==Resolve in their Hearts== "Look, soldiers!" A boy of about ten perched on top of a gate-post to better see the approaching cavalry. His older brother walked over to him, a half-whittled stick still in his hand. He shaded his eyes against the setting sun and looked on with envy. Jeffrey was fourteen and certainly a man in his own mind. That his mother disagreed was not his fault at all. "They are all right, " he said slowly "Aren't they, Will." Will, taken by all that martial splendor, just nodded. The soldiers were handsome indeed. They were close enough now for the boys to see tan masculine faces under tilted bush hats, greenish bandoliers crossing over bulging muscle and steady hands which steered heavy chargers toward the farm. An officer was reading a small book, occasionally making an odd movement with his arm to flip the page without taking his other hand off the reins. Further behind them, an angular shape not unlike an oversized bar piano was gaining fast, a dust cloud turbulent in its wake. With the sun almost directly behind it, the boys couldn't see detail but guessed it to be an armored car. They looked forward to seeing a real armored car. Although sporadic warfare has been on since before the boys were born, they've seen none of it. The insurgents were too few in numbers to risk visibility and they rated a correspondingly small garrison. Until recently, the rumbles of the peacekeeping campaign reached them only though adults speaking of nuisances happening elsewhere. Earlier that year, their one-legged uncle came to live with them. He wouldn't talk of how that leg came off but Jeffrey had his theory. Pity that Uncle Otto was not a man who answered questions. Instead, the old man -- and old he was, almost thirty five -- would ask them unpleasant questions, "why aren't you helping your mother?" being chief among them. Since Jeffrey did not like where that question led, he learned to avoid his uncle. That wasn't hard even on their tiny farmstead as Otto was taken to napping in the sun and was hard of hearing; staying out of his sight guaranteed freedom from further lectures on filial responsibility. From her kitchen set unconventionally on the second floor of the farmhouse, their mother watched her brood with curiosity. Franca Smith could see that something attracted the kids' attention but didn't know what it was. None of the windows faced South-West because of the afternoon heat. She considered shouting to the eldest boy but thought better of it. She shouted a them often enough as it was. She'd know who that was soon enough. The thought of walking outside to look did not even occur to her. Since Franca's husband left for Bridgetown two months ago, she's been carrying the weight of the household on her frail hunched shoulders. The young woman has grown fatigued in that short time and learned to economize on unnecessary movement. She had not known why Peter has left, only that he would be back someday. He told her he would return when he left, dressed in his Sunday best which didn't quite conceal a heavy revolver. Although he'd always dressed that way when out to sell livestock, a large carpetbag in his hand and the grim expression he wore were not normal. "Don't ask," he told her and added, with put-up optimism which failed to fool her "I will return soon." Peter was old-fashioned. He told his wife little and discouraged questions from her. If he needed to talk of something serious, he would ride the two leagues to the nearest inn where men gathered on weekend evenings. As far as Franca knew, he took no sides except his own. That he had gone out on some errand unconnected with his own self- interest had initially scared her. When he did not return in the next week or two weeks, fear could no longer be sustained and depression crept in its stead. William waved at the approaching riders. Seeing no response, he tried again with his bright kerchief. The effort so unbalanced the boy that Jeffrey had grab him by the back of the faded overalls to arrest an awkward fall. "Settle down, you runt," he advised his sibling "You are too young to join up anyway." Uncle Otto was sitting where he's always sat, in the shade by the water barrel. He guessed what the boys were thinking and snarled to no one in particular. "They ought to know better than to envy soldiers," he thought. After all, they had him as a reminder of what soldiering brought. His peg-leg was still fresh, its wood yet green. Other mementos of that brief yet overwhelmingly disagreeable period were well-buried in one of the numerous sheds further back from the road. Ten minutes hence, the cavalcade rode through the gate into the courtyard created by the farmhouse and an L-shaped barn. One of the soldiers saluted the kids and they beamed at him. Others dismounted and looked about the place. Close up these men were far less imposing. They stank more than their horses and were grimy and stubbly. Uncle Otto watched without speaking to them until addressed by the officer. "Say, who runs this?" the officer inquired, sweeping the courtyard with a hand still holding a small yellowish book. "My