Leaving the Field

This is a band story about a competition gone awry.

“Mark, time, mark!” the director gave the command and we marched forward around the cross country track in direct time with the dut’s from the center snare. We were all excited, and the energy was high but focused. It was the day of our regional performance, or the state qualifier. When he gave the halt, we stood formidably at attention until we heard the announcer in the press box say “Arvada West, you may take the field!” We held up our instruments as the lead trombonist played the call, and we ran onto the field, all while screaming “CHARGE!” at the top of our lungs. Once we hit the front hash, we all stepped off to our dots, each section in a little pod. Every member of each section faced their leaders for a quick pre-show pep talk. The clarinets turned eagerly toward our leader, the only senior in the section, and he began to speak.
“Okay guys, you need to be really focused for this show, because this is what determines whether or not we make quarter finals. But I know we can do it, because we’re awesome and we’re going to dominate this show! Are you ready?”
“Yeah!” we all shouted enthusiastically.
“Yeah! Clarinets on three!” he opened his mouth to count down, and this is the reason I’ll never forget our Regional performance.

Instead of the words, a spray of blood came from his mouth as he collapsed and a thunderous boom echoed around the field.

Someone had brought an M16 to the competition and had just gunned our section leader down. We stared in horror as the delayed sounds of other shots rang out around us. I covered my mouth with my hands and sank to my knees as I screamed. Most of the other band members had fled for cover or were running around like headless chickens. I could only stare at my dying section leader, and my section was dumbfounded. We looked to him for guidance, he taught the freshmen how to do this, he and I had instilled the drive and passion for music in them, and now we stood facing his mangled body. Literally only a moment ago he was giving us a speech about regionals and quarter finals. It was his senior year, and it had taken a very dark turn in a matter of seconds. He looked slowly up at me with a pitiful look on his face as he choked on his own blood in trying to tell me something. I reached out hesitantly and rested my hand on his arm, and I could still feel the residual warmth as the last shreds his life dissolved slowly away. I turned to look at my section and tell them to take cover when the gunner started picking them off. First a sophomore, then one of the freshmen. The remaining three fled in terror as I screamed again. My fight or flight reaction seemed to be delayed, as instead of fleeing, I was paralyzed. All season, I’d tried to be strong, to set an example of showing no pain for the young ones so they would be able to push hard enough to get through even the toughest days, but now I was overcome with emotions and weakness, and instead of protecting them, I’d failed them. One of the drum majors saw that I wasn’t moving and he rushed toward me. He held out his hand and called out to me, and his hand was nearly within my reach when he cried out in pain and spun to the ground, clutching the left side of his chest. It was only then that my brain seemed to register the immediate need to flee, so I stood, clutching my instrument in my right hand and ran as fast I could toward the north end zone.
I was at the ten yard line when pure pain ripped through my right shoulder. My instrument dropped to the ground as I collapsed onto my face. I rolled onto my back and let out a guttural animal sound that ripped my vocal cords apart, then looked to my shoulder and saw the pristine white of my uniform slowly turning crimson from the blood seeping from my wound. This was the worst pain I’d ever felt, and it was spreading outside my shoulder. I felt my eyes were wide with panic, but my vision was getting quite spotty. Someone came up to me, but I couldn’t see who it was. They knelt down next to me, and I dared to hope for help, but they thumbed my bullet wound instead. Another excruciating wave of pain washed over me and another agonized sound escaped me before the world went dark.

Needless to say, we didn’t march again that year.

After the killer was caught and apprehended, all of us that were unfortunate enough to have faced the gunner’s wrath were collected and taken to the nearest hospital. I’m unaware of how or when we arrived, but all I remember is a vague swaying motion, then an extremely bright white light, a pinprick of an IV in my arm, and the agonizing pain of something digging into my shoulder before the sedatives finally kicked in. For the next few days, I drifted in and out of consciousness, but my waking hours were more or less as grim as my sleeping hours. When I was unconscious, I drifted in and out of swirling nightmares, some more horrific than what had happened. When I was awake, I heard the constant noises of patients in critical condition, hysterical family members, and machines being shut off as members of our own band died. I eventually learned who all had been hit and who’d been lucky enough to get to safety, but nevertheless the entire band was always there. Those who were physically unscathed amounted to just more than twelve of us, with the majority having been hit. I was worrying constantly about the whereabouts of my section members, so my nurse would give me updates as soon as she knew things. As it turned out, Jordan was still alive, but he was in the ICU, as the gunner had gone back and hit him a total of seven times, Matthew hadn’t made it, but Jocelyn had barely been scratched. Many of us were dying, but we all were living there, whether or not it was because we wanted to or because we had to. We’re a family, and family means no one gets left behind.

