by Nancy Young
Lorraine reeled on her feet in shocked silence for a few seconds.
“Madame, we are very sad … ”
“No. It cannot be!”
“His airplane was shot down.”
Lorraine saw the room blur in her vision and she collapsed against the older gentleman. He guided her carefully back into her chair as a doctor came to her aid. She quickly came back to her senses and began to shake her head in defiance, until at last choked-back sobs broke through her wall of denial.
“I am so sorry. We did not know for some time, but finally last week, the Thai government was informed by some insurgents and they contacted us. I flew here as quickly as possible, but it was several days before they would allow us to collect the bodies … excusez moi … your husband’s remains.”
“And, Philippe,” she asked through her tears. “Is he dead too?”
“Your son,” the older man replied tentatively. “He is missing...”
“What?” she cried, looking up at the older gentleman. “He is not dead? Where is he? Tell me!” This news seemed to bring some hope to the distraught mother.
“We are still negotiating with the Thai government to get any information they have on his whereabouts. He has not been seen since he left with Monsieur de Vogel-Larochette on the plane several weeks ago.”
“Then he has been missing for nearly a month! If he is still alive, he must be in grave danger, or injured!” With this realization, she began to sob once again.
“Madame, your husband and the pilot were recovered after a long drawn-out negotiation that ended in a bloody battle where the responsible party was eventually captured and the bodies recovered. But we have no information on your son. It is a mystery.”
Lorraine looked up through her tears at the man who gave the news, then looked at the others around her. They shook their heads in sympathy but none spoke.
“Where do you think he is? Why is he missing?”
“We are not certain at this moment, Madame. But we have heard from one of the doctors that he may have gone to spend some time in the interior to do research before being picked up again and returned. But, unfortunately, the mission was aborted when your husband’s plane was shot down. We know nothing more. We are doing all we can to request the Thai government’s cooperation. But it is very tricky. We are in deep negotiations with the Communist forces for the release of a prisoner in Hanoi. Joël was working on this when the plane was shot down. It is a delicate situation.”
Later that evening, Lorraine was visited by Dr. Morens, the only one among the group who knew Philippe. Sophie told Lorraine of her attempts to gather a search party for the lad, but the Thai soldiers were not sympathetic, and the French diplomat who had arrived to replace Joël was useless. But now Joël’s boss was here and his widow as well, so as a team the two women pleaded with the French officials to begin the search for her son in earnest. After Lorraine attended to the terrible business of identifying her husband’s charred remains for them to be flown to Paris for interment as a war hero, Henri Dansereau gave his condolences once again and reassured them that he was trying his best, but the situation remained incredibly tenuous. Apparently, the Communist authorities were now demanding the release of Joël’s murderers in exchange for the doctor in Hanoi. Paris did not feel this was an even trade since the doctor was a Vietnamese civilian, while Joël was a French government official, not to mention distant royalty.
Their only recourse now was to rally the coterie of physicians into an ad hoc search and rescue team. Sophie beseeched her colleagues as Lorraine sat beside her with quivering hands covering her tear-stained face — to lose a husband and not know the whereabouts of an only son deep inside a sniper-infested jungle? What, she asked the reluctant men, did they leave their comfortable homes in France and Belgium to become? Was it not their duty as husbands and fathers themselves to come to the aid of an unfortunate family? But the doctors knew that without the cover of the soldiers they would simply be moving targets for the mercenary snipers. They felt their medical skills would be wasted in this risky endeavor. Couldn’t they wait for assistance from the Thai government, once the negotiations for the exchange of hostages were resolved?
When news of the downed plane first reached the camp, panic struck in the hearts of every single person in the entourage, in particular, Sophie, who had had a premonition in the form of a dream two days before the news arrived of the fate of the diplomat and the pilot. When two bodies and not three were finally allowed by the mysterious and ruthless perpetrators to be retrieved by the French government from the plane wreckage, she felt an ominous portent of things to come. Philippe had told her he would be away for a mere week or so, and no more. Sophie was obligated to tell the officials but the information was not taken seriously at first.
The arrival of Madame de Vogel-Larochette, however, changed the tune of the French officials, and they were prepared to negotiate with the Thai military but found themselves in a political stand-off. Apparently, the Vietcong officials had already warned the Thai government that the French doctors were in violation of their sovereignty by coming to the aid of the “traitors” fleeing across into their borders illegally. They demanded the deportation of the doctors immediately, and closure of the refugee camp. They also threatened the execution of a certain Dr. Mae Anh, who was obviously one of the French government’s spies in Hanoi. When Lorraine heard the name Mae Anh and heard the danger the woman was in, she felt a certain sensation in the back of her neck, as if Joël himself were speaking to her and urging her to take action. Certainly she would make it her mission to not only find her son, but also come to the rescue of this long-suffering woman whom her husband had been forced to abandon so many years ago. As negotiations continued with the Thai military authorities, weeks went by and the two women grew closer and maintained their resolve to initiate action. They would find the young man if it was the last thing they ever did on this Earth.