sister and her husband but they are away, " responded Otto, mindful of the ungallant reputation of these visitors. A cursory examination of the barn revealed that both horses were in their stables. A small dark buggy stood in the corner of the barn. "I say," started the officer "Sergeant, aren't these people rebels? They must be hiding out back somewhere." The sergeant nodded, resentful of the wishy-washy manner of his commander but patient for lack of other choices. They've been through this before. That damn toff of a Lieutenant had to talk himself into doing the right thing. No matter, Sergeant Reinheim could wait. "A curiously fresh stump that cripple got," he muttered, glancing at Otto. "He does, there," Lieutenant Watson made up his mind. They were here to make the countryside safe again. He didn't like the method much but he knew better than to argue with military necessity. "Line 'em up!" Rough hands reached to the boys before they could react beyond gasping with shock. One of the men tore the shirt off Jeffrey's shoulders and said "Sir, no recoil bruises on this one." "We've stopped bothering with this rot, you half-wit! If they got no marks now, they sure will next year." Shortly the boys were standing by their uncle. The farmstead wall curved conveniently here so the squad had a safe backstop. At the gate, the overheated armored car stopped and its mechanic squeezed past Otto to get a bucket of water from the barrel. Otto began to understand what was coming. "Sir," called to Lieutenant Watson "You don't have to harm the children." At his words, William's eyes widened in fear. John Watson ignored him. Talking to dead people, even to those who still thought themselves living, was tedious business. He covered his ears and nodded to Reinheim. Most of the cavalrymen were looking through the house but half-dozen were close enough to be gathered into an improvised firing squad. As they unslinged rifles, Watson said peevishly: "How many times must I tell you daft inbreds to use pistols. This is hard on my ears as it is." William and Jeffrey got over their initial fright and thought to hop the wall behind them. Nasty looking bayonets just aft of their necks dissuaded them from trying. Their uncle kept quiet. His mind searched for some way out but found none. In his mind, the fury at himself for not making the boys scatter simmered. He's seen war before and knew the full measure of its harshness. What fool he was to fancy that innocence was a defense! The soldiers stood in an arc, some with mugs of cold water in their left hands. From the house someone shouted hoarsely: "Bugger them first!" Watson shook his fist in the air and said loudly, in an aggrieved voice: "Who said that? You shall make no intimations of deviancy in my unit." When no one owned up to the quip, he returned his attention to the execution. At the prompt from Reinheim, the six men half-raised their side arms. The Lieutenant turned around and covered his ears with balled fists. William began to whimper. The farmhouse had two doors. The main entrance was full of loitering dragoons but the back door was clear. Franca was always a timid woman and she had hidden herself from the intruders even before their intentions became clear. From the back door, she could see the preparations for a butchery clearly. Her husband's shotgun moved from the rack into her small hands and her apron soon sagged under the weight of shells. From where she stood to the firing squad was about fifty paces, too far for the pellets to carry. She pushed the door open with her shoulder and walked on a tangent to the execution circle. All eyes were on the developing killing and she flanked the six shooters before anyone noticed. She stood to the left of the them and pointed the bead at the light spot just above the ear of the man closest to her. That spot was a cigarette which Private Hessie was saving for later. Her first shot from barely ten paces removed most of John Hessie's head and liberally speckled his mates with gore. Before anyone could move, Franca slammed the gun's forearm forward and the second blast stretched another man. The dragoon behind him clutched at his leg in which a stray pellet lodged. The would-be executioners scattered, one dropping his gun but retaining his mug. She shot after them but missed. The brass buttplate slid off Franca's tiny shoulder as she tried to place the bead on the knot of men around the Lieutenant. She yanked the trigger anyway and the charge went high. Now in the midst of the soldiers, she reached into her apron for reloads but ran out of time. The soldier closest to Franca knocked the young woman out with a rifle butt before she could do anything else. As the soldiers ran every which way working rifle bolts and looking for cover, one tall, dark man who had the presence of mind to remember the condemned three pressed the muzzle of his revolver into the back of Otto's neck and pulled the trigger. The powder flash dried the beads of sweat around the wound. Uncle Otto convulsed once and slumped in his chair. Both boys looked with horror, first at their friend Otto, then