The Fourth of May

The tubes and wires were all connected to machines and pouches in some sad, heroic attempt to prolong my life. With this pandemic, staffing was short at the Veteran’s hospital, and in the death wing, as it was referred to, no one cared when visitors came or went. The woman who sat with me, Chrissie, had a forlorn look about her but was resigned to her task. As I lay in bed, and as it passed midnight, I once again reflected back fifty-two years to the day and relayed the events to her.

“What do you thinks gonna happen, Jimmy?” I was nervous, we all were, and Jimmy had been my best friend forever.

“I don’t know,” said Jimmy, looking around as we walked, “but I ascared.”

“Me too, pal.” And I was. We continued trudging up the hill, past Taylor Hall, built only two years earlier. I wanted to go there to study journalism, but, my parents couldn’t afford to send me, so I joined the Guard.

Jimmy had been hit with a rock and it’d cut him on his face, near his chin. I heard one of the fellas had been hit with a bottle, but I wasn’t sure. Back down on the practice field, there must have been twenty or thirty of them, throwing rocks and other things at us. Were they fools? I saw one almost hit the old man. He was pissed! Idiots, didn’t they realize that we have the power?

There was some commotion behind us, and while we kept moving forward, almost at the top of the hill, Jimmy and I looked around and saw a large crowd of protesters following us, getting closer. I heard a couple of yells, and I think some of us were once again getting pelted by rocks. You’d think the tear gas would have taught them a lesson. For students, they sure seemed dumb.

I’d heard the noon bell ring about twenty minutes ago, and it was loud, but it was nothing compared to the report of Sergeant Pryor’s .45 as he started firing. A group of us guardsmen turned and fired too, into the crowd. If Sergeant was firing, then the order must have been given.

We didn’t have blanks, why would we? My mind was stripped of all thought but the Sergeant’s mantra that he’d beaten into our heads each day of training: kill or be killed.

It didn’t last long, maybe fifteen or twenty seconds. Now I was a good shot. On my granddaddy’s farm, I’d spent many a weekend shooting his .22 at tin cans and some bottles. Thing is, tin cans don’t bleed.

I only shot once myself. Just like they taught us, preparing us to go to ‘Nam, “Don’t think, just aim and fire.” That’s what I did. I wasn’t trying to hit the guy, but as I shot to his left, just wanting to scare him, he moved, right into the path of my bullet. Caught him square in the face.