approx.3,586 words

©2002 Roland Mann

War Correspondent

From the instant that Clark bumped into Eric and began talking of the ongoing war of Angels, Eric had been convinced Clark was crazy. Not just plain crazy, but certifiable. Clark claimed he was one of the few people on earth who could see Angels and how he was a modern day gospel guy--like Matthew and Mark of the New Testament. And how that he needed Eric to help him spread the word...

Starkville's Bagel City Cafe had been Eric's favorite quiet place since he became a junior at Mississippi State University. He hadn't known about it as a freshman or sophomore--he had been too busy seeing how many kegs of beer he could finish off before the final exams hit him. But once he'd become a junior, he realized that his grades were terrible and by all that is normal he should be halfway finished with school.

But he wasn't.

So he got serious and decided to pull it all together and leave the partying to the incoming Freshmen. Bagel City Cafe was only about a mile from campus and even though it was on the main street to downtown Starkville, it did not ever seem to be too crowded. While he was sure that wasn't necessarily a sign of good business, the solitude was something that he sure enjoyed. There was nothing like the smell of coffee and fresh pastry to go with some overblown windbag of a literature writer.

The front of the Cafe consisted of a little "New York style" sidewalk patio eating area--one of those fenced-in-with-big-umbrellas-over-every-table sorts. It was really quite comfortable. Even though the sidewalk patio only held about five tables, Eric always got a seat outside where he could light up his cigarette and tar up his lungs as he learned about Camus and other supposedly great writers. Eric's favorite line by any English professor was, "Writer A was thinking of such and such when he wrote this story." Eric had always wondered where this divine wisdom came from--after all, how could anybody know what anybody else was thinking...particularly a dead writer. He didn't think that English professors had the guts to say, "we assume the writer was thinking this," and would rather come off as more "knowledgeable" to claim this "omnipotent" sort of knowledge.

But three days ago, on Tuesday, Eric had just sat down and lit up a cigarette when Clark stumbled into the back of his chair, knocking the freshly lit cigarette into his untouched drink.

"What the?" said Eric, as he turned to see what had happened. He wasn't used to being disturbed here, nevermind being smacked!

"I'm very sorry," said Clark from the ground. Clark could have passed for a stereotypical homeless person -- but there aren't really homeless people in Starkville -- he was unshaven, hair muddled, clothes slightly soiled...and his eyes were blood red. Eric immediately thought Clark was a drunk still feeling the effects of the night before. It was a sight and sensation that Eric had known and thought he could recognize anywhere. Clark had obviously leapt the fence and had a less than desirable landing.

But Clark helped himself to the chair next to Eric as if he were expected there.

"Do you mind?" said Eric, "I'd like a little privacy this morning." And then, looking around him, "there are plenty of other empty tables around." Truth was, Eric was the only one out on the patio this morning. Complete privacy wasn't something he usually got at the cafe', but it wasn't unheard of.

"I know," said Clark, "but I need to talk to you. You gotta listen to me. Just listen, that's all." Clark's words were crisp and clean--not those of a still-drunk-from-last-night. And he didn't smell alcohol on him, either. Eric sighed.

"Okay. But just for a minute, I really have a lot to do here and this is the time when I get my best work done," said Eric. Clark stared at Eric's drink for a minute then decided it was okay and took a big drink. Eric started to protest but decided to hold his tongue. Clark had already taken a big gulp and he certainly didn't want it back after that. He decided to let the guy speak his mind.

"Do you believe in God?" said Clark. DING DING DING! Alarm bells went off in Eric's head. This guy was going to try to witness to him and save his soul. Eric had long ago formed his opinions of God and while he appreciated what the guy wanted to do, he simply didn't have the time or the desire to listen. He took God on his own terms.

"Look," said Eric, "I appreciate what--"

"Just answer!" snapped Clark, cutting Eric off. Eric's eyebrows rose to his hairline as his eyes went wide at Clark's reaction. But before he could answer, Clark went on.

