Cronies (Perry County)

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Maybe the Captain of Carson Long could do it."

  "I've got a better idea, Mick. A major is higher than a captain."

  "Mickey looked scared. "Major Clouser?"

  "Yep."

  Mickey was doubtful. "He's sore at us, Logan."

  Logan was impatient. "We won't be sneaking in, Mick.

  We'll knock on his fence and tell him we've important dispatches. I read about that in a book, and he'll know that something is up."

  "Thought you said he was a hundred years old?"

  "He is, Mickey, but he's still a major and that's way up there."

  When Logan knocked on Major Clouser's fence, Mickey stood behind. If any rock salt flew, he'd be safer.

  Logan knocked repeatedly before the house door opened and the redoubtable Major stepped onto his porch. He surveyed the knockers closely, the way a careful man might a pair of itinerant peddlers.

  "What do you want, boy? You come to apologize for trying to steal my melons?"

  To Mickey, Logan's voice was squeaky with tension, but nobody else would notice. "I've come with important dispatches, Major."

  The Major was silent. Then he choked on something before getting his voice organized. He sounded a lot tamer when he wasn't mad.

  "Come on in, both of you and don't tramp dirt in on my rugs." