The Hour of the Wolf - Is Freedom Dying

As I quietly open the door, I glance at my watch. It’s the hour of the wolf. As I walk quietly in the room, the only sound I hear is the sound of my own heart punctuated by the steady beep of the medical monitor. As I slowly walk across the floor, I glance down and see a torn and twisted small stack of papers; I bend down to pick it up.

As I read it I catch my breath, I remember first reading this many years ago as a child. I remember being told how important this small stack of papers was to many people. Maybe at one time it was, but now as I look at the crumbled papers I notice the outline of a dirty footprint on the top page as if someone purposely stepped on it. I sigh and put them on the bookcase along with the other now considered outdated papers and books. As I slowly move closer to the side of the bed, I see another piece of paper in her hands; I lean over and slowly, ever so gently move her hands. I remove it and as I looked over to find a place to put it, I glance down and realize that it’s the announcement of her birth, a document that was once celebrated, but now it has, like other papers and books of hers, been consigned to the dustbin of history. I see a chair against the wall and ever so quietly bring it over to the side of the bed and sit down.

I sit and glance around the room. I see the various books, the computer screens and as much as I don't want to, my eyes once again return to the bed and the faint form lying there. As the deep labored breaths slowly make the covers move up and down, I finally realize why I can’t sleep. I realize that I may be seeing the final days, perhaps hours, of a great lady.

As I sit there, realizing that no matter how hard I try tears begin welling up in my eyes and as I reach up to wipe them away, even though I'm alone, I briefly look around to see if anyone saw them, but there was no one there.

“Thank God”, I think to myself, “No one is here to see the tears, after all a Marine isn't supposed to cry. But Marines do cry! Not from pain or frustration but they cry at the loss of a comrade in arms. They cry at the loss of family and close friends and I am losing one of the few people I have held very near and dear for so many years, so maybe it's okay to cry.

I hear sound behind me, once again wipe my hands across my eyes and turn towards the door to see some of my Brothers and Sisters standing there. They come in, look at the look at the form on the bed, pay their respects and after a while we start chatting and telling “war stories” some funny, some heart breaking. Some good memories, some not so good. They even share some photos and for a few minutes the cares and problems slide away but as enjoyable as this is, my eyes turn back to the bed and form lying there. Once again I feel the tears welling up in my eyes. So, not to be embarrassed I turn and walk towards the window.

I look out and think, “Damn they were right, it IS darkest before the dawn.”

My thoughts were interrupted once again by the door slowly opening and various friends quietly enter the room.

As they look uncomfortably at the form on the bed, the “blanket” of silent uneasiness vanishes like a fog being burnt off by a raising sun. The small talk begins and one of them says, “This illness must have come on fairly suddenly?”

As I look at the bed, I shake my head saying, “Not really, the infection set in many years ago. Outside of a few remissions, the disease continued to spread. BUT the doctors and those who could control it didn’t pay attention, they were too busy with other things or maybe should I say they got complacent. The infection was still there, just below the surface, slowly growing and quietly spreading.”

“But I was told it only started a few years ago” another said, “One doctor told me that it was well under control until recently.”

I shook my head and said, “There's the chart,” pointing to the clipboard hanging on the bed. “Read it for yourself.”

My friend made no attempt to move towards the chart, mumbling, “I'll read it later.”

We continued to quietly chat. We talked about how some of us remembered the birth and the death of “Rock 'n Roll”, when the music was simpler. The songs of young love both won and lost. Songs of love, marriage and family. Songs that didn't make sense, made us laugh but “had a good beat and we could dance to it.” We talked of when movies were fun and everyone in the family could enjoy a night out. We talked about how we were taught respect for our elders, how we would run and play, not worrying about anything more important than behaving ourselves and being home when we were told and how we were afraid that if we did something wrong we would be grounded. Maybe spanked, confined to our own yard, or maybe no T.V. for the night or God forbid, a week.

I chuckled and said, “Yep, I sure got a lot of reading done.” Everybody nodded their heads in agreement. As we continued to chat, we talked about going to the birthday celebrations, where everyone celebrated with games, good food, talked with our friends and neighbors, most them were war veterans. There were even some active duty military, though they were far from their home, they were welcomed and made to feel right at home. We had fun and if we were lucky there would be some fireworks to mark the birthday and end the party.

We talked about going to school in our neighborhoods, where the parents knew the teachers and the teachers knew the children. We remembered how we started our school day with a prayer and the Pledge of Alliance. Then we began our classes and God help us if we misbehaved, it was off to Principal’s office and the embarrassing introduction to the board of education firmly applied to the seat of knowledge. That we could tolerate. We could even tolerate being kidded about it by our classmates; it was facing our parents when we got home that really worried us! They had already been called by the either the principal or the teacher. Talk about double jeopardy!

We talked about the Christmas holidays, when the school had the Christmas story performed by the students. We talked about how every year the Christmas decorations on the city square would change. Someone said they remembered when they had a “living” Nativity scene with live people and animals.

We talked of honoring our veterans, both living and particularly those that had fallen in the defense of Freedom. Some of us remember attending a “celebration” at the cemetery where the American flag, at half staffed, waved in the breeze and you looked out across the grassy rolling hills punctuated with the white headstones decorated with with small American flags or Red, White and Blue wreaths. Afterward there may have been family or community gatherings.

Even though it had been fairly dormant, the disease began slowly attacking the brain and began to spread more rapidly. The lady began to change; she didn't seem to want to go to the celebrations any more. She seemed to be too busy or disinterested to attend the PTA meetings. But to me, the scariest thing was when she didn't feel like getting up on Sunday to attend church. It was as if her spirit was being sucked out of her.

