Founders (17 page)

They reached the far side of the Marshalltown limits in just seven blocks. The older officer said, “This is where we part company. We wish you the best of luck. But if we see you back in town, you
will
be arrested. Is that clear?”

“Yes, officer, abundantly clear.”

Once they were back in farmland, Ken commented, “They looked pretty lean, for cops.”

“Well. You make a cop walk most places instead of drive, and take away his supply of donuts . . .” Terry joked.

Ken finished her sentence, “. . . and he just might start looking athletic.”

They pressed on in the direction of Ames, Iowa. After their experience in Marshalltown, they avoided towns altogether. This often required lengthy circumnavigations. As the spring turned to summer, Ken and Terry saw fewer and fewer motor vehicles in operation. The little gasoline left was obviously being preciously guarded.

Following the advice of the Marshalltown police, they swung far around Des Moines and Omaha. From the vicinity of Ames, they walked another 650 miles west and slightly north, skirting far around Sioux City and Sioux Falls. Because of their stealthy “TABbing,” they averaged only four or five miles a night.

They would occasionally find places to barter some of their handful of silver coins for food. But often, they would eat gleanings. Sometimes they would have the chance to shoot a rabbit or a pheasant on the ground with Terry’s CAR-15 or with their .45 pistols.
Twice, they were lucky enough to find deer to shoot. On each occasion, they spent three days camping in one place, gorging on venison and making jerky. They even cooked and ate the marrow from the large bones. And in both instances they were careful to bury the bones and gut piles so that their camp would not attract the attention of scavengers. In all, their hunting consumed only thirty-one cartridges that spring and summer. They didn’t pull the trigger unless a single shot was absolutely sure to “bag a critter.”

In late July and early August, they found three weeks of work harvesting pears, strawberries, and raspberries in Mission Hill, just east of Yankton, South Dakota. They were paid 25 cents in pre-1965 silver coin per day, plus one hot meal per day, in exchange for ten-hour days of hot, sweaty harvesting work.

The farm owner offered to keep their packs and rifles safely locked in his guarded house each day. This was the first time in nearly a year that they didn’t have their rifles in their hands when they were outdoors. Ken and Terry felt practically naked, carrying just their .45 automatic pistols.

It was in Mission Hill that they also first started trading with Yankton Sioux. They traded two deer hides, seven rabbit pelts, and three pheasant pelts for some antelope jerky, bar soap, and salt. The natives proved hospitable, easygoing, and fair traders. But it was obvious that they were desperately poor. Ken’s comment to Terry was “They were poor before the Crunch, but now all they have left is their pride.”

“There are certain principles that are inherent in man, that belong to man, and that were enunciated in an early day, before the United States government was formed, and they are principles that rightfully belong to all men everywhere. They are described in the Declaration of Independence as inalienable rights, one of which is that men have a right to live; another is that they have a right to pursue happiness; and another is that they have a right to be free and no man has authority to deprive them of those God-given rights, and none but tyrants would do it. These principles, I say, are inalienable in man; they belong to him; they existed before any constitutions were framed or any laws made. Men have in various ages striven to strip their fellow-men of these rights, and dispossess them of them. And hence the wars, the bloodshed and carnage that have spread over the earth. We, therefore, are not indebted to the United States for these rights; we were free as men born into the world, having the right to do as we please, to act as we please, as long as we do not transgress constitutional law nor violate the rights of others. . . . Another thing God expects us to do, and that is to maintain the principle of human rights. . . . We owe it to all liberty-loving men, to stand up for human rights and to protect human freedom, and in the name of God we will do it, and let the congregation say Amen.”

—John Taylor, 1882,
Journal of Discourses,
Volume 23, p. 263

Life in Overton County was just starting to get back to normal when the first Provisional Government units passed through. Since the town was within the four-hour-drive-time local security radius of Fort Knox, Muddy Pond was in one of the first areas to be pacified by the ProvGov. The new administration at first seemed well intentioned and benevolent, but people soon saw its sinister side.

The nationalization programs and the controls began gradually. At first, the ProvGov seized only key industries and utilities. But later, smaller companies were taken over, some seemingly on a whim. People wondered why a padlock manufacturing company would be nationalized. And why would a silver refinery have to be nationalized?

Likewise, the wage, price, currency, and credit controls started small, but gradually grew to gargantuan proportions. Just a month after the ProvGov troops arrived, there was a dusk-to-dawn curfew, with shoot-on-sight orders for violators. But even daylight hours weren’t safe, as Ben Fielding discovered.