at his killer. As William looked into the soldier's eyes, the man held out his hand so the gun muzzle pressed on the boy's upturned nose. So great was the height disparity than he looked like a frog-hunting stork. Jeffrey grabbed onto his brother's sleeve and tried to drag him away as the tall man said with a smile, his tone mockingly polite: "So young a rebel?" Then he pulled the trigger. One of the two armored car gunners got into the barbette and belatedly brought the machine gun to bear in the direction of prone Franca. Jeffrey, his head pounding, ran for the farmstead gate. With so many soldiers in the courtyard, he was momentarily safe from gunfire. As he cleared the gate and was in the open, cracks of rifles sounded and bullets pulverized dry soil a dozen paces in front of him. A couple of the dragoons mounted and bared their sabers but the chase never started. The second barbette of the Rolls-Royce faced the gate and its gunner lit up over the heads of the riflemen. Jeffrey was hit at once and fell forward. The boy's nose and mouth were clogged with fine dirt but when he tried to turn his head it refused to budge. Then the car gunner walked the dirt fountains over the scrawny prone body again for good measure. After some time, the excitement died down and the usual never-do-wells were detailed to shovel some dirt on the corpses. The Sergeant considered the prone form of Franca. "She'd unsexed herself, that's what she'd done, " said Lieutenant Watson behind him "Damn disgraceful, I say." Franca was still a pretty woman despite a bloody gash now spoiled her left cheekbone. She was stunned by the blow but her skull was intact, so she came to shortly. When her eyes opened, she saw painfully bright sky and silhouetted humans looking down at her. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she scanned the faces above her and blanched. "Sergeant Reinheim," said Watson looking away and blushing a bit "What shall we do with a tart who unsexes herself?" He was too much a gentleman to suggest anything interesting but his subordinate knew the game well and responded by unsheathing a bayonet. Franca was dragged to a bench just past where Otto's upturned chair was. Her head hit the rough wood of the seat hard, a small mercy. "Ta'off 'er knicke's," someone advised. "Damn hysteric whore," screamed the medic from where the two dead soldiers were stretched out. He stood upright, one bloody hand raised to the sky. "I'll fix her good." Modern army relies on close coordination between its branches. The fixing of Franca Smith had barely ended when 62nd Infantry reached the position secured by the dragoons. The adolescent adjutant to the officer in charge of the new troops saw the exposed pale corpse and waived at the embarrassed-looking soldiers around it. Watson opened his mouth but stopped when he saw a wide grin on the adjutant's face. Though he had enjoyed watching the torture, the Lieutenant was puzzled at the reaction. "That's just what we need!" the youngster exclaimed. He was digging for something in his flat field-bag with his right hand while his left twitched with excitement. Watson wondered for what exactly a mangled blood-splattered body missing most of its clothing and some body parts was needed. His question was answered as the adjutant, Davis Grey his name was, extracted a substantial object from his bag and unfolded it into a camera. Dark stain on sweat manifested itself on Lieutenant's back, as if by magic. What trouble would be upon him if evidence like that got out? He sat down heavily, trying to think and failing. "Court-martial for sure," he thought "Or will Reinheim take the fall?" "Excellent!" he heard the cherubic photographer shout, then address the captain: "Sir, I think these will turn out lovely." Two weeks later the glorious summer ended abruptly and the rains came. With roads turned to mud, brave peacekeepers entrenched. The nebulous other side abandoned roadside ambushes and instead bombed bars frequented by the soldiers. In early October, a sorry wet bundle kept watch in a damp trench. The rest of that company were holed up underground, warm, dry and socially drunk. One of them, a man older than the draftees making up most of the unit, held up his mug. "Men!" he declared and gulped his beer for a punctuation. "We've seen what they do to us. But what they do to our women, have you seen that?" He waived a small creased card in front of his audience. "Reinheim's got it off one of them bastards in Bridgetown. Those sick..." The man poured the rest of the pale acidic brew into his mouth, wiped his beard with a tunic sleeve and slapped the photographic card onto the makeshift table in from of him. Ten grimy faces moved closer and someone lit another candle. On the picture taken by Staff Sergeant Grey, long shadows stretched from a prone body of a petite woman. One needed only a glance to tell that she had been savaged yet all stared closely for a long time, some licking dry lips, some muttering. The bearded old-timer summed up the mood later that night as he headed to the latrine. "High time we stopped taking prisoners!"