A state of disobedience

Western Currency Facility, Fort Worth, Texas

It was a tradition in Texas; that line, those voluntary steps. Ignore the tradition? Not Captain Williams; it would simply have felt wrong.

So, taking the A Company guidon—swords being in short supply these days, he used the metal ferule to draw an imaginary line across the front of the formation, beginning with the infantry company—its headquarters and three platoons standing toward the right, going across the oversized platoon of engineers, and then to the small detachment from battalion headquarters on the left.

The line he drew was essentially invisible. Only the displacement of some of the loose gravel on the parking lot marked it in scant places. Invisible . . . and yet it was clear enough, too.

"Boys," said Williams, "boys, you all have a decision to make today. The general said 'hold to the last.' But I'm not going to make anyone stay that doesn't want to. And you ought to be told, in fairness, that this place isn't all that important anymore to us; not since we shipped out about half of its printing capability.

"Before you make any hard and fast decisions, though, I want to read you something; something from our 'beloved President.' Well . . . she's behind it even if she didn't actually write it herself."

"Listen up, boys; this is from the New York Times: 'And as for the pitiful saboteurs and counterfeiters illegally occupying our Western Currency Facility, unless they surrender both themselves and the federal property in their hands the full rigor and justice of the law must be applied to them.' "

In the ranks, ranks themselves full of law enforcement men, one police desk sergeant turned and snorted to a highway patrolman, "Saboteur? Counterfeiter? Why, Sam, I would never have suspected. Consider yourself under arrest, you 'pitiful' bastard."

If the resulting laugh was slightly strained, it still contained real humor.

A hand shot up from one of the infantry platoons. "Sir, if this place isn't that important . . . well, then why stay?"

"Ah," answered Williams. "I said it wasn't all that important to us. I didn't say it wasn't important to them. To the Treasury Department? To Rottemeyer's Secret Service and her Presidential Guard? It is very important that they take this back. To them, the place where money is printed is about as sacred as a certain spot down in San Antonio is to us."

Another hand shot up, a bit hesitantly this time. "Okay, sir. Suppose we stay. Can we hold out here?"

"Don't see why not. We've got food for months, we're armed to the teeth, we're dug in like moles. No, what I see happening is they try to take us in a rush; we stop 'em cold, bleed 'em white. And then they sit down and think real seriously about how much they want to dig us out of here. While all that's going on the general and the governor will be making things happen elsewhere.

"But I won't lie to you. That's the way I think it's going to happen. There's no guarantee. We might all be dead by staying.

"Anybody else? Any more questions? All right then. Come on, make your decision. The officers have already agreed among themselves. We're staying put. The rest of you? If you're going to stay then cross over that line."

There was a shuffling of feet and no motion forward for several long moments as pride warred with fear in the breasts of the soldiers assembled. The men seemed to be trying to look anywhere but where Williams stood on the other side of his almost imaginary line. Finally, First Sergeant Pendergast cleared his throat, loudly so that all would know what he was about to do. Then, from his position to the rear of the formation he boldly stepped forth, rendered Williams a parade ground salute and said, "First Sergeant Pendergast reporting, sir."

Behind Pendergast, a few men straightened as if pushing away their fears. Then, off to the right, one lone man stepped forward and announced, "Private First Class Jerome Fontaine. I'm staying."

Pendergast suppressed a grateful smile as Williams smiled broadly, saying, "Well there's two men among us."

Yet even as Williams said those words another half dozen had crossed from across the formation. Then came two squads, to a man, followed by fifteen more crossing as individuals. Soon, there were only a half a dozen men still standing behind the line Williams had drawn. These, married men—every one, still hesitated.

Without being ordered to do so, Pendergast trooped the line. "You, Smitty? I would have figured you to want to hang on to this place."

Smitty—Sergeant Smithfield, shamefaced, crossed over.

"Just ask yourself how you'll feel if we lose this place because you weren't here to help us, Figueroa?"

With an audible sigh, Figueroa crossed as well.

"Just ask yourself how you'll feel if we hang on to this place without you, Petty?"

Petty snarled and answered, "Never happen, Top." He too crossed.

Pendergast looked over the last three. "Go home to your wife and your seven kids, Royce. No hard feelings. Robles? I know you've got an invalid mother who needs you. Go on."

Eyes closed, shaking his head, Royce crossed, as did Robles.

The last man, Staff Sergeant Melvin La Fleur, looked the first sergeant defiantly in the eye. Tossing his rifle to the pavement he shouted, "Fuck this shit! You're all crazy as loons. I'm out of here."

Pendergast shook his head in pity.

* * *