Early one afternoon, all of Ben’s family except Joseph was at home listening to some Messianic music on Rebecca’s iPod dock. They often gathered in the living room to do so, on the days that the power was on. The children liked to hear the music played loudly, and they sang along and danced. Their fun was interrupted when they heard some long bursts of automatic weapons fire close by their house. They looked out their living room window and saw a convoy of UNPROFOR coalition vehicles strung out for a quarter mile on the county road. The trucks and APCs had stopped and turned out onto either side of the road in a herringbone pattern. The wild firing continued for thirty seconds. They heard a few shots hit the roof of their house. The firing finally stopped
when the convoy commander in the lead Marder APC repeatedly honked his horn.

Ben and his family fearfully watched as men ran back and forth between the vehicles. They expected more trouble, so Ben took the precaution of running all the pages of his address book through his cross-cut paper shredder.

Five minutes later, a UNPROFOR patrol approached the front door. A German soldier shouted with a heavy accent, “Man of the house, come out!”

Ben walked out with his hands on top of his head, and said, “The only others here are my wife and children. Please leave them alone.”

The patrol leader unslung a rifle from his shoulder and held it out. Ben recognized it as his son’s .22, now missing its bolt. The
soldat
asked, “Your gun, is this?”

“Yes, I believe that is my rifle, but I’m not certain. If that is mine, then it is registered in my name, in full accordance with the law. Where did you find it?”

“It was being carried by a young, er, man, now dead.”

Rebecca began wailing.

“Have you any other guns in the house?”

“No.”

The soldiers spent an hour noisily ransacking the house, while others held Ben and his terrified family at gunpoint outside. Their youngest daughter, just recently out of diapers, wet herself as they waited. One team searched the house, while another searched the barn and outbuildings. Ben alternated between intense feelings of fear and anger at the situation. They watched helplessly as the soldiers carried off Rebecca’s jewelry box, her iPod and dock, and many other small possessions. This included nearly 200 rounds of .22 hollow points that were taken as “evidence.”

Finding nothing actionable, the soldiers left without explanation or apology.

Ben and Rebecca went inside to find the house a shambles. Several stretches of Sheetrock in the hall and master bedroom had been kicked in and the upholstery on their couches and two of the mattresses had been slashed open. Two cabinets had been pried completely off the walls, and were left dumped on the floor, coated in Sheetrock dust. There were shattered dishes and plates littering the kitchen and dining room floors. A broken pipe was spraying the front bathroom cabinet with water. Ben soon turned off the well pump and shut the valve for the service line to the house. That stopped the water from further flooding the bathroom and hall.

After a pair of honks, the UNPROFOR convoy left in a cloud of dust and diesel smoke.

Ben and Rebecca walked out to the north end of their property to look for Joseph. After ten minutes of searching, they found his body eighty yards from the county road, and about 300 yards from the house. He had been shot six times in the back and buttocks. Two gutted quail were still in his game bag. His white T-shirt was red with blood, and his blue jeans were stained red to the knees.

For a half hour, Ben sat cradling the lifeless form of his eldest son, crying and rocking. Tears ran down his face. Nearby, Rebecca and their three surviving children sat hugging each other in a huddle, crying, moaning, and praying aloud. Finally Ben stood up. He looked down at his son’s corpse and said, “You wait here. I’m going to get a shovel, a sheet, some water, towels, and olive oil.”

He was back a few minutes later and almost immediately began to dig. As Ben dug just a few feet from his son’s body, he said forthrightly, “We’ll find no remedy or recourse in the courts, Rebecca. These are tyrants, tyrants. I need to fight them.”

He then continued working quietly, digging into the soil and small rocks with fervor. He didn’t stop until the grave was head-height deep. Blisters were forming on his palms, but he hardly noticed.
As Ben dug the grave, Rebecca washed her son’s body, and rubbed olive oil onto his skin.

They gently lowered Joseph’s body into the grave and Ben folded the boy’s arms across his chest. They shrouded the body with a sheet. Rebecca helped Ben back up out of the grave. After saying prayers, each member of the family poured in a shovelful of earth. Rebecca then did most of the shoveling as they refilled the grave, weeping yet again.

After the grave was refilled and mounded, each family member selected a stone to mark the site. Ben found one beside Joseph’s favorite fishing hole.

They recited the Kaddish, a sanctification ritual in Judaism, found in the Siddur, the Jewish liturgy book read in Jewish temples on the Sabbath and High Holy Days.

Yitgaddal veyitqaddash shmeh rabba. Be‘alma di vra khir’uteh veyamlikh malkhuteh veyatzma
purqaneh viqarev qetz meshi
eh be
ayekhon uvyomekhon uv
aye dekhol bet yisrael be‘agala uvizman qariv ve’imru amen. Yehe shmeh rabba mevarakh le‘alam ul‘alme ‘almaya Yitbarakh veyishtabba
veyitpaar veyitromam veyitnasse veyithaddar veyit‘alleh veyithallal shmeh dequdsha, brikh hu. Le‘ella lella mikkol min kol birkhata veshirata tushbe
ata vene
emata daamiran be‘alma ve‘imru amen.