The small fire reached a puddle of the aviation fuel about the same time that Mac reached the open end of the cockpit. The puddle burst into a solid wall of flame and quickly moved toward the cockpit. Mac felt the rush of hot air, but instead of hesitating this only made him move faster. Jumping into the back of the plane, he darted through the miles of wiring hanging from the fuselage. As he moved forward he could see the fire moving closer to the plane through the windows, or at least what used to be the windows. Reaching the cockpit, he struggled to open the jammed door finally tearing it off its hinges to get inside. The inside was a total disaster, its neatly planned interior strewn about like an unsupervised kindergarten class, broken instruments dangling by their wires, glass all over, and the steering controls buckled under the weight of the pilots as they were thrust forward upon them. The two pilots slumped over the controls.
A huge wall of fire flamed up outside of the cockpit and startled the crew chief. He made it to Jack first, and tried to move him, but there was no movement. He looked at the co-pilot and realized that he was dead, the result of a broken neck suffered in the crash. Not hesitating, he moved to Ron to check him out. The flame got closer to the window and through it he could see the fire trucks begin to try and douse the fire. But it had gotten a good head start, and there was still more fuel in the other tanks in the broken plane, ready to explode as if on command.
Mac reached for Ron and squeezed his hand. His reward was a small squeeze in return and a slight movement of his arm. Not hesitating, Mac reached for his survivor knife and cut away the straps holding the pilot to his chair. Without the support, Ron lurched forward only to be caught by the burly hands of the crew chief. Knowing the risk of moving an injured man, but also knowing that sure death waited for both of them if they stayed there much longer, Mac carefully pulled Ron out of his seat, put his hands under the pilot’s arms and across his chest and dragged him out of the cockpit to what remained of the body of the aircraft. Once out of the cockpit, he carefully lifted the pilot over his shoulder and rapidly moved to the open end. Rescuers swarmed toward them, reaching up to grab the pilot and lower him on a stretcher, then reaching for Mac to help him out of the fuselage. Already Ron had been placed in an ambulance which quickly started for the hospital. As Mac jumped down from what remained of the plane, a blast of flame and hot air pushed him and his helpers to the ground. Reacting more than knowing, they quickly got up and ran as fast as they could away from the wreckage. As the flames reached the remaining fuel, the plane erupted in flames turning the once proud Skymaster into a twisted mass of charred metal.
Chapter Eighteen
The dreariness of the winter season was slowly stealing out the back door of the New Year as spring peaked around the corner, waiting to take its place. The small hospital room, its singular window overlooking a grass park, provided little comfort for its occupant. A small metal hospital bed occupied the wall opposite the window, flanked by the obligatory hospital instruments on one side and the ever-present fluid stand on the other. From the bag hanging on the stand ran a plastic tube, the other end of which disappeared under a gauze bandage taped on the patient’s arm. Liquid dripped from the bag, slowly made its way down the tube and joined its carrier in disappearing under the bandage. The fluid carried the nutrients needed by the patient to keep him alive, his ability to eat normal food completely inoperative due to the coma which had controlled his life since the accident. For three months Ron Matthews had been drifting in and out of a coma, unaware of what was happening or where he was. His last recollection was being lifted out of his seat by a set of big, strong hands, and manhandled out of the aircraft to a waiting ambulance. Everything between then and now was a virtual blank.
Ron Matthews had no idea how lucky he was to be alive. The crash that had killed his co-pilot had knocked him unconscious, broken a couple of ribs, and fractured his right leg. If it had not been for his crew chief, those injuries would not have mattered for Ron would have perished in the flaming inferno that was left of his plane. But Mac had somehow survived the crash with enough strength left to carry the wounded pilot out of the plane before it burst into flames. Mac had saved his life, he would later learn.
From the plane, Matthews was transported to the base hospital. But the facilities there were insufficient to care for the severely traumatized pilot and he was transferred to the civilian facility in Frankfurt, a much more modern and up-to-date facility which would provide better care for him. Upon his arrival there, he was still unconscious and needed assistance in breathing. It took a couple of days to get him stabilized before being transferred to the States. He was admitted to Walter Reed Army Hospital in NW Washington DC and settled into one of the critical care rooms. That was three months ago.
Ruth Matthews had spent the better part of those three months in this room, switching occasionally with her husband when she needed a break from the routine. A telegram personally delivered by an Army Lieutenant had informed her and her husband of the accident and made arrangements for their travel to Washington DC from their home in New Jersey to be with their son. Their arrival at Union Station was met with a sedan which sped them to the hospital to see Ron..
Ruth and her husband Paul had checked into the little guest house on the hospital grounds in hopes of only staying a couple of days. But as the days wore on, Paul had to return to his hardware store in New Brunswick. He was the only one working it, though his brother would cover for him in the case of an emergency. However, there was no way he could ask his brother to cover for weeks which turned into months, especially with no end in sight. The couple had decided that Ruth would stay at the hospital while Paul would return home, returning every couple of weeks on the weekend when he could close the store and join his wife. She looked at her watch, then down at her sleeping son who had laid there all this time without moving, then out the window, saying a little prayer to whoever would listen.