"Look, my name is Clark," he said, taking another big drink, "and for some reason, some way, some how, I've been blessed -- or cursed is probably more like it-- with a special gift--a vision of some sort." Clark paused and looked once over each shoulder. "I can see Angels."

It was Eric's turn to look over his shoulders. If he was going to talk to this nut about seeing angels, he wanted to make sure nobody heard him. When the men with the straight jackets came, he wanted to be sure they didn't grab him by mistake.

"Okay," he said, "what do the Angels do?" He was trying hard not to laugh.

"I've said that already," answered Clark, tipping the glass up to finish the contents. Eric noted how Clark didn't seem to mind as the last bit of a glass of orange juice - the part at the bottom that was always a little chunky - emptied into his mouth. Clark set the glass down and continued, chewing the chunks.

"They're in the middle of a war," he said. "I don't know if it is the end-coming or whatever, I was never that religious before this happened to me so I don't really know. All I know is what I'm telling you. I can see them just like you see the birds on a tree. And they know that I can see them because they talk to me.

"Michael--he's one of the good ones--"

"How do you know who is good and who is bad?" interrupted Eric. He had slowly resolved himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get any work done, so he closed the book he had opened only moments earlier.

"Guts, I guess. I don't really know, I just do." Clark drew in a deep, tired breath, he actually looked like he was completely comfortable talking to Eric, like he hadn't spoken to anyone with a brain in a long time. "Look," he continued, "before all this happened, I didn't even believe in God. This has changed my mind entirely. I KNOW it's true."

"Okay, Clark," Eric said, "for the sake of argument, let's assume that I believe you or that I don't disbelieve you, what does all this have to do with me? I mean, why pick me to tell?"

"You're a writer, right?"

"Welllll, yes."

"I'm not. Yes, I'm literate. I can read and write, but I don't have the ability to craft the words into something someone would want to read."

"You speak clearly enough to m--"

"Sure, sure. But are you telling me that anyone who can speak okay can write?"

After a slight pause, Eric said, "No."

"I didn't think you would. Writer's don't usually think that." Clark leaned closer to Eric, preparing to spill the big secret. "I need you to go with me and write what I tell you. I can see it and tell you what is happening, and since you can't see it, you won't even be distracted by it and will just write. We'll be an effective team that way."

"Great!" said Clark, as if he heard the opposite. "I'd like one more request...I'd like to take a bath before we move. And we'll have to do it quick, though," he said as he looked into the sky, "the latest offensive is about to start."

In the matter of minutes, and not really knowing how or why, Eric found himself collecting up writing supplies in his apartment while Clark showered in his bathroom. He kept telling himself it was a dream and that he'd wake up in time to get a second cup of coffee at the cafe. Maybe he'd actually even buy a bagel this morning. Maybe he'd fallen asleep and hit his head somehow.

But it was all too true.

The next minutes passed like a blur to Eric and he found himself on top of a seventy-five foot forestry tower out in the county around Starkville. In only minutes, Clark was pointing off to the Northwest and claiming the army was moving forward.

Eric saw nothing but storm clouds. The sky above him was partly cloudy and filled with sunshine. The air sat heavy around them and while it wasn't real hot -- only 87 degrees -- the humidity was causing him to sweat buckets. That wasn't unusual for Mississippi, but it didn't make it any more comfortable.

Clark turned in the opposite direction and scanned.

He paused for a moment and looked at Eric, who was busy writing.

"What are you writing?" he asked.

"You said you wanted me to write it all down," replied Eric, "that's what I'm doing."

"But I haven't told you anything yet."

"Sure you have. But I'm also describing the surroundings, the stuff we can see from up here."

"Read it to me."

"But what about--"

"It'll take Michael's angels a few minutes to get here. Go ahead, I want to hear what you're saying."

"Okay," and Eric read from his pad, "From the top of the tower we could see the storm cloud's billowing in the Northeast. Michael's troops were surging forward at a steady pace. Their extreme right flank was the east-west state highway 82. It disappeared into the dense woods from our vantage point.