•
Lorraine and Sophie sat together in their shared tent that night huddled over a large map spread out on one of the low beds. An oil lamp was the only source of light and the two women strained their eyes to make out the hairline trails marked on the faded chart. A small red “X” marked the spot where Joël’s plane was discovered. They were surprised to find the location was actually across the border inside Laos, and not closer to Chiang Rai. It had taken them nearly two weeks to secure this map, and as they surveyed the area surrounding the “X” their certainty that the young man would be somewhere in this vicinity increased.
“Perhaps he was injured in the crash, but not fatally, and wandered off into the jungle?” Lorraine suggested.
“In hot pursuit by insurgents and drug runners,” the other woman continued. Neither woman expressed her fear in words, but the flickering of the oil lamp reflected the ominous mood. “I heard just this morning from one of the medics that an explosion was heard shortly after your husband’s body was retrieved. They do not know who was responsible. Possibly the C.I.A. It was discussed on Radio France.”
“A bomb?! It’s so close to villages? Would they do that?”
“All governments are hypocrites, no less. No negotiation with terrorists they claim. Yet now they act like one themselves. It’s a travesty!”
“Dear God, I hope my Philippe was not still in that area!” Lorraine began to cry again, the fourth time this day. The friend drew her close and let the widowed mother express her deep pain.
“I’ve got it!” Sophie suddenly exclaimed. “All we need is a helicopter and a pilot. We can put together a collection of funds between the physicians here to hire a pilot! Why didn’t I think of this earlier? Why not, eh? A helicopter perhaps could be procured from the Red Cross or United Nations? Do you have a friend at the United Nations? Joël must have known some of these people?”
Lorraine slowly dried her tears and blinked until her e
yes cleared. “I know a family back in Canada who had five brothers and four pilots amongst them. The oldest four trained as bomber pilots in Europe during the war, and after they came home, including one in a coffin, the third brother became a helicopter pilot for the regional news and weather station, as well as for the Primary Reserve, if I’m not mistaken. The youngest brother was a l-…” she stopped herself, “… a dear friend, although I have not seen him in many years,” she continued. “I could perhaps ask his brother to come?”
“That sounds like the best course of action, Lorraine. Perhaps our government could also contact the RCAF. We will still have to hire a helicopter locally. That may prove to be more difficult in the end than hiring your friend to come to Philippe’s rescue. You must contact him immediately. Let us go now to see if we can send a telegram to Canada — tonight!”
•
Bernard was surprised to find his brother and sister-in-law at his cabin door one summer morning. Clutched in his brother’s hand was a telegram. Both wore a worried smile on their faces. He ushered them in and they sat down at his kitchen table as he turned his back to prepare a pot of coffee. He was not used to company and it took him several minutes to locate two additional cups.
“Bernie,” Callum began, walking across the room to face his younger brother. “Don’t worry about us; we aren’t here for coffee. We’re here to ask you something important.” He paused for a moment for his brother to register the words and nod in understanding. “Well, it’s urgent actually, and very unexpected. I got a call from the Reserve boss this morning.” He continued, pausing again. “According to the coordinator, there is an urgent need of a helicopter pilot out in Thailand right now. A call from one of our own apparently — a wife of a diplomat.” He waited for the younger brother to nod. “The diplomat and his son were on a special mission several weeks ago and their plane was shot down by insurgents over Laos. The father is dead but the son is now missing. Neither the Thai nor French governments want to send out one of their own for a search party for him.”
Bernard sat without expression listening and reading his brother’s lips.
“The mother is Canadian, from around here, and she is sure he is alive, but no one is willing to go into the jungle to find him.”
Bernard nodded.
“This is where I, or you, come in. The mother has asked for help from the Canadian government, but they don’t want to do it either, at least not for another two weeks. She thinks her son would be killed by then, and is begging someone to come. She is willing to pay privately and will supply the helicopter through the I.R.C. or U.N. I will go if you cannot, Bernie, but under the circumstances, we believe … ” and here he paused and looked at his wife, “ … that you might be the better person to go. You’re a better helicopter pilot than I. And besides, Missy’s wedding is in two months and it’s too risky for me … ”
Bernard put up his hand at that moment and spoke out loud. “Stop right there. Tell me where and how, and I will go tonight.”
His brother Callum had been an excellent instructor from the very beginning. When Bernard returned from Québec City that New Year’s Day in 1959, he seemed to all his brothers a changed man. His heart was no longer fixed to his woodworking. Not a word was spoken of the cause of the heartache, and like all the rugged silent men of the Canadian woods, they carried on as if nothing was amiss. Bernard closed his shop for three months and sat silently on his veranda, staring at the frozen lake until it thawed and cracked, and again jumped with trout.
Aidan and Callum had come with their wives and children for their usual Easter weekend fishing jaunt on Lake Aylmer, but Bernard was not in his usual spirits and the boat obviously had not been used since the previous spring. With some coaxing from the nieces and nephews, Bernard found his fishing lines from the shed and swept the damp leaves from the boat hull. When the uncle returned at dusk with the tired but happy children, both brothers and wives knew it was time for Bernard to find a woman who would make his cabin a home. Callum’s wife, Jane, sent two of her favorite nursing assistants over to help him with his food shopping the following week, but they came back with smiles but no invitations to return.
