“Sounds like an airplane.” He scanned the east and stood up, shading his eyes. Finally, a black speck came into view. “Over there…see? Must be an airshow or something.”
Closer, Dottie recognized a green biplane with something written on the side in yellow. The plane dipped and circled, dipped again. Then, as if headed straight for them, it came near enough for her to read the words, Wilson’s Flying Circus.
Al’s fingers slipped from her hand. His jaw tightened, his stare fixated on the machine, and his shoulders hunched in self-protection.
“You know that kind of airplane?” The sky dancer spun around, came back, and waggled its wings at them. This time, some smaller print showed up: De Havilland-DH-4. The pilot, dark goggles holding down a scraggle of curly red hair, waved at them.
Al always answered right away, even if he wasn’t sure of his answer. But not this time.
She turned toward him as the plane made another pass. “Al?”
His face crumpled like Jeffy’s when he had fallen down and scraped his knee. Startled by the sight of his own blood, it took a few moments for the little fellow to howl. Now, Al looked exactly that way—startled and distraught.
****
As sand razed his face, the plane’s drone carried him back to the countryside of Northern France. He held his breath. Where was his buddy, John Milford? Major Anders sent them to patrol around their base camp. But John thought he heard something, signaled for Al to wait, and crawled up an incline.
Waiting for the birdcall signal, Al peered from some low bushes. But the sign never came. He waited longer, hoping John would reappear, and tried to figure out what to do if he didn’t. Then a low hum, like his older brother’s motorcycle turning toward home on a clear Midwestern day, reached his ears.
But an ocean and a war separated him from such pleasant reality—his parents sent word that John languished in some makeshift French army hospital. Perspiration rode Al’s collar—any moment might give him the same fate, or worse.
He ducked farther into the scraggly growth along a field’s border. No crop this year, that was sure. Unruly rows succumbed to so many tramping boots that it was impossible to tell what grain once grew here.
The bangity-bang of his pulse hedged his hearing. The hum increased. A scrape of trees along the field’s southern border invited him to investigate, but he had no idea what that haphazard grove held. Maybe John had arched into it, or maybe it disguised a gaggle of Huns.
When in doubt, wait. This unwritten rule threaded through their makeshift unit, mostly farm boys who wanted nothing more than to make it back to fertile fields and family. In an awkward squat, Al waited, his empty stomach voicing its disapproval.
The drone turned into a buzz. Just beyond the grove, he saw it—a warplane. German or Allied? Sunlight reflected off its body, but when he got a closer look, a relieved sigh shuddered from him. American—a De Havilland DH-4, one of the newer makes.
Designed in Great Britain, made in the U.S.A., she carried either bombs or precise photographic equipment that could capture even a footprint on the ground. If she carried bombs, it might mean that grove sequestered enemy troops. Moisture dripped from Al’s forehead to sour on his lips.
The buzz transformed into a boisterous roar—no bombs—must be a photography team. But the plane’s left wing clipped something. The thwack of metal on wood slashed the air. He couldn’t see what the pilot hit—probably a wide poplar branch.
He rose without thinking and heard his own moan as the plane spun around, the landing gear crumpled like a paper wad. A maniacal hiss steeped his senses as she rolled into a ball of wire and metal framing.
He crept forward. Arms flailed as the passenger fought his seatbelt. With no thought of enemies, Al vaulted toward him. There’d be a camera to save, possibly loaded with precious photos of enemy positions.
The soldier struggled in his seat, but something hindered his progress. He reached behind him for his camera, and scrabbling onto wing, Al grabbed the khaki canvas strap. He reached for the soldier’s stubborn buckle, and in what seemed like hours, forced the catch into submission. The photographer peeled his body from the pit and Al propelled him away from the plane.
Behind them, the hiss ballooned into a roar. Al dropped the camera case and raced back, but the aviator’s head hung forward. Must’ve hit against the windshield in the crash. He launched up the wing, inhaling petrol fumes. Help me get to him.
The plane transformed into a torch. Scalding oil scorched the pilot. Hot black splats penetrated Al’s olive wool uniform, and intense heat formed a wall around the airplane. Al gasped forward into tunneling, acrid smoke that concealed the screaming man from sight.
But powerful hands grappled at his waist and pulled him backward. Crinkled metal crackled and blistered. Wood splintered, sending ragged pieces from the smoke spire like Fourth of July rockets.
“It’s too late. He’s a goner.” The photographer’s breath hit the base of Al’s neck, and though he strained to try one more time, his rescuer prevailed. “Stop, man—nothing we can do for him now.”
That was the last Al remembered: the sickening stench of burning wool and seared flesh. He woke in a medical tent, where someone told him the photographer had knocked him out and gone for help.
