1958 - Unorganized Militia
Town Hall, Ancona, Tennessee
By a quirk of the calendar, most registrations for the Unorganized Militia came in the first week of June. The gun control crowd knew it and there was the usual demonstration outside Ellen Case's office. Arms are for hugging Guns Kill People. Briefly, Ellen let her mind run back to a madcap adventure in Mexico a few years ago that could, very nearly did, have a disastrous end. About the only thing she remembered with affection from that lunatic escapade was the dull thud of a rifle butt hitting a pompous pontificating blockhead. That and the SEAL officer whod rescued her, hed been hot. Ellen wriggled slightly in her seat then got to work. Her office was open.
"Philip Bouchier Ma'am. M1 Garand." The young man put the rifle on her desk. Ellen looked at it and went through the routine of checking that the rifle was on the approved list. Residents who wanted to buy a rifle or handgun didn't have to buy one from the approved list, and didn't have to declare it at the Town Hall if they did. There were advantages to doing so though, serious advantages. Ellen stamped the pink form and gave it to the young man. "Take your rifle and twenty rounds of ammunition to the Woodley Mountain Range tomorrow between 2 and 2:30 pm. If you qualify, get the range master to stamp this form and bring it back here. We will apply your bounty to this years property tax immediately. Next please."
Living room couch, Ancona, Tennessee. Three months later.
Philip Bouchier was just getting to second base when the phone rang. Three rings, stop then continuous ringing. The alert call. His girlfriend was swearing under her breath when he picked up the phone. "Town Hall here Mr Bouchier. We have a missing child on Kenneshaw Mountain and we're calling out some of the Militia to help in the search. Please report to the Kenneshaw Mountain Camp Ground Parking Lot immediately with your equipment. The phone clicked as the caller hung up to call the next person on the roster."
"I'm sorry darling but the Militias being called out. Missing kid. Can I call you when I get back?" The girl nodded, a missing child was a priority. She watched Bouchier get into his hunting clothes, they werent actually mandatory, when called out, a member of the Militia could turn up in top hat and tails if he wanted, but hunting gear was sensible. He picked up the M1 from its rack. "Come on Darling, I'll drop you off at home, its on the way."
Kenneshaw Mountain
"Okay, fellers, heah's the story. The missin' kid is Joseph Waters, boy, white, seven years old. Momma was cookin' an' daddy was shootin' the bull with some o' th' other campers an' the kid musta wandered off. His folks say he'd prob'ly bin gone fifteen or thirty minutes afore they missed him but we kin double that. Ah ain't got to tell y'all how serious this is. Bin rainin' and the rocks up the mountain are slippery. An' the critters is out, snakes an' wildcats an' coyotes an' mountain lions and Ah don't know what-all. An' y'all know the worst kind is the two-legged ones, an' they might be out too. So we got to be thorough an' we got to be careful. An' it's dusk an' a new moon an' cloudin' up again. So we got to be fast too. That's why we called y'all out. We'll start here. Form a skirmish line and move uphill. Make shore you kin see the man on yer right an' on yer left. An' don't leave no gaps between y'all."
The militia lined up on the edge of the wood, mostly men, a few women. This was the first time Bouchier had been called out, he'd only bought his rifle six months before and the bounty from registering for the militia was worth having to a young man in his first job. He didn't have a home of his own yet so the Town Clerk had applied his bounty to the property tax on his pick-up truck. The line took three paces forward, the searchers checking the bushes and undergrowth. Bouchier unfolded his bayonet, his M1 was fitted with a Russian-style hinged triangular spike bayonet a full 14 inches long. Most of the others had the American blade style bayonet and had looked askance at his triangular spike. It wasn't the multipurpose tool the American bayonet was but it was a man-killer. Some of the men had fought in Russia and they'd seen the use Frontniki had made of their triangular bayonets, leaving ghastly sucking wounds that never quite healed. Those veterans hated the theory of the spike bayonet but loved the practice.