The door to the hospital room launched open and the old, gray-haired nurse strode purposely to her task. Alongside the bed, she checked to make sure the IV was still running as set, that there were no changes in any of the other instruments which would cause her an alarm, and finally took the pulse of the patient in such a way as to convince Ruth that it really didn’t matter if there was one there or not. She was just doing her job. She pressed her finger into the patient’s wrist and watched her watch as the second hand made its obligatory stroll through time. After fifteen seconds, she lowered the wrist to the bed and noted the pulse rate on the bedside clipboard containing all the other pertinent information on the condition of the pilot. She paused for a moment, settled the clipboard into position, looked at Ruth, then exited the room without a word. Ruth shrugged and settled into one of the chairs and waited for time to pass slowly.
A couple of minutes later the nurse reentered the room and motioned for Ruth to follow her. Quizzically, she stood up, put her book on the chair and hesitantly followed the nurse out of the room and into the general waiting room near the nurses’ station.
“Please wait here for a minute, Mrs. Matthews,” she said, “the doctor wants to examine your son.”
As she sat down, her husband rounded the corner heading to his son’s room.
“Paul,” said Ruth. “Wait. Come here.”
Paul stopped abruptly, wondering who had called him and why. He looked around and saw Ruth now standing in the general waiting room, her face a big question mark.
“Is everything ok?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The nurse came in as usual, took the vital signs and left. A couple of minutes later she asked me to wait here because the doctor wanted to examine Ron. I have been here about twenty minutes but don’t know what is going on.”
They worriedly chatted about the situation and wondered what it could mean. Meanwhile, they could see more and more of the hospital staff going into their son’s room, some bringing equipment, some taking it out. There was a sense of purpose around their rush to get something done, a s
ense that had slowly disappeared over time as the comatose patient failed to respond to any stimuli. Something was happening.
Thirty minutes passed, then forty-five, then an hour. Meanwhile Ruth and Paul alternately sat down and then got up and paced the floor, looking down the hall trying to fathom what was happening.
About an hour and a half passed, and the train of nurses and doctors into and out of their son’s room seemed to have ended. Finally, the doctor who had been treating Ron emerged from the hospital room, looked for the couple and seeing them, moved quickly in their direction.
Major Evanston had been treating Ron since his arrival at Walter Reed. He was an expert of sorts on comatose cases, having studied that in med school and during the War. He had experienced many cases due to shell shock or the like. His manner was not gruff, but neither was it condescending. He told you the way things were, not necessarily what you wanted to hear.
Their first meeting with the doctor, upon Ron’s arrival, had been anything but hopeful. Having seen many cases like this, he prepped them for the worse, that most of the patients either never awoke and thus passed away without awakening, or if they did come out of the coma, were never the same as a result of little or no blood going to the head and brain. It was important, he told them, to keep on top of all medical signs as the smallest one could be an indication of something different happening.
Major Evanston reached the Matthews, stretched out his hand to greet each of them, and then asked that they be seated.
Without taking their eyes off of the doctor, Ruth and Paul sat down and waited.
“We have had somewhat of a breakthrough,” he said. “The nurse noticed an increase in the pulse rate which would indicate additional blood getting to the brain. That was, and is a good sign. We just spent the last hour going through a battery of tests to see where Ron stands in regard to regaining his full facilities. Unfortunately, while some of the test showed positive results, others did not. It could be that those that did not were just too far upstream and he has not progressed that far yet, and we hope that is the case. Or, he will never progress that far. At this point we just don’t know.”
Paul and Ruth rushed to ask their questions, but the doctor put up his hand.
“What we do know,” he said, “is that your son has pulled out of his coma and is responding to stimuli, albeit in a small way, but he is responding. His arm moved when we pricked it with a tiny needle, his knee jerked when stimulated, and most importantly,” the doctor hesitated,” he opened his eyes.”
Ruth gasped and caught her breath at the same time. She reached over and grabbed her husband’s arm, waiting for the next piece of news.
“While he did not speak,” the doctor continued, “He did seem to recognize where he was and instead of staring straight ahead, turned his head to look out the window. Without giving you false hope, we may have turned the corner.”
Ruth openly sobbed into her hands as Paul put his arm around her shoulder. The Major leaned forward and placed his hands on theirs.
“Let’s go see him,” he whispered.
Chapter Nineteen
The two-story wooden framed house stood a little back from the street, its porch stretching all the way across the front of the house, the porch roof held up by neatly painted white poles which broke up the porch railings situated between them. From the sidewalk, a narrow concrete walkway made its way through the green grass and to the five steps on the right side of the porch. Balusters on each side of the steps were capped with a handrail painted bright green, the same as the cap running along the porch edge. To the right side of the house, a concrete driveway led to the back of the property and the single car detached garage backed against the rear property line. The driveway was shared with the neighboring house to the right, split only by a wooden fence which divided the two backyards, both of which were completely covered in concrete. For the most part, it looked a lot like all the other houses on the block.
