Fools Are Always Nice

Going steadily faster now, we were driving out of the hamlet surrounding the church when Docker said, “Last Post,” to me.

Immediately I was angry and looked over to say nasty things about trying to sound Kiplingesque at a time like this, but he was gesturing with his blood covered gun out the window at the fence that ran along the side of the road.

“Last post,” he said again in a gasp, then clenched his teeth, as his pain ate him like an animal.

Understanding, I pulled over and let the car coast to a stop where the fence ended.  Mike Docker opened his door and stepped out, wincing as he moved his badly wounded leg, then leaned back into the car to offer me his rust stained hand.  I shook it and gave him an even nod that I hope to God(if there really is one), said and thanked him all I wanted to.

The little smile and nod he returned me let me know that he knew.  Then he released my hand, closed the door, and stood up straight with his pistol pointing down the road we had come from.

I drove off, still seeing his small figure receding in my rearview mirror as he stood alone.  A sentinel, guarding our escape.  A big, little man.

If I were more of a romantic than I have been accused of being, I could say that I heard the series of shots that must have killed him as he defended us while we ran away, but, I am not and the last memory I have is of a small man with a bloody leg, standing on a road pointing a pistol at a church.  Funny how the memory can compress an image’s depth better than a rearview mirror can.