Stop, search around, three paces forward. Search again. On Bouchiers left was a dense bush. He used the bayonet to lift the branches aside. One of the first rules of living here was Never put your hand in something until you know what's there This time, good advice. As he lifted the lowest branches, there was a hiss and a rattle. A diamondback, pulled up ready to strike. Bouchier backed away quickly but steadily. The snake, convinced there was no threat and not wishing a confrontation with an armed human, slithered away into the darkness of the bush. Bouchier shuddered slightly and blessed his M1. The long rifle and the extra length of the bayonet had kept his hands clear of any risk. Some of the guys had bought imported Russian AKs, they had firepower but were short and stubby. Combined with the short American knife bayonet, their hands would have been 18 inches to two feet closer to that snake, greatly increasing their chance of getting bitten.
Three paces forward, stop, search around. No more snakes, a fact that suited Bouchier just fine. One angry rattler was enough for an evening. Bouchier made a point of looking upwards, scanning the treetops and branches. The kid might have gone tree-climbing and got stuck. One of the veterans had made a point of telling the others that humans had a habit of thinking horizontally, they looked all around them but never up or down. The veterans had a lot of influence of course. Technically they had no position of authority but in reality, the veterans quietly passed on advice and experience to anybody willing to listen. In the final analysis though, the Unorganized Militia was just that, unorganized, a group of warm bodies the town could call on in an emergency. Really it was just a formalized expression of being a good neighbor. There wasnt a person here who wouldnt have turned out to help when theyd heard a child was missing. The Unorganized Militia just made the turn-out faster and made sure being a good neighbor brought its own rewards.
Ironically, the organization was a direct result of an attempt by the gun-control movements to ban firearms. In New York, a lunatic had got on top of a tall building and started shooting. Twelve dead. The group had brought a lawsuit against the City of New York, demanding the immediate confiscation and destruction of all firearms in the City and State. Theyd judge-shopped and got the case before a supporter whod ruled that the safety of the community overrides both the body of law and the Constitution and granted the motion, giving both the City and State 30 days to carry out the required confiscation and destruction. Next day, his judgment had been stayed until the Supreme Court could address the issue. With a month, the Justices had ruled that the Second Amendment was an individual right that allowed any citizen to own whatever arms he wished but that doing so meant he had a duty to serve in his local communitys militia if required. That had thrown a cat amongst the pigeons and local communities all over America had scrambled to make sense of the ruling.
A small town in Connecticut had come up with an answer. They'd formed the Unorganized Militia and issued a list of approved weapons for its members. Anybody who wanted to join said Unorganized Militia had to procure an approved rifle and prove their competence with it. For doing that, they got a bounty in the form of a credit against their local property taxes. If the town called out their Unorganized Militia, the duty was considered equivalent to equivalent to jury duty and those called out got the same per diem as jurymen. The sting was in the tail; those who did not belong to the Unorganized Militia had a surcharge added to their property taxes to fund the organization. After all, as George Mason had said, "Who is the Militia? They consist now of the whole people". So, it had been argued, those who did not support their community by volunteering their services could provide money instead. The concept had struck a chord in people and the scheme had caught on. It wasnt universal by any means, but it was already commonplace enough not to cause any comment. After all, people had been serving in volunteer fire departments and police units for years and this just took the idea a little further.
Three steps forward, search around. It was getting really dark now, the little light from the sliver of moon in the sky was largely blanked out by the trees. A lot of the searchers were using flashlights to check shadows and depressions. Bouchier had brought along a miners hat with a floodlight mounted on the front and some spare batteries. He flipped it on, the powerful light digging deep into the gathering shadows. He had a flashlight as well, together the two meant he could see into the undergrowth that surrounded his search path.
Three steps forward search around. They were heading up into the mountain proper now, the ground angling upwards at an ever-increasing rate. Now, his back was aching, his legs felt cramped and he was picking up scratches and lumps where branches had caught him. Bouchier started to wonder just how far into the wildlife reserve the little boy had gone. He couldn't have gone that far surely? His parents had probably understated the time hed been away, not knowingly but as a self-deception to shield themselves from the guilt they must be feeling. But still, he was a young boy and couldnt have gone that far unless something or somebody had taken him.
Bouchier used his flashlight to check a rock in front of him, then used it to haul himself up a bank. Given the ways the other flashlight beams were wavering and dipping, he wasnt alone in having a problem here. Ahead of him, a shadow stared at him, then flowed away into the darkness. A wildcat? Or just a trick of the light, shadows and the beam of a flashlight?
