A state of disobedience

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

"Sergeant Montoya, post!"

Stripped to the waist, sweating in the sun, despite having a fifty pound sack of government surplus rice over one shoulder, the priest stiffened to attention. The pattern of scar tissue on the priest's abdomen lost color as the skin there stretched.

"Dammit!" he muttered, shoulders slumping again. "How does he keep doing that to me after all these years?"

He turned around and glared into the smiling face of his oldest and best friend. "Why do you do that?" An extended finger began to move up to scratch his nose.

"Because I can and because it's funny." Schmidt kept his eyes away from his friend's battle scars.

The priest's middle finger stopped moving. He gave a rueful smile, rubbed it and the index finger of his free hand under his nose and admitted, "I suppose it is at that."

Sack still on his shoulder, Montoya looked around for one in particular of the boys helping him unload the monthly supply run from the 49^th Armored Division, Texas National Guard truck—food and truck both courtesy of his friend, Jack Schmidt.

Spotting the boy, the priest shouted, "Miguel, take over here. I am going to have a few words with the general. Elpi, would you bring us a couple of beers from the cellar?"

"Si, Padre," answered the dark skinned, brown-eyed teenager, running to take the sack from Montoya's shoulder. "Come on, Julio. You too, Raul . . . put your backs into it. These men"—he meant the National Guard truck drivers—"don't have all day."

* * *

In the cool, dimly lit rectory Montoya and Schmidt sat down on opposite sides of the roughly crafted but sturdy wooden table. The priest took two beers from Elpidia, thanking her. Then he opened both and passed one over to Schmidt. . . .

* * *

"Here, drink this, Jack," ordered the sergeant, handing over his own canteen. "Only the best for you."

The lieutenant refused at first, but at his sergeant's insistence took a sip of the tepid, muddy, iodine-tinged water. As he did Montoya glanced down at the red seepage at Schmidt's waist, gift of a mortar fragment ripping across the officer's stomach. Only the bandages Montoya had applied kept the lieutenant's innards from spilling to the ground. It did not look good.

"Not looking too good is it, Jorge?"

"That's 'Sergeant Montoya' to you." The sergeant smiled, hesitated, then continued, "We're down to fourteen men, plus you and me. Ammo's holding out . . . but only because so many of the ones who ran didn't want to carry theirs. What is it, four assaults we've beaten off? No . . . five, I think. They've got to be getting tired of it."

Still on his back, Schmidt nodded weakly before allowing his head to flop to a muddy rest. His practiced eye gauged the setting sun. "It's time, Jorge."

"Time? What time?"

"Time for you to leave me, take what you can save and try to get the hell out of here."

Montoya just snorted for an answer. Then, to change the subject—admittedly somewhat ineptly, he turned his rifle over and read aloud the serial number, "120857. Good. Still have my own."

"That's an order, Jorge. Get out and save what you can."

"No."

"Damn you, you wetback! I said get out of here."

"No, Jack," answered the sergeant, calmly, as ever. With determination, as ever.

* * *

"Jack? Are you all right?"

Schmidt collected his wits as quickly as he was able, covering his lapse with a sip and the observation, "Good beer."

"Only the best for you."

"Who was that girl?"

"Just a poor girl who has found her way to Christ."

* * *

Under winking stars, Montoya whispered, "It's just you and me and about six of the ARVNs left. They're the best six though: Nguyen, Tri, and their crew."

More unconscious than awake, Schmidt muttered, "Christ," then nodded as if he understood. What was left of a platoon had assembled a rude stretcher out of a poncho and a couple of saplings. On this they proposed to carry off their wounded officer under cover of night.

Montoya spoke a few sentences in reasonably fluent Vietnamese, courtesy of a short course and a long tour, themselves courtesy of the Army. Taking courage from the round eyed Mexican, Corporal Tri grunted his own determined assent in broken English, "We no leave notin' for stinkin' baby killin' Cong."

* * *

"So . . ." Schmidt hesitated. "I've got some bad news for you, Jorge. Juanita asked me to tell you. She would have told you herself if you would have a damned phone put in here. I can't use my trucks and busses to transport you and your kids to any more political rallies."

"Political? What political?" the priest demanded. "Murder is murder and there's nothing political about it."

"Come on, Jorge, be serious. There is nothing so political in this entire country as abortion. And with the new rules from Washington, any state that permits any interference is going to get hurt, let alone one that uses an arm of its government . . . which I am."

"Bah. Tell Juanita I am disappointed in her."

"She's doing the best she can, Jorge. Times are tough and getting tougher."

"Not as tough as being twisted around inside your mother and having your brains sucked out through a tube."

* * *