The Springfield Incident

The ceiling fan squeaked as it turned and turned, just barely managing to move the hot air well enough to create a somewhat pleasant breeze. There had been talk of a Cold War that had almost turned into a new 'hot' War. But the weather had ignored the news and it had been hot and sunny for quite some time now.

However, the temperatures weren't as high as they had been in the bomb shelter, Joe mused. It was Tuesday, three days after he had left Springfield Bomb Shelter 22/B to greet the sunlight, which he had done roughly twenty five hours after the civil defence siren had sounded. It had sounded because of what was now starting to get known as the Springfield Incident.

The gravity of all that had happened was starting to sink in right about now, but at that moment, all he could think of were mundane things; getting Hannah's address, and after he had gotten it, hightailing it, going away from the bunker and back to his regular live.

It was a twenty minute walk from the bomb shelter to the soldier his parent's house and it were the longest and most gruelling twenty minutes of walking he had ever done. Things like the few metres to the stage where his sergeant had been waiting for his first promotion ceremony or the long road to Fort Gordon all seemed rather inconsequential in comparison to this road.

The first few minutes while he was walking, he had looked around him, curious about the people that had barely missed his childhood – pretty literally, it was a matter of just a few streets. Hannah, the girl who had been so nice to him, was already on the move with her uncle.

The rest of the people were walking around as well. The same people he had gotten to know much better, perhaps even better than he was comfortable with. The neighbourhood residents who he hadn't had to protect against the Red Threat or the Virus, but apparently mostly against themselves. The soldier was still aware of the slip of paper with the codes of the officer's locker, almost painfully so. And with some movements his muscles still ached, thanks to the altercation with Frank.

As he was walking away from the bunker, he was less and less aware of the rest of the neighbourhood and his vision was more and more focused on the next few metres, which sped by faster and faster, until he was almost running. Out of breath, he rang the doorbell half a block away, the doorbell which belonged to the door which led to the house where he had spend his whole childhood. The man only resumed breathing when the door was opened by the two people whose fate he hadn't been willing to contemplate.

His mother's birthday was celebrated in a rather sober manner, but the freshly made cherry pie didn't taste any less scrumptious because of it. Joe was quickly forgiven the lack of a birthday present. And the fact his dad had a black eye was ignored. If there was something the soldier had learned in the bomb shelter, it was that you should be careful with what you wanted to know - some things were better kept secret. And so, he didn't ask and his parents didn't tell.

On Monday, during the way back to his post on the military airport, Joe couldn't resist and took a walk through the same neighbourhood he'd been in, or rather, under, during the crisis. It was curiosity and musings that drove him there, not so much the residents. Although he had been their cornerstone, although he had raised his voice, although he had heard secrets that they themselves didn't want to know, although they had chosen him to safeguard the bunker protocol, it was still awkward to see them. Because of this, he kept it to courteous, shallow greetings.

The only one he gave a second though, was the Jewish girl, but even her he contacted indirectly; he simply slid the letter in the envelope he had marked "Hannah" in their mailbox, without ringing the doorbell or anything else. The letter's contents were rather simple; a 'thank you' for all the care she had given him, mentioning the postal address on the base where she could reach him and some careful implications that it might be fun to meet up again at some point in the future.

Then it was back to thinking while continuing his walk back to the Greyhound station. The events in Springfield Bomb Shelter 22/B were playing out before his mind's eye. Was this who he was? Calm, even when there was a crisis like the Virus about, while being trapped in a bunker? Taking leadership when needed, not too much, not too little?

As had been promised in the last message the telex had send before they were released again, the military contacted everyone involved in the Springfield Incident. They had found Joe Gordon swiftly, which was no surprise, given his occupation as a soldier and Base Operator of the military airport, right there in Springfield. Because the 183rd Fighter Wing had the military installation the closest to the virus outbreak, most debriefings took place there, right in Joe's 'home'.

So it came to be that on Tuesday, he found himself sitting there, in a nicely cooled office, talking to an officer he had never seen before. That had been arranged on purpose, or so they had told him, to assure the evaluation was objective. The conversation had been rather solemn and to the point thus far and they were reaching the end of the forms involved.

The distinctive sound of a pen writing on paper stopped, when the man at the other side of the desk looked intently at Joe, and a look in his eyes that made the soldier strongly think there'd be a question that wasn't in any regulation or on any form.

"So, you were there to witness the Springfield Virus outbreak up close and personal, eh?"

The officer tapped his nose a few times with the pen, looking in Joe's direction, but not quite focusing, clearly pensive. It took moments before he spoke again.

"Glad to hear the Russian dissident wasn't in your bunker, I take it? How did all of those happenings make you feel?"

The soldier was dumbfounded for a bit. This was the army; feelings usually didn't factor into their workings, certainly with the technical work he'd been doing. Besides that, the man gave him permission to speak freely, another thing that didn't happen much.

But after the initial shock had passed, Joe started telling more of the story. More details, things that hadn't been mentioned before, minutiae that didn't seem relevant for the actual debriefing. And after contemplating whether or not he'd follow that course of action a little bit, he even produced the slip of paper with the codes to the bunker's officer's locker and laid it down on the desk, which earned him a raised eyebrow.

"All right. To surmise. Followed orders, been in a bomb shelter, and protected civilians within? 'Projected the authority of the American army?' That about right?"

Joe perked up slightly. Whether or not he had projected the authority of the American army was a quaint question, but the soldier dared hope the glint he had spotted was a positive one.

"Sir, yes, sir!"

The officer made a nod in approval and just before he closed the personnel file folder, Joe caught a glimpse of the note that was made in his file; "[present during the Springfield incident 1961, good conduct, promising leadership qualities.]".

Promising leadership qualities. Seeing it black-on-white gave the soldier the push he needed, the final drop of courage.

"Sir, while I still have permission to speak freely...I want to say something."

The office chair creaked leathery, as Joe shifted his weight.

"Would it be too much asked to be allowed to enrol for officer training?"

'I want to lead, I want to give a good example for other to follow, I want to protect.' But Joe didn't mention that out loud, didn't speak those words - talking about feelings or no, saying something like that still felt like a bridge too far.

He'd cross that bridge when he got there.

He'd just show them what he wanted to do.