They were in dense bushes now, the bank had lead them up onto a ledge that was covered with undergrowth. That was the wrong name, the bushes were well above waist high. Three steps forward, search around. Suddenly Bouchier heard something. It sounded like a snivel or a whimper - or a small animal running away. Once again, he opened the bushes carefully with his bayonet. He couldnt see anything. He checked again, shining his flashlight into the bushes. Perhaps a step in would help him see better. He took a pace forward then gasped as he nearly slipped. What hed thought was just shadowed ground was a ravine, shielded on both sides by dense bushes. The stones that lined the channel were wet and slippery and nearly caused him to do a prat-fall into the ditch.
Once again, he looked carefully, Now he know what to look for it was obvious. It was a water run-off that had carved a channel deep into the soil. About six feet wide, wider and shallower as it went uphill, deeper and narrower as it went down. Nothing moving that he could see except. Thank God. Joseph Waters was lying in the bottom, blinking as the flashlight lit up his face. Bouchier jumped down.
"Thank you. I knew you would come." His voice had all the gravity of a small boy trying to be grown-up and brave.
"What happened Joseph? How did you get here?"
"My mommy was going to make muffins so I wanted to get her fresh blueberries. I saw the bushes but when I tried to pick some I fell in here."
Bouchier felt his stomach turn over. The bushes above werent blueberries. "Joseph, this is very important . Did you eat any of those berries?"
"No sir. I was going to but I fell in here. Sir, my leg hurts awful bad and I cant move it. I was afraid animals or snakes would come."
Bouchier relaxed. First job, check the kid. He looked over the little boy with his flashlight, being careful not to touch. Leg looked broken but no signs of other injuries. He still wasnt going to touch though. Moving accident victims usually did more harm than good unless the situation was really critical and this wasn't. Not now. Now, the situation was contained and it was time to get help. Bouchier yelled for assistance and immediately realized the problem Steep banks and heavy bushes deadened noise. Well there was a cure for that. He thumbed a clip into his M1 and squeezed a shot into the soft muddy earth of the bank, waited a few seconds then squeezed off a second. Fire one shot and people know you're somewhere, fire two and they know where you are.
Sure enough, within a minute or two, the gulley was being surrounded by flashlights. "I got him," Bouchier called, "but he's hurt. Gonna need a stretcher."
Some of the men and one of the women jumped down into the ditch. The woman started to look over the boy, checking him much more thoroughly than Bouchier had done. "Mr Bouchier, I hope you moved him around a bit."
"No Ma'am. Just looked to make sure he was safe. Never even touched him."
"Good man. Can you guys make a stretcher? Oh OK."
"They'd beaten her to it. Two long poles, buttoned-up jackets with the poles thrust through the sleeves. Not a great stretcher but one that would serve. They put it down, then surrounded the boy on the ground. Then, carefully supporting him so no strain was put on him, they moved him over onto the stretcher.
"Now we have to get him out. Throw down some ropes." Four lengths were quickly tied to the stretcher, then the men above pulled the boy out, Next thing was for the team inside the ravine to get out. The woman went first, boosted up by one of the men, then the others followed. The last one up was pulled out rather than pushed.
The trip down the mountain was much worse than the trip up, It had started raining again, the rocks were slippery and the paths muddy. The stretcher encumbered them, Joseph was trying to be brave but it was obvious each jar hurt his leg cruelly. But, eventually they made it back to the camping area.
As the searchers came out of the woods with their stretcher, a ragged cheer went up. An ambulance was already waiting, the distraught parents beside it. They spoke to one of the militiamen who pointed at Bouchier. Josephs father came over and solemnly shook his hand, trying to say thank you but his voice was letting him down. Josephs mother didn't try to speak, she just grabbed Bouchier and hugged him.
The Town Clerk was ticking off the list of searchers. "Thank you, everybody present and accounted for." She grinned. "You can go home now, the check will be in the mail."
Bouchier shook himself. His rifle would need cleaning, he was saturated with water and dirt, his bones ached, his muscles were cramped, he had scrapes, scratches, bruises, a couple of cuts and an irritating hand he thought was probably poison ivy. And one of his knees felt like hed twisted it, probably on the edge of the ravine. Then he saw the little boy being loaded into the ambulance wave to him and that made it all worthwhile.