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Fiction Short Story

by Gay Cameron Snell

Final Battle

It didn't matter what he had been before; it only mattered what he was about to become. The problem haunted him.

The old man sat in his wheelchair in the middle of a bare room and watched and waited, fretting about the rest of his life on this last day.

"You're wrong, Dad. You'll love it. You won't have to worry about a thing," Peter had said. The memory of his son's insubordination grated on his nerves.

He felt much older, and so tired. A retirement home? The very thought made his hands shake and his body cringe. John McDowell Jacob, retired colonel and successful entrepreneur, huddled under a blanket while smiling faces in white uniforms patronized him?

The old man rubbed his temples with a slow, rhythmic motion, willing the action itself to clarify the confusion tormenting his mind. He looked about him. This retreat had been his home for so many years. He'd carved it out of a thicket of trees halfway up the mountain. And now this carrion of a son wanted to take advantage of his lack of mobility and force him to leave.

He wondered what Sarah would think, what she would do. Never had he felt so torn inside, so hollow. So angry. Peter and his confounded insubordination, just like that upstart Lieutenant Banes who blatantly questioned his orders on the battlefield so long ago.

"But, sir," he had said, "it would be wiser to attack now." An ugly scowl twisted the lieutenant's face.

John frowned at the memory. He clutched the handgun hidden inside his shirt. An officer had an obligation to shoot an insubordinate soldier during war. Especially when men could die as a result of that insubordination.

"Lieutenant Banes," John had answered, "you will not question my orders."

"But, sir—"

John's fist pounded the arm of the wheelchair. He should've shot that lieutenant. No question. His son was just like Lieutenant Banes. The nerve of Peter to think he could pack him away like an old army blanket and take over his home.

John pushed the button on his wheelchair to turn it toward the open window overlooking his Blue Ridge Mountains. The air held a hint of lilac—Sara's favorite. It beckoned to him, sharpened his pain.

While serving with the Army and under siege of battle, he'd longed for a place of peace, a quiet hideaway in the mountains, something to help him forget all the ugliness he'd seen. When he returned home safely, he and Sarah had searched and searched for the perfect spot.

John hugged his arms about him. Take him from his beloved mountains and you might as well rip his heart right out of his chest.

He closed his eyes and sighed. The furrows on his brow deepened. What made Peter think he had the right to make decisions for him? Everyone grew older, yes, but not everyone became senile. John's sharp mind and clever wit still stunned even Peter.

The grinding crunch of tires on gravel alerted him. Peter's car approached the end of the long driveway. He turned the wheelchair away from the window to look at his home. One final view, he thought, surveying the emptiness about him. The mammoth stone fireplace, the hand-hewn ceiling beams, and the rich natural wood glow of the paneling jumped out at him in the bareness. The hours he had spent testing and teasing the wood to get just the desired blend of colors! One final glimpse for you, Sarah, and for all the wonderful years we shared together. I'm glad you didn't live to see this.

John wheeled around the lower level of the house until he heard the car stop. He took off his sweater. Old, senile men always sat huddled inside a thick sweater. Not him, he didn't need it. He would sit tall and proud and smother the indignation he felt toward his son. Peter was all he had left in the world.

The car door slammed, and John directed the wheelchair through the hollow-sounding rooms toward the front door. He took a long, deep breath as if to finally seal his emotions. He would not seek retribution against his only son. He couldn't. Let him sell the place. Let him turn it into a museum, if that's what would please him. No matter what Peter said, John would not be bitter.

Peter thought he needed a change? All right, he would accept this change for what it was—a new beginning, a new assignment, a new command post like years ago. He had made a lot of moves back then, he and Sarah. The Army had moved them all over the world. When the war came, Sarah stayed behind waiting and worrying until he returned. This time, Sarah would go with him. He wouldn't leave her behind again.

Moving and changing were a part of life, a part of being alive. The time was right for a move. Fighting grew heavier now. All the news reports showed that. Proven officers were needed to lead all those young scallywags. What did those young Army officers know about strategies anyway?

The key clicked in the lock, and John pulled himself to full attention in his wheelchair, his hand in a ready salute. The door opened.

"Boy, is it hot for spring. All packed and ready to go? Or do you want more . . ."

In the fleeting seconds that followed, John stared at the face before him, seeing first Peter and then Lieutenant Banes. The ugly scowl convinced him. Eight good men died because of this lieutenant. Over and over, John wished he'd shot him at the first sign of insubordination. Now he had a second chance.

With formality and conviction he said, "Ready, Lieutenant," and carried through with the salute—his back rigid, his eyes wide and focused straight ahead. Inside his shirt, he tightened his grip on the gun.

Slowly but resolutely, John guided his wheelchair outside. He was anxious to carry out justice for the good men this lieutenant had sent to their deaths.

He made it as far as the front bushes before the smell of lilacs assaulted him. For a moment he saw Sarah holding little Peter up to the branch to smell the blossoms. "Dad?"

In a flash John knew. He pulled out the gun.

Peter's face turned white.

John said, "Take care of this for me, would you, son?"

As Colonel John McDowell Jacob continued down the walk, he took a long, steady breath and straightened his shoulders. He felt honored to be heading into battle again. And he would win. As always.


About the Author
Gay Cameron Snell lives halfway up a mountain in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains, where she works hard to keep track of all the bears and rabbits and various kinds of snakes. A published author who taught writing to both high school and university students in another life, she still loves to give writing workshops and looks forward to the publication of her next novel, Death Rattle. This story is based on a true tale she heard out there in the Shenandoah Valley.