He hadn’t let the memory surface—not when he was awake—for almost thirty years. After those first few times at the hardware store where some customer had to call him back from this nightmare, he’d learned how to squelch it. Part of the secret was staying so busy his mind had no opportunity to wander.
The specter still stalked him in the night, though, and he always woke with a desperate hope of saving that pilot. If he only had one more chance, he would run faster, pull harder, and never give up.
Wet sand crumbled between his fingers. Dottie’s hand worked under his neck. But an unfamiliar male voice jolted him.
Dottie’s tones came through, soothing as silk. “Al, are you all right?” Her hands on his shoulders, soft brown eyes enormous, she leaned so close he smelled lavender. Her breath came in spurts, or was it his own? Sunshine soothed his bare arms, sand gritted between his toes and under his knees, and the sky’s blue hurt his eyes.
A strong arm and the scent of Bay Rum pulled him up. “Want me to call an ambulance?”
Dottie squeezed his shoulder. “Al, can you talk to me?” He squeezed her hand and attempted to communicate with eyes that he would be okay. She turned to the stranger.
“No. No, thank you. I think—I believe he’s all right now.”
“I’ll be right over there if you need me. Those pilots are a menace.” The man shuffled off, and Dottie took Al’s face in her hands.
Heat scourged the back of his neck and scalp, yet icy prickles covered him as she smoothed her fingers down his arms. Then he buried his face in her shoulder, a child awash with sobs. Moments passed, or was it hours? He stumbled along with her, felt the blanket under his feet.
“Here, drink this.”
The rush of coolness on his tongue brought him closer to the beach, to their blanket…to Dottie. The soft fabric of her dress quieted him. Her eyes testified unquestioning acceptance and concern. Even the blanket’s coarse filament felt right against his hands.
The worst was over. He only needed to breathe.
She didn’t say a word, but simply sat there holding his head, and the longer she did, the more he loved her. He didn’t even attempt to hold back the drops that still coursed down his cheeks. Her eyes filled too—he felt at one with her. After a while, she eased her face closer to his.
“You’re going to be all right, Al.”
Even though he had no idea how to start, he owed her some explanation. The strange thing was, he wanted to tell her—tell her things he’d never breathed to another human being, not even to Nan.
They stared at the tide, whooshing back and forth, a giant’s breath. In and out, day after day and year after year, that tide continued, totally reliable. Though the world erupted in wa
r, though millions died, the tide still continued, in and out, day and night. Pastor Langley would liken it to the faithfulness of the Almighty, he supposed.
When he glanced at Dot, her serious expression gave him permission to do whatever he needed—speak or remain silent. Just what he needed. It took a while longer for the words to well in him, another while for him to wrestle them out.
“That plane took me back to France, a long time ago…to a day when I only accomplished half of what I wanted to.”
The story resurrected piecemeal. It faltered out stiff-legged and halting, like Lazarus coming to life again. But Dot understood, as much as anyone could. Her eyes told him so.
“That’s why, when you saw that medal with the purple ribbon that day just before we left…”
He nodded. “Yeah. That brought it all back, too.”
“Thank you for telling me.”
“I could never talk about it before, but something changed today—I don’t understand it at all. But seeing that de Havilland so close, and the pilot, out for a lark…”
“I can’t imagine. You must be exhausted.”
“Drained, yes. But you know what?” He sat up and lifted her hand to his lips. “Dennis needs us tonight while he goes down to see Cora. I want to get back to our babysitting job. I miss Jeffy.”
She shook her head. “Al, you’re amazing.”
He stood and pulled her up. She bent for the blanket and they folded it together. On the last fold, he brought her into his arms.
“Thanks for listening to me—for being here. Somehow, I think things will get better from now on.”
****
For once, Al fell asleep while they waited for Dennis to get back from the hospital. So did the children, and Dottie sat in the twilight, content to watch the rise and fall of their breathing, the children’s so much faster than Al’s. He cradled Joy against his chest, and their grandson’s husky body covered the area between them on the couch. She fluffed Jeffy’s fine hair with her fingers, marveling at the heat rising from his head.
February sixteenth—she thought no day could ever hold as much as yesterday, but then today came. Seeing Al collapse, fixated on his tormenting memory, her heart catapulted into her throat. He fell so suddenly, like a tree axed into submission.
What could she do but kneel beside him and pray? When the bystander offered his help, Al started to return to her. A voice could change things, like the touch of someone you loved. He still couldn’t respond, yet his eyes revealed he wanted to.
And then, his story—at the time, she hadn’t known what to do with it, like the unneeded decorations Helene sometimes purchased for the boarding house. Walls, shelves, and drawers already overflowed with unused objects—why did she insist on buying more? But Dottie always found storage room and better yet, when Helene wanted them, remembered where she’d put them.
