The Secret Origin of Minute Man - part 1
by Silver Age Fogey

The twinkle of sunlight glistened like a beacon off the tall, proud statue of the minuteman in Patriot Park. Frank Stiles, retired teacher in his 70s, sat in its comforting shade as he had for so many years, and considered the statue, and its importance in the history of his country... and his own importance to his country as well.

Once... once... the older man reflected on his history. He had fought as an infantryman in World War I in Europe... stayed with the military through the 20s, and into the depression... finally honorably discharged as a way of transferring him as a civilian authority to the Manhattan Project.

Frank Stiles smiled at the memory. He had been able to afford an education at Columbia University after his term of service was completed, and found an aptitude for physics. His studies had taken him into fields of energy, and it seemed as if his talents were a perfect fit for the Department of Physics.

Then came January 1939 and a secret experiment that a young Frank Stiles got to participate in... an experiment that involved bombarding a uranium atom with neutrons. "We've gone fission!" Frank had joked at the time. IT was an experiment that would lead to the United States ascending to become a major world power.

Matters happened so fast that December 1941 seemed to follow immediately after that, and Frank was too old to enlist in the army. But his anger at the sneak attack blazed in him like a red, white, and blue flame, and he focused that anger into what had been deemed the Manhattan Project. Had he actually spent that entire time in Prentis, the building where the bomb was first created? It seemed so...

Until the betrayal. The old man's head hung down at the thought of the lies, the ignominy, the shame that were brought upon him... and for doing nothing more than anyone else should! Frank had been keeping his eyes open, trying to maintain security - and when he found it breached, he reported it.

O'Connor. Paul O'Connor. A young chemist who was assisting with the Manhattan Project from the University of Chicago... and Frank had caught him copying documents. Instead of stopping him right then though, Frank had taken time, months, and tried to get evidence.

He had gotten it. He had found that O'Connor was in touch with an agent of the Russians. The Russians! But in 1943, the target of the US was Nazi Germany... so Frank's warnings weren't heeded.

But his actions were noted. Complaints followed, and soon Frank found himself in a sticky situation. "Unreliable." "Not trusted by his colleagues." "A threat to security." They were fabricated, they were downright lies... but they were indefensible. Frank Stiles was discharged from the Manhattan Project... three months before its eerie glow lit the world for the first time.

Dr. Oppenheimer put in what good words he could for Frank, and recommended a position in Patriot City. An old friend of "Oppy's" was retiring from a teaching position, and Frank Stiles was perfect for the position.

He could still hear O'Connor's voice that last day. The harsh tones echoing as the spy laughed... laughing... laughing...

With a start, Frank shook himself awake. Foolish old man, he thought. Falling asleep in the park. But still, the laughter continued.

The septuagenarian slowly rose to his feet, and using his custom designed eagle headed cane, he made his way to a large bush looking out on a clearing... a clearing occupied by two ominous figures.

Both men were laughing at some unheard joke. One, a tall man in a thick wool coat and a fur hat... with a disturbingly Soviet quality to the clothing. The other was strangely familiar to Frank Stiles...

Just a minute... I recognize that man! It’s O’Connor, of the Manhattan project! They never did believe he was working for the Reds... But who’s that suspicious fellow he’s talking to? It looks like they’re making some kind of secret exchange. I’d better move in for a closer listen.

The Russian man said, "Have you got the documents?" in a heavily accented voice.

"Do you have my money?" O'Connor sneered back.

"By Lenin’s ghost! Is that all you Americans think about? The almighty dollar?"

Suddenly, Frank's arthritic knee gave out, and he tumbled forward, through the brush and into the clearing. Behind him, the minuteman statue continued to watch impassively as he cried, "Damn! I’ve been discovered!"

The Russian bellowed, "Idiot! You’ve been followed!"

Frank climbed painfully to his feet as he snarled, "Up to your old tricks, O’Connor?"

"Do you know this capitalist fool?" the other man asked in surprise.

O'Connor grinned evilly as he pulled a pistol from inside his coat pocket. "Heh heh heh... This is an itch that I’ve been waiting to scratch for twenty years!"

Oh no... Frank started to turn, but was no match for the younger man's speed and agility. Before he could take two steps, lead death roared from the muzzle as O'Connor laughed in a maniacal rage. The force of the bullets slammed him down at the foot of the statue that had sheltered him from the sun just a few minutes before...

The Russian slapped the gun out of O'Connor's hand, and hissed, "We must flee before we are discovered! Come on!" With that, the two men dashed out of the clearing, and out of sight.

Frank Stiles lay bleeding on the ground, staring up at the sculpture as an old friend. "Bullet... entered my heart... fading fast..."

It hasn't been a bad life... but... could have done... so much more... Frank reflected on his job after he left the Manhattan Project. The job he had won as a Civics teacher in Patriot City High School, showing the youngsters of the city what it was like to be American - proud and strong and wise.

He had enjoyed the position, and the children had learned eagerly and with great excitement, almost like water pouring into a sponge. It had continued for twenty years until Frank reached the age of forced retirement.

In appreciation, the young and even not so young who had been Frank's students had gifted him with the cane he used now. A solid silver walking stick with a proud bald eagle's head and wings at the top. He remembered the ceremony... the principal saying, "You've given so much of America to us, and to the students of PCHS. We hope that this, in some small way, gives a little of it back to you, Mr. Stiles." The applause had been deafening, the lights of the auditorium almost blinding... so bright...

It WAS bright - and it wasn't a memory! Dying, wracked with pain, Frank Stiles looked up at the statue that was his old friend... now strangely glowing. "The statue... of the minuteman... glowing... as if it were... calling out to me..."

Forcing himself forward with a steel will that desperately commanded a broken and failing body, Frank reached out to the statue... only a little further... and he touched it.

To be continued...