The day a recruiter asked Callum if he knew of any men that might be interested in becoming a Reserve pilot, he knew straight away his younger adopted brother Bernie was the perfect candidate. It was 1962 and North American involvement in Vietnam had begun. Canada had no conscription but the Reserve was on constant alert for possible mobilization. Helicopter pilots were needed urgently and although his brother was deaf, he possessed intelligence, a calm demeanor, attention to detail, bravery, and a sense of altruism that nothing could waiver.
A geriatrics nurse at the local hospital, Jane had heard of a new experimental cochlear device that would make it possible for him to hear sufficiently to pilot a plane. Bernard agreed to have a special frequency radio device and headset manufactured for him. This, with the especially made earphones all pilots wear as a matter of course, suited the use of the new technology. For Bernard it was a turning point. Callum knew that this would be a way for his younger brother to serve his country despite his disability, particularly as he could not serve during the previous wars. As Callum guessed, Bernard took to the skies naturally like an eagle to flight. There was no turning back. He seldom returned to furniture making, for he enjoyed the flight work and enthusiastically took odd jobs in mail delivery, woodland fire emergencies, and the occasional search and rescue mission. He remained with the Primary Reserve along with Callum and anticipated his first mission in Vietnam for the RCAF, but it never came. His hearing impairment was still an obstacle which grounded him, even though technically he was allowed to remain in the Reserve. Callum’s request now, was like the answer to a long-sought question.
•
Lorraine did not sleep for a moment the night before, but was ready and wide-eyed to meet the plane as it arrived onto the pre-dawn tarmac. She had received word from the Canadian Embassy that a pilot was being sent by the RCAF Primary Reserves and was arriving via a special air cargo plane the next day. A helicopter, however, would not be available for another several days. The bureaucracy was swift with personnel, but equipment was harder to come by. A helicopter, she was told, was being secured via the International Red Cross, which had the proper markings to allow it into enemy air space without fear of being ambushed. This convention, however, was not guaranteed and few pilots would have been willing to undertake the dangerous task.
When the helicopter pilot stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac, Lorraine was disbelieving. She watched from the window of the terminal and forced her forehead hard against the glass trying to get a closer look to see if her eyes were not deceiving her. It was unexpected to say the least and she was not sure if it was indeed he, but her heart leapt into her throat and she choked back tears as she rushed for the door and descended the stairs toward him.
Bernard saw Lorraine approach him from across the tarmac as he disembarked. She seemed in a restrained rush and it was a long moment before he could clearly recognize the familiar heart-shaped face. The sad but radiant smile was hard to miss. Without a word he caught her up in his arms, and for a moment they were lost in time. All the years, all the pain washed away in that brief moment of reconciliation. He sought out her tear-soaked face and kissed her on the eyes while she wept. There was nothing between them that could not be brought back to health and goodness with this kiss. There was nothing, Lorraine felt that could not be done now that he was here. But she struggled with the truth held so long inside her closed heart. Her love and the long-held secret devotion she had to him was the treasure inside a long buried chest, hard to fathom once in the light of day. She finally resolved to tell him the truth only when — or if — their son Philippe was ever found. It was only fair.
8
Walk-Tall (Solpetrière), 1881–1886
While others merely engaged at one
level of reality and consciousness, Father Jacob straddled two worlds continually. The priest spoke directly with God. His was a direct line to The Divine. Father Jacob avoided excessive contact with his niece on most days because the delicately balanced scales of his mind were easily disturbed. A finely tuned spiritual receptor that balanced the constantly dis-equalizing forces in nature and the universe allowed Father Jacob to receive simultaneous messages from natural and supernatural sources — from differing transmutations of time and reality.
This man of the cloth, although bound by his allegiance to God and his will to do His daily work, struggled tumultuously in a super-existential limbo. His inability to separate the real from the supernatural — or rather, his ability to engage the two simultaneously while appearing to be on the plane of normal, material existence — could easily be seen as some kind of insanity. Luckily he kept it mostly to himself and his extremely small coterie of confidantes, namely Madame Lowell.
From the time he was a young boy working the fields of his father’s farm in Haute-Provence, Jacob Sébastiani had a certain knowing.
“Nous sommes partout … pas plus, rien de moins. We are everywhere … no more, no less.” It was a silent Gregorian chant in his mind as he scraped the fertile soil with a steady plow and threw out seeds with an arcing wheel of an arm, as if he were extending a perpetual blessing over the land in an anointed sermon of toil which flowed as a perpetual monologue he shared with no one in particular.
“Nous sommes tout le monde … partout dans le monde. Rien de plus, pas moins. We are everyone … everywhere. No more, no less. Life is not a straightforward plain … no linear pattern, simply from A to B, and on to C and inevitably ending us up at Z, where we are then inevitably tossed by angels into heaven or hell. Progression is immaterial, time relative.” For Jacob, life ebbed and flowed into complex woven conundrums of interrelatedness, of stops and starts and intervening presents transforming over and into elaborate and repeating futures.