A state of disobedience

Dei Gloria Mission, Waco, Texas

Muttering, Father Montoya cleared away the detritus of the dank closet until a smallish wooden trunk was revealed. The trunk, footlocker to be precise, was painted green and made of cheap plywood—military issue. He drew the footlocker out into the light then pushed it—after his beating he lacked the strength easily to carry it—across the floor toward a simple wooden chair. The trunk was stenciled—how the letters had faded with the years!—with montoya-s, jorge, ssg, co b, 3^rd bn, 5^th sfg(a).

The priest fished in his pocket for a set of keys, then sat in front of the trunk and opened the lock; lifted the cover.

A sad smile of days gone by briefly lit Montoya's face. His hands lovingly removed a circle of heavy green cloth. Attached was a small metal device. Montoya read softly, "De Oppresso Liberi."—to free the oppressed.

We failed, but at least we tried. The memory drove away a few years and a few injuries.

Gently the priest set the beret on the floor and removed a neatly folded set of starched jungle fatigues, the slash pockets on the jacket's breast surmounted by cloth strips bearing his name and us army. These had no real sentiment attached; he had merely worn them his last day in the army. Boots and load–carrying equipment joined the jungle fatigues.

Beneath these were several boxes of letters; from his sister, from Isabel whom he had once thought to marry, from Jack, too, though those were somewhat more recent.

The letters went atop the fatigues. Montoya stopped and stared at a long, soft, green case.

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