This is a story how a division died in a day. It's happened before in history, of course; the legionnaires who were wrapped in the Cannae bear hug died in a day; so did the brave Tommies at the Somme. But they, at least, got a chance to fight back at their enemies. The 42nd Division of the New York National Guard never did. Or most of them, any way. 11 February 1984. Queens, New York. 0300 hours. "Who's calling in the middle of the night?" the young man asked, padding from one side of the railroad apartment to the phone hung up in the kitchen. Pete and Springtime woke up from their nap on the bed and followed the young man in. Maybe he was in the mood to give them a treat. It was too cold to go out and hunt bluebirds. "Hello?" "Lieutenant? This is Captain Smith." "Yes, sir. What's up?" "Pack your gear and report to the Armory. We're being federalized." Well, that was good news. The Army paid more money than he had been able to earn working in an office in Manhattan. Summer camp was always a fat time for his wife and him. However, he knew *why* they were being federalized. "How bad is it in Europe?" "Bad. No time to talk. Get in here." "I'm on the way, sir." He went to the bathroom, took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, and cleaned his glasses. His wife appeared. "They're calling you in." It was more of a statement than a question. "Yep." She turned on WCBS Radio as he dressed. "The Soviet and American delegations met again in Geneva to discuss the deteriorating situation in Berlin. Press statements from both sides indicate that no progress has been made. "Mayor Koch is meeting with the borough presidents, the City Council, and the NYPD, Fire Department, and Sanitation Department in an emergency session. There is expectation that Governor Cuomo may declare a state of emergency and call out the National Guard." "Too late," the Lieutenant said. "They can use the State Guard." Good guys, but not enough of them and overage. "Alternate side of the street parking remains in effect today." "What's the definition of a tactical weapon?" the lieutenant asked his wife. "One that goes off in Germany," she replied sourly. "It's an old joke, and these days it's not funny." She made him a cup of instant coffee. "Drink this before you go." "You should go, too," he said. "Where? My mother and father live in Geneva. That's too close to Seneca Army Depot, where all the nukes are. My sister and brother live in Philly. Where would I go? To some refugee camp in Kansas? There isn't anywhere safe on the East Coast, and the buses and trains and planes are already filled with people leaving. And your family -- " "Live outside of Washington." He laced his boots and set his blousing rubbers. "Do I look all right?" "You look fine," she said. "So do you!" "I should put something on." she said. "Don't. I want to remember you as you are." "Fool." "I love you." "I love you too," she said. "I'll call you as soon as I know what's going on," he said, going down the steps, hefting his duffel bag and map case. "Stay safe." It was a damned bitter winter wind that blew him down the street to the J train. The subway clerk waived him through the gate. "Orders from the Mayor. Servicemen reporting to duty ride free." "Crap, things must be bad if they're waiving a 75 cent fare," the Lieutenant said. He put the token in his pocket. That, the Rainbow patch on his field jacket and the crossed rifles with "71" at the top, showed what he was. A New Yorker going to war.