As the disease continued to spread, it began moving down through her muscles and eventually to her back. Soon it became harder for her to work; she seemed not willing to do anything. Yet, there was a slight spark where part of her was determined to continue, hoping that maybe that spark would fight off the infection. But, try as she could the disease kept slowly spreading.

Just then the door opened and in walked the doctors, looking very professional in their crisp white coats. They looked over at the form on the bed and began giving advice, a couple even said there would be a cure soon, all we had to do is keep holding on to what hope there is left. I listened nodding my head, then asked, “Can you guarantee that the new treatment will cure the infection? Can you guarantee that the body and mind will completely heal?” The doctors and other visitors turned and looked at me like I suddenly sprouted a third eye.

Finally, one of the doctors looked at me and speaking quietly said, “How dare you question us, we know more than you. Look how important we are and how many people listen to us. We've even written books on the disease and what caused it. Look how hard we’ve worked to get where we are. Look at the sacrifices we’ve made.” I just looked over towards my Brothers and Sisters. He continued, “Just look at us, we’ve been studying this and we know that there will be cure.” I glanced back at the form on the bed and around the room. Some friends were nodding in agreement and finally one of my friends looked at me with a trace of anger in the eyes and with a trace of anger in the voice said, “You should listen to them, they know the cure will work after all, they are the experts.” Then turned and left the room.

I just looked around the room and said, “I realize I’m not as important or all knowing as you and the other experts are, but I have to ask, can you or the others guarantee that the cure will work? And for how long? Where is the inoculation to build up immunity to it so that others don't catch it? Or will it spread and like in the past regress only to flare up again and we'll be back here in a few years? Shouldn’t we be working on a cure instead of chasing every rumor or article that tells us how bad the disease is?” I paused and caught my breathe, glancing around the room. I continued, “I fully realize that the feeling of helplessness can lead to people turning to anyone or anything that may suggest a cure, but shouldn't we call the disease for what it is instead of calling it something that may not be as frightening?"

I was holding back my temper but continued, "While we are looking for a cure, shouldn't we also learn as much about it as we can. Where it really comes from and how it is spread? Shouldn't we be working to cut it off at the source or since it’s all ready in the general population, try to keep the younger generation from being infected? Shouldn’t we learn as much as we can about it, maybe learning how to stop it by seeing how it began?” As I caught my breathe, I looked around and saw that those who came to visit began drift over only to gather around the various doctors, some them were mooning over them like they were guided by God’s own hand, hanging on every word they uttered.

Soon they all began to file out, giving the usual platitudes and I politely acknowledge them, telling them that I'll talk to them later, knowing full well that because I question their "idols", I would be an outcast.

I was once again left alone and I looked at the bed, I felt the tears welling up and finally it was as if a dam burst, my tears fell like the rain of a summer thunder storm.

Suddenly, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder; I quickly wiped the tears from my eyes and turned around to see a Marine in Dress Blues standing there. As I looked at him not recognizing him, he quietly said, “Remember your oath. Remember your training, and most importantly remember you never give up, sometimes you have to sacrifice everything for the good of the many and that can mean losing those who you thought were friends or comrades. Do what you feel is the right thing, to hell with what someone else thinks BUT remember the laws and why you are fighting. If people want to desert you, let them go, they may not be up to the fight no matter what they say, but for everyone that deserts you, there maybe one or two who will listen and learn. It's not about fame or glory; its not about being remembered when the history is written.” Then his voice raised just a little bit, “It’s for her,” as he gestured to the bed.

I turned to look at the bed and as I turned back to look at him and he was gone as quietly as he had arrived; there was no sign of the door closing. I thought to myself, “I'm must be seeing things, its going to be a long day,” I turned back to look at the bed, and though I am not considered the most religious person in the world, I dropped to my knees, something I haven’t done in many years and began to pray:

“God, I know we haven’t been perfect, I know that the mind and the heart may have shut You out, but God please forgive us and remember that deep down the spark of Freedom still flickers in most of us. Please God, give us the strength, the knowledge, and the patience to rekindle that spark into a bonfire of Freedom that will never be put out and by Your Will that fire will never grow dim again. Amen.”

I got up, bushed the dust off my knees, wiped the tears from my eyes and walked over to the bed, gently leaned over and to adjust the covers.

Her lips began to move as if attempting to say something and her hand slid out from under the blanket and pointed and quietly, almost a whisper, said, “Take them; hold them close, no matter what happens to me, don't let them be forgotten.”. I nodded and gently placed her arm back under the blanket. I adjusted her covers, bent over, wiped the tear that ran down her cheek, gently kissed her fore head and whispered, “Rest well Lady Liberty, I may not have the answers, but I have the spirit of Freedom that was instilled in me as a young boy and I will continue to fight, perhaps gather more like me. I pray that before I pass on to my final muster, I will see you standing tall again, holding the flame of Freedom high for the world to see.”

I picked up the papers, look at them and noticed that they were the same papers I had put on the shelf earlier.

I looked down and read the words that changed the world,”When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands...” I sighed.

The other was the one that had picked up off the floor with the dirty footprint. I look down and read,“We the people....”, as I attempted to bush off the dirty footprint and straighten it out, tears once again came to my eyes. I turned to leave, halted and shook my head. I looked again. There standing in front of me, like little wisps of fog were men and women dressed in various uniforms of America’s military, some modern, some vintage. They just stood there and all I could think to do was salute and say, “As long as I possibility can, I will fight for the Freedom that you died for and your sacrifice will never be forgotten.

Semper Fidelis.”

I would like Igor and Riceman, my friends and colleague for their time and editing.