The Telling – The Wheat Eaters Journal
Me and the boys made a good show of it. We used the Confederate flag for our colors. Even though none of us were from the South. The red caps they gave us and the crossed stars were the only things the Red Army issued to us. We brought our own rifles and ammunition. We were told that anything that was in our paths we could take. But we were in the second wave, so most everything that could be carried off had been.
It has been a few weeks. We are hungry and tired. I think we are in Kansas. Rumors of a blue army circulate. We are the rebels, the Red generals told us our way of life was at stake. They told us the Blue wanted something for nothing and must be stopped at all cost. We were so proud of ourselves and our country. We could only hear what we wanted to hear.
There’s been some fighting. Mostly old people who would not be moved. They had to be killed because they would not yield. They were meaner than we thought. The Red generals said they had to be killed, otherwise they would have to be taken care of. The Red generals said, all people must take care of themselves. The old people fought with hand guns and some were shot holding knives or shovels.
Months passed as we cleaned out area after area. Anyone too old, or too sick that were left, fought us with all they had. But we killed them all. The Red generals told us this was our country and we must take it back. There is no pride in killing old people or sick people. But we killed them all the same.
Nothing is going well. Food is scarce. The Red generals passed word to us that a large group of blues is in the area. Some men are carrying, on their belts, sacks of raw corn taken from the floors of silos.
The fighting has been fierce. We abandoned our trucks. Retreating South. With no gasoline we are forced on foot across what I think is Texas. I lost a few friends the other day. A sign said, Laredo. We have moved off the roads as the ambush is common along the empty highways.
We found some ammunition and just in time. There were only a few rounds left in my kit. There still is not enough. I have my eyes open for a different pair of shoes.
On the horizon, something looms up, it looks like it blocks our path. Blue is pushing forward. No word from Red generals. It's night, but we are still marching South. Not marching, rushing with our backs to the enemy.
It is a wall. The Mexicans have made ladders and are firing down on us from the great wall. We met some faded red caps. In the darkness they are trying to move east, trying to get back to the American south. They told us that west was blocked. They told us that they were going to get more men and women to fight for this country, a country that does not owe anything to anybody. It was their birthright.
At dawn the sharpshooters begin. The firing goes on, hour after hour. We are being picked off by the men and women from their perches on the wall. The smell of food being cooked is coming from beyond the wall. The blues are keeping us in range.
When the battle ended the blues withdrew. Ladders were dropped over the U.S. side and all resources were gathered; all weapons, clothing, shoes and were brought back to their country to use in the fight to defend their borders. Efforts were made to keep the civilian wars in the north from spilling over.
This journal was found in a glass case on a third floor of a long abandoned building where the Civilian Wars archives in Mexico had been maintained. A hand written note tells it was found among bleached bones in the desert along what was once the border between the once sovereign United States and the sovereign country of Mexico.