But this story—where could she put it? Maybe she had no choice in the matter—the scene had already etched its outlines in her consciousness. And maybe because that was true—because it was real to her as an onlooker, with Al the main character, she’d absorbed some of its poison. She hoped so—maybe part of the pain would be lost to him from now on. She was thankful to share it.
Tires scraped the driveway, and the Chevy’s lights swirled over the room as Dennis circled the yard. Touching Al’s neck, Joy’s hair shone silvery in the lamplight. Such a lot of life here on this couch—such an abundance of precious life. The screen door squeaked open and Dennis walked in.
“You’re the only one left standing?”
“Guess so—I had a lot of rest today, and of course, I want to hear everything.”
Dennis plopped into an armchair almost too small to contain his bulk. “They’re all doing fine.” He leaned his head back and released a long breath. “Cora’s rallying, still a little pale. But besides everything her body’s been through, she’s had a shock—two babies instead of one.
“Hard to believe, but they both seem bigger today, or maybe it’s that their color looks better. The nurses wheeled them into Cora’s room, and we got to hold them.”
He stretched his legs out. “That is, Cora did. I decided to wait—they looked so miniature in her hands, I couldn’t trust myself to handle them quite yet.”
“Hmm…don’t know if I’d be ready for that, either.”
“Prepare yourself, because I can bring you along tomorrow night—a grandma gets special privileges, you know.”
“Thank you. I’ll…we’ll see.”
Dennis swept his hand over the couch. “Looks like the day wore Al out—or Jeffy did.”
“Probably a combination, but it’s the best kind of worn out.” Dottie surveyed Al’s slack jaw, and her voice came out in a whisper.
“An old war memory came back to him today, Dennis. I had no idea he saved someone’s life…he’s a hero. But another man died, and Al still feels he failed. He’s kept that inside all these years. Nan confided that he’s always been a fitful sleeper, and now I know why.”
A shadow flickered over her son-in-law’s features. Maybe he muzzled his own war memories. Dottie waited, but he only stared at Al’s sleeping form. “You’ve found a good man.”
“You’re right. And you’re a good man, too. Cora and I are lucky women.” Jeffy stirred, opened his eyes, saw Dennis, and backed off the couch. He bounced across the room into Daddy’s arms.
“Oopfh!” Dennis did a mock drawback as Jeffy hit his chest. “How’s my big boy tonight? You have fun with Gwamps?”
Joy stirred and Dottie touched her back. The little girl’s eyelashes fluttered, and her lips curled into a scowl. Soon she would let forth a hungry wail. But so far, Al stayed asleep—that told Dottie what she wanted to know.
“I’ll fix Joy’s bottle.”
“Thanks. Guess I brought trouble.” Dennis cuddled Jeffy in one arm and reached for Dottie with his other hand. “We have our work cut out for us, don’t we?”
When Dottie returned with the bottle, Dennis had left to put Jeffy in bed, and Al patted Joy’s back. “About time you brought this little girl some food!”
Dennis took the bottle from Dottie on his way back into the living room and grinned. “Here, let me do the honors. You’ll have plenty of bottle holding to do in a few days.”
Al handed Joy over to him, and Dennis nestled her in the crook of his arm. Then, with a tender sigh, he addressed Al and Dottie. “Thanks for being here. Thanks for everything.”
Al twined his fingers in Dottie’s. “It’s our pleasure. Good night, now.”
Under a twinkling halo of stars, the walk from the house to their quarters took on a magical quality. Al’s arm so close, the touch of his fingers, the thought of spending the rest of their lives together, surrounded by all these little ones, filled her heart to bursting.
“Thanks for letting me sleep, Dot. I must’ve needed it.”
“We all do from time to time. Remember when I went to sleep that time you massaged my feet?”
“Of course I do. Nothing that important escapes my memory, dear. That night, I felt as though there was hope.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hope for me, that you liked me enough to trust me.”
Dottie leaned into his arm as they sank on the steps to stargaze. “So what will you do if I fall asleep again, here and now?”
“That’s easy. I’ll carry you up to bed.” He nuzzled her neck. “I’m so glad we’re in this together, Dottie Jensen.”
A word about the author…
Gail has always loved to read but, happy instructing college writing and English as a Second Language, had no burning desire to write fiction. After she penned her memoir, the fiction bug bit her. She’s been addicted ever since, with special interest in the World War II era.
She and her husband enjoy living in small-town Northern Iowa and enjoy their grandchildren. In winter, they relish the Ponderosa forest of Central Arizona.
http://www.gailkittleson.com
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