"The tower itself sat atop a small hill, a certain strategic location for any army. The hill was clear of woods and a large farm with a crop that looked to be early corn spread out to the south. Roughly six hundred acres. Highway 82 ran along the southern edge of the farm and extended to the west much like the east, disappearing into the dense Mississippi pine.

"The devil's angels hadn't shown themselves yet, but they were likely waiting in ambush--"

"That's great," said Clark, "it's your gift! I knew there was a reason Gabriel told me to talk to you. It's tough to get used to, but you learn to trust those guys. Well, most of them."

Clark looked through his 'binoculars' again at the approaching storm clouds, now only minutes away, and continued to talk, "think of yourself as a war correspondent, you know, like Walter Cronkite, only I'm your eyes.

"Looks like at least a division...can't see what he has behind the front lines, though."

"A division?" asked Eric, "You mean they use military designations like we do?"

Clark laughed, "sure, where do you think man got the terms?"

"Here's the clincher, Clark," said Eric, "I need a description of the angels--be as detailed as you can."

"I'll have to wait until they get closer, but it should only be another minute," he said taking his eyes away from his hands and looking back at Eric, "as you can see, they move fast." Eric looked up at the sky, and while he still saw no angels, the storm clouds were nearly on top of him. The air was still, but he could literally see the trees only a few hundred yards from him swaying in the young breeze.

Clark turned to look south again, and a powerful lightning bolt struck from the sky to the earth below the tower, causing Eric to cling to the rail for dear life.

"Guess who's showed up?" yelled Clark over the rumble of thunder, "Good Lord, they're everywhere!" Eric felt the breeze kick into high gear--only it was hot and muggy. It had been easy earlier not to look--after all, it was only storm clouds. But when Clark had claimed that Satan's army had arrived, Eric couldn't help but look...and wonder: exactly where they were in the turbulent sky; how many times had they clashed before; how many times would they clash in the future; how many would be casualties; would there be any casualties? A chill ran down his spine.

"Clark, will they do anything to us if they see us here? I mean, can they do anything to us?" Eric truly didn't know...but wasn't real sure if he wanted to. His own relationship in God was beginning to seem inadequate.

Not looking away from his binoculars, Clark replied, "Eric, you're in the middle of a war zone. We could be casualties, yes."

And that was it. Stated as fact. Clark went back to telling of the movement of the mass body of angels...but Eric hadn't gotten his description yet, and he desperately wanted it.

"Clark," he said, "you've gotta describe the angels for me. I NEED that description!"

Clark dropped his hands to his side, holding tight the binoculars in his right hand. He smiled at Eric and pointed to the spot between them.

"There's one right there," he said, "why don't you just ask him?"

Eric was surprised. He wasn't even sure he believed it, but the shift in the breeze to cool northwest wind, the fresh smell of rain was enough at the moment to convince him that it was worth believing.

"Describe him," said Eric, picking up his pencil.

Clark began to describe the angel. Eric, lost in the feeling of wholeness, didn't hear the exact words, but heard the meaning. The angels were tall, nearly seven feet, and the perfect specimen of physical health and beauty. They were clad in soldier's uniforms so that they looked liked Roman soldiers: chestplates; helmets that couldn't hide the long flowing hair; sparkling golden shields; strong wings as white as snow and as long as the angel was tall; and a sword of flame. They were the eternal warriors.

This angel was one of the advance scouts. He'd come forward ahead of the main body in an effort to flush out Satan's angels...and it had worked: Satan's legions were discovered.

Eric studied the sky. The clouds above and around him were swirling with turbulence; lightning rolled across the sky in great waves, occasionally striking down out of the sky to reach the ground. Thunder rumbled and echoed about. It had started to rain, and Eric had the sudden chill of blood on his face.

He watched as a funnel swirled down in the west until it struck the ground. Debris was thrown up all around, and the funnel receded back into the cloud which gave it life.

The two armies had met to the west and were closing ranks. Both were swinging their lines so that the full frontage hit the other. The tower would find itself on the eastern flank of the conflict, still the highest ground.

The very air seemed confused as the battle raged: one minute it was hot and muggy; wind from out of the southeast. The next minute the cool northeast wind would chill everything once more.

