridge railing and came up on two wheels
before stopping. For now the bridge was blocked. Some men came up to try to move the
vehicle, but as they reached the doors they died. The bullets that killed them came from a
weapon that had been outdated for three wars. Other drivers died in their vehicles, until none
would sit behind the wheels. It was of course only a matter of time before they enemy figured
out where the old man was and once they did a hail of bullets cut leaves around him. Still he
smoked his pipe, reloaded and fired his rifle. Suddenly a bullet hit the old man low in the
abdomen. The pain and shock was so great that he almost dropped his rifle. He let the pipe fall
from his mouth and clenched his teeth. “Give them what for Davy”. He muttered under his
breath and drew the rifle to his shoulder again. Two more accurate rounds he fired that day
and two more of the enemy died.
Then the old man found that he was very tired and the rifle slipped from his hands to hang
within easy reach on the rope. The old man found himself standing in a green field and his wife
was there with him. They were no longer old, but stood in the splendor of their youth. He took
her in his arms and she said “ Good job Davy” and they walked away together. The militia
regrouped and with the aid of some of the National Guard was able to drive back the enemy
advance. No one would ever know who the patriot that had held the bridge with such accurate
sniper fire was and the town’s people assumed the old man had wandered off in the woods as was his habit, and died there. The local sheriff, himself an ex-Marine, seeing the spotless
dress uniform hanging the closet and the empty ammo boxes was not so sure. It did not
matter. What mattered was that the old man had been in the right place and at the right time
and done what he knew he had to do. He would not be lacking for brothers among the unsung
heroes in heaven.