Monthly Archives: February 2017

294. Let God Sort Them Out

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Looks like Trump is at it again.

Half the country is protesting his latest executive order. The other half is sitting back and saying, “Keep it up! Don’t listen to those damned liberal punks!”

There is a larger issue in all this, no matter whether Trump’s latest move is brilliant or stupid. Arnaud Amalric said it best back in 1209:

Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius.

You’ve never heard that quote? Of course, you have – translated into English:

Kill them all and let God sort them out.

I first saw the quote on a T-shirt during the Viet Nam era. It was quite popular with a certain part of the population, especially in a war where the “enemy” and “the ones we went to save” were so inextricably intermixed. I later heard it attributed to Oliver Cromwell, and it did sound just like him. I finally tracked the first appearance to Amalric in 1209, but really, it is a universal sentiment.

You might even say that this is the real purpose of war. You can’t just shoot the German down the street, but call him a name, put him in a category, define him as the enemy, and you can shoot an anonymous Kraut.

If you are on the line, rifle in hand, facing a matching line of the enemy, how do you know which of those men deserve to die and which ones do not. You don’t. You can’t. And even if you could, you couldn’t do anything about it. 

If you were on a jury, deciding the guilt or innocence of a man accused of murder, careful judgment would be your primary duty. But in war, it’s a case of, “Kill them all and let God sort them out.” It doesn’t matter if you are a trained and committed Seal or a kid six weeks out of high school, barely trained, lost and confused, drafted, and praying to be anywhere else than in line of battle – the moment requires that you kill, and leave the question of justice in other hands.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t just work that way in war. It works that way in everyday life, as well. It certainly works that way in politics.

 When you see a real problem – a true evil – you want to root it out. It is a noble impulse. You want to stop evil before it can act. Of course, you do. We all do. But how?

Pass a law, make a rule, change a procedure. and apply it to the “bad guys”. But who are the bad guys? If they have committed a crime, there are plenty of laws already on the books to deal with them. But if you are trying to keep a crime from being committed . . .

To stop evil before it strikes, you have to act on the groups that harbor the bad guys. (And if you don’t hear the tongue-in-cheek in that sentence, you aren’t listening very hard.)

If you are afraid of Syrian terrorists, ban all Syrians. That’s the Trump version. If some innocent Syrians get hurt, it’s not our problem – he says. He doesn’t say, “Ban them all, let God sort them out.” But it comes to the same thing.

Liberals aren’t any better. They just apply Amalric’s rule to different problems. They say, “We must keep guns out of the hands of crazies.” Okay, who’s crazy? Who decides? Try to implement a preemptive law based on mental health as a criterion, and who would we ban? Psychotics? The delusional? Patients under treatment for depression? Adults from abusive childhoods, working through their issues? No problem, just disarm them all; let God sort them out. And keep them safe.

* * * * * *

Actually, it might just work, (he said, slipping his tongue back into his cheek.) Since every liberal knows that Donald Trump’s supporters are crazy, that would disarm half the population. Since ever Trump follower knows that you gotta be nuts to be a liberal, that would disarm the other half.

Problem solved. Just declare all of America crazy, and let God sort us out.

The rest of the world would not disagree.

* * * * * *

P.S., when Amalric made his famous statement, he was leading Catholic troops against Cathars, whose interpretation of Christianity differed from the Pope’s. Amalric wrote the Pope describing the subsequent battle, “Our men spared no one, irrespective of rank, sex or age, and put to the sword almost 20,000 people. After this great slaughter the whole city was despoiled and burnt.”

Unfortunately, that takes the humor out of their situation, and ours.

Raven’s Run 88

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My heart stopped. I thought Davis’ body had been connected to me. But it was something else.

“That woman Fletcher. She isn’t Senator Cabral’s secretary.”

“I know.”

“You know. How?”

“Later, Will. It’s a long story.” Self preservation is the first instinct. I wasn’t about to tell Will about a death in Venice.

“The senator called here a few hours after I talked to you in Paris. I called the embassy, but no one had seen Fletcher. And they said you never came in.”

“By then I had come and gone.”

“Then why don’t they have a record of you?”

That was easy. I had been checked by the French guard at the entrance, but he had not written down my name. Susyn was waiting for me when I walked in and had hustled me out immediately. I had never talked to any actual embassy personnel.

“Where is she now?” Will asked.

“I don’t know. We parted unfriendly.”

“Where is Raven?”

“I don’t know that, either. Fletcher and I searched for her until I found out Fletcher was a fake, but we had no luck.”

Thank God!

I could hear Will muttering under his breath. He went on, “Senator Cabral flew in four days ago. He stopped at the consulate here first, and then went on to Paris. He’s still there.”

“Angry?”

“Oh, yes.”

Sometimes, something gets you by the throat, and the only way to get loose is straight ahead. I said, “There’s no point in telling you my story. Call the Senator and tell him I’m coming to Paris to report directly to him.” 

The Alps lay between Milan and Paris. An end around proved faster, since the TVG was available for a part of the trip. Nineteen hours later, I was there.

Chapter Twenty-five

The senator was staying in an old style hotel three blocks from the embassy. There was a fruit market on one side and a pharmacy on the other, but once past the plain facade, the waiting room was elegant. I took a creaking, open cage elevator to the second floor.

The door was opened by a short, athletic looking man with a blonde brush cut. He looked to be about forty and he appraised me swiftly with the eyes of a bodyguard. He said, “Gunn?” and I nodded. He stepped aside and said, “Sit down.” Not exactly a threat, not exactly an invitation, but his tone left no doubt that he expected to be obeyed.

I stepped inside and slipped out of my pack while he closed the door. The room was narrow and long, with a couch and a couple of heavy chairs. There was a mini-bar at the far end, end tables with heavy, ugly lamps. A door led to inner rooms and the single narrow window was hidden by drawn curtains. The blonde went to the inner door and said something softly into the room beyond. more tomorrow