War of the Eagles by Eric Walters

listen to their elders,” Smitty chided.
    â€œYou’re hardly my elder.”
    â€œRegardless. Stay put.” He slammed the door shut behind him, and went into the small side door at the base of the courthouse steps.
    From where I sat high up in the cab, I had a good view of everything. There were a few other vehicles in the driveway, two RCMP patrol cars and four military jeeps, one of which belonged to the American army. There were three American soldiers sitting on the steps of the court. Off on the grass there was a cluster of men. They were sailors in the merchant marine. I wondered if a couple of them were from the ship we’d just unloaded.
    Smitty re-emerged. He held the door open and Ry–lance appeared. He was missing his MP’s helmet and even in the dim light I could tell one of his eyes was swollen shut. Following behind him were men from our camp. They walked with their eyes on the ground. A couple had ripped or muddied uniforms. One was limping badly and leaning on his buddy. At the end of the line were two RCMP officers holding their night–sticks in front of them. The line slowed down and one of the Mounties poked the last man in the back with his stick. He didn’t even turn around to protest.
    With the last person out, Smitty let go of the door and ran to the front of the line. “Jed, help me get the tail down.”
    I jumped down from the truck and joined him at the back. Together we untied the canopy and lowered the tailgate.
    â€œAll right, everybody get in,” Rylance yelled. It sounded much more like a pleading request than an order. Wordlessly they started to climb into the back, taking up positions against the boxes of canned goods. The air was thick with the smell of alcohol. Some of the men looked like they’d been dragged behind a horse. Blood stained some of their white dress shirts. The last man, of the fourteen I counted, climbed aboard.
    â€œSeal ‘em up,” Rylance said.
    We raised the heavy metal tailgate and it squealed in loud protest. The canopy was pulled into place and the ropes tied down to the back hooks.
    â€œOkay, guys,” Rylance said to the RCMPs. “I’ll have the major call your commander and they can figure out together what to do with this lot.”
    One of the police officers turned to Smitty. “Make sure you hit every bump between here and the camp. Maybe you can knock a little sense into them.”
    Smitty nodded in agreement and we climbed into the cab of the truck. I sat in the middle and Rylance sat by the window.
    â€œI’m going to drive like I was carrying newborn ba–bies,” Smitty responded.
    â€œWhy?” asked Rylance. “The way these guys acted tonight they deserve what they get.”
    â€œI’m not thinking about them, I’m thinking about me. As it is, the back of the truck will smell bad, but if I’m not careful the whole thing will be floating in vomit. Do you know how hard it is to get rid of that smell?”
    â€œI can imagine,” Rylance chuckled, “but I wouldn’t worry about it. There’s going to be lots of guys to scrub trucks. These men will be on punishment duty right through this war and into the next one.”
    â€œWhat happened?”
    â€œIt all started small. A couple of our guys and a cou–ple of natives. It got out of hand quick. By the time it was over, there must have been over two hundred guys fighting. Locals, Indians, merchant marine, US sailors, some American soldiers, our guys. Everybody fighting everybody. The RCMP and us MPs were waist-deep in it, but we couldn’t get it to stop.”
    â€œWow,” I gasped.
    â€œMurdock must have been in his glory,” Smitty noted.
    â€œActually, he spent most of the time face down in the gutter.”
    â€œMurdock! What happened?”
    Rylance shook his head slowly. “I almost had it all sorted out and then Murdock comes busting in swear–ing and