The lightning around the area began to grow stronger and louder. More of the sharp bolts found their way to the ground.

"Clark," said Eric "is our angel still here?" Eric surprised himself by laying claim to the angel. He had no more seen him or had any sort of proof he existed than he could claim him as his own.

"Yes," answered Clark, quickly. "Eric, it's about to get nasty, both armies are pulling flanking maneuvers in THIS direction!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Eric, "so what does that mean?"

Clark paused and looked directly in Eric's eyes.

"It means that you can bail out if you want. I've seen lots of battles, but I've never been in the thick of it quite like this. We're going to be in the VERY CENTER of the fight."

"I'm staying," said Eric, "you just keep describing."

"Good." Clark went back to describing the movements to Eric.

But before he could finish that both armies were within a hundred yards, a powerful lightning bolt flashed out of the sky and struck the tower only feet below the trio: the two men and the angel.

Eric heard only his scream as they toppled seventy-five feet to the wet grass below amid splintered lumber and rain.

***

He had no idea how long he had been out, but his clothes were thoroughly soaked. He remembered a moaning sound that he immediately thought must have been his while unconscious. His face and upper body was buried beneath a pile or stack of lumber. As he worked his way free, he felt another body on top of him.

Once free from the rubble, he sat up to see the body turn over and fall away.

And he screamed a second time.

To the smallest detail described by Clark, there lay the angel. Seemingly dead. Only a few feet away lay Clark. Eric scrambled over to him and checked for a pulse. There was none. Clark, the man who could see angels, had ceased living. Only then did Eric look around.

All around him lay bodies. Bodies of fallen angels. Fallen, as in battle. Fallen, as in dead. It was something like he'd seen in pictures of battlefields, only nothing could compare to it. But why was he seeing the angels? And why now? Could angels really die?

Glancing up into the sky, he saw that the battle still raged above: the wind still fought itself and lightning spewed from the mouth of the angel artillery.

But one side certainly seemed to have the advantage. It had to be Michael's side as the line of battle had moved decidedly south.

As Eric tried to stand, he kneeled on something hard next to Clark's hand. Shifting his leg, he picked up a pair of binoculars. Clark's binoculars.

He fell again. His leg was obviously broken.

"Over here," he heard from nearby.

He turned to see a war-clad angel leaning up against a large part of the splintered tower. He still couldn't believe what he saw.

He crawled slowly and in great agony to where the angel rested.

"Are you okay?" he asked the angel.

"Do not worry about me," said the angel, "I have served my Lord as he has commanded. It is for you I am worried. You must believe."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You know what I mean. There is not the time to debate it. You have been given the gift."

"But why me?" asked Eric.

The angel tried to laugh, but instead contorted in pain. "That is a question that only God can answer. It is simply His will."

The thunder had receded into the distance and the lightning rolled across the sky. The armies had moved on. The rain had started, a soft steady falling.

"The cleansing rain," said the angel.

"Can I do anything for you," said Eric.

"No, but there is one last thing that I can do for you before I go." The angel leaned forward and Eric noticed that one of his wings had been sheared off by a blast...as had his arm and portions of his shoulder joint. Blood poured freely. Angel blood.

He flopped face-down into the wet grass beside Eric. With his last remaining ounce of strength, he placed his hand on Eric's broken leg. The angel let out a big sigh as it slumped to the ground. Eric knew without checking that his leg had been healed.

He stood and surveyed the battlefield. Amazed again at what he saw. The rain was washing the angels into the earth, literally they were melting under the constant wash of the rain and soaking into the earth. Soaking into the earth, yet… returning to heaven?

He walked once more to Clark.

Clark had a smile on his face. Eric thought he understood what had made Clark so happy. Clark smiled a smile of eternal happiness, of eternal peace. A happiness and a peace that only God can give.

Eric put Clark's binoculars -- his binoculars -- to his eyes and searched the skies. He could still see the lightning to the south and he struck out following.

He felt changed; different. He believed. He had been chosen by God, and it was now his duty to obey God's will. After all, someone had to write it all down.

end