3 WEEKS LATER
We lost about a fourth of our band that day. There were too many casualties to have individual funerals for each person, so we held one that honored them all. Although it was one mass remembrance, each member would be buried at their family’s own discretion. Those of us that had been wounded all walked/wheeled to the ceremony in black pants, our band shirts, and something purple to honor those we lost. Those who were uninjured (at least physically) wore their concert band attire, be it the matching tuxes and dresses of Wind Ensemble or the simple black of Symphonic Band. The program was 20 pages, one for each of those we lost, and on the back cover there was a list of those who’d died. After the pastor spoke, he said that the leaders of each section would come up and speak on behalf of their lost. If the leader had been lost, the director’s next choice would be called on. It was a melancholy parade, and those who’d been newly selected were beside themselves. Drumline had lost their leader, so Will was selected to be the new leader. The trombones lost two members, the piccolo player was gone, and even one of the drum majors. The tuba section was down to just one player, and all the mellophone players remained minus the leader. The trumpets lost three, including their leader, the guard only lost one, but the saxophone section was halved at the loss of four. Bassline lost one, and the clarinets lost only one, but we’d all taken fairly sizeable hits. I didn’t think I’d have to speak since Jordan survived, but it’d slipped my mind that he was still on life support back at the hospital. I made my way slowly to the speaker’s platform and stood next to the table with photos of everyone we’d lost. My speech began strongly, but once I pictured Jordan, helpless, not even breathing on his own, I broke down and sobbed hysterically.

It took a couple of more weeks to get all of the rest of us healed, and once we were all patched up, the director called a meeting.We all met in the band room, wondering what else we could possibly need to know. We sat with our sections, and so I was at the end, between Jordan, who still hadn’t completely recovered, and Lucas, who’d been physically unharmed, but had lost four out of seven section members, including the leader.We’d all arrived early, per the director’s favorite rule, but he was nowhere in sight. Jordan was still having some pretty significant physical troubles, such as getting around, heartbeat and breathing, so after we’d been waiting for about five minutes, he leaned against me for support even though everyone was seated. Feeling both sympathetic and protective, I wrapped my arm around his shoulders and lightly rested my hand on his arm. I’m assuming this comforted him, as the next thing he did was fully rest his head on my shoulder and get comfortable (as much as can be attained from my bony shoulders). The director came in then, and he told us that now that we’d all had some recovery time, he’d tell us the identity of the killer. We all assumed it’d be someone from the area, but the surprise of who it was was more than any of us had expected.
“The assailant who attacked the marching band at regionals is one of our own. Well, was. Said person was in marching band last year and in one of our concert ensembles this year.” He was stalling, almost afraid of our reactions. Lucas quickly got fed up and said, “Just tell us who it is, d****t!” at which point the director looked at him sharply and then let out a sigh.
“You want to know so badly? Fine. The assassin was Jay.”
The shocked silence that ensued was like a vacuum, creating an overwhelming sense of emptiness. Jay really had been one of our own, he was in our section, even tried out to be the leader! He was Jordan’s best friend, too, so out of curiosity and pure unadulterated shock, I looked down at his face. He was a ghostly white, and he looked like he was about to be sick. His own best friend had tried to kill him and the rest of the section. To think, before all this, he wanted to be in the Navy. THe chances of that happening before were slim, but whatever small chance he stood was now completely obliterated. No one said a word as the news sank in at knowing the identity of our assailant. We just sat in mutual shock until one of the snare players voiced exactly what we all were thinking.
“Well, what now?”