At the top of the stairs leading from the yard to the porch, a single screen door kept the bugs out as the glass-paneled front door lay wide open, allowing the sounds and voices of the party-goers inside to escape the house and spill out onto the neighborhood street. But since all the neighbors had been invited to the Welcome Home party for the Matthews’ boy, no one seemed to care.
Word had quickly spread around the neighborhood of Ron’s accident in Germany and the neighbors were acutely aware of the circumstances of his return and the stress it had put on his parents. Until Ron’s awakening three months ago, it was a wait and see game. News of his improvement quickly spread through the neighborhood until “How’s Ron doing?” became a daily chant, with neighbors stopping each other on the streets to see who had the latest information.
His return from Walter Reed following two months in recovery after his rather theatrical return to the living, and his thirty day recovery at home had the neighbors abuzz. Initially staying inside, but gradually moving to the front porch and the warm sun, he received the good wishes from his friends and acquaintances in a calm manner, revealing few of the details of his harrowing experience and none of the sorrow he felt for losing his co-pilot.
“Few would understand it,” he thought as he graciously acknowledged his new found pedestal.
To celebrate Ron’s return both from Germany and the medical experience at Walter Reed, his parents decided to host an open house for their relatives, friends, and neighbors. It was not to be anything elaborate, just some punch and light refreshments, and the chance to share in the joy that was evident in the eyes of Ruth and Paul Matthews. And so they came, bearing small gifts of food and flowers, with an occasional bottle of bootleg whiskey surfacing among the guests. This was a happy time, besides the return of the Matthews’ boy, the war had ended on both fronts and many of the soldiers, sailors, and airmen were returning. Imperialism had been halted, though not at a cheap price, and democracy had triumphed. Americans longed to return to the days where America did its thing and other countries did theirs. Few understood that those times were gone, and from now on America’s role in the world would be that of leader. But this night was not about that. It was about Ron.
The house was pretty much filled with guests seeking to shake Ron’s hand and wish him well. The older men wanted to talk about “their war,” recounting the brutal trench warfare they endured during WWI while the women waited for the opportune moment to introduce their daughter or their niece, “you know, the daughter of my husband’s brother and his wife from Staten Island. She could not wait to meet you.” He smiled, shook their hand, and thanked them for coming such a far distance. He was flattered.
Ron moved easily through the house, giving each guest their fair amount of time before moving on to the next. Moving from the kitchen in the back of the house toward the front living room, he made sure that he made time for everyone. It seemed like it would never end, as some guests left while others arrived. It was like a flowing river of good wishes that never ceased, and while he appreciated it, it eventually got old. But he kept at it, not wanting to embarrass his folks and seem ungrateful.
When it seemed that he was all “hand-shaken” out, Ron found himself just inside the screen door leading to the porch. He quietly slipped out the door, closing it gently, and moved to the far end of the moonlit structure, slowly sinking into a metal rocking chair that creaked as he sat. The noise of the guests inside the house continued, but seemed to lose a considerable amount of its volume, muffled as it were by the night’s darkness and the cooler temperature outside.
“This feels good,” thought Ron, as he sat there alone.
He could hear the screen door open slightly and sensed, more than saw, a man’s head peering outside.
“Ron?” the head said.
“Hi, Dad,” Ron answered. “Just getting some air.”
“Yea” his Dad said. “Getting a little noisy and crowded in there, but things are beginning to thin out. Have you given any thought to what you are going to do now tha
t the world seems to have calmed down a little? You know, I am getting a little old, and the store is still there for you and I would like to keep it in the family. It has been good to us” he said as if his hard work had nothing to do with its success.
Ron had thought about this moment for a while and had actually dreaded its coming, but here it was.
“Dad,” Ron said slowly and somewhat sadly. “I don't think I want to go into the hardware business and work at the store. I love to fly and want to continue doing that. You know the Air Force won't let me back in because of my injuries so I was thinking of buying a surplus C-47 and starting a small cargo service here on the East coast. Nothing like that seems to exist here and it could work. Most cargo movement now is by rail and there are limitations on that, not the least of which is the need for tracks. If you are not located near tracks, you can't use Railway Express to get your goods. And, at the very least, I'll be able to keep flying.”
Ron's father stood silently for a couple of minutes before speaking.
“I would like to see you take over the store. With the tensions around the world easing, business should grow all over, the building industry will start to take off and with all the soldiers returning home, the need for hardware for home improvements long delayed because of the war and the blockade will become a top priority. And after what your mother and I went through with the accident, I don't think we could survive another episode like that. Please think about it, Son, it will be a nice life for you and we would feel a lot better knowing you were on the ground.”
Ron seemed to have expected this plea, and with a little wetness forming in his eyes, he reminded his Father of how he had left the old country when his own father, Ron's grandfather, had objected to him moving to America to find his own life.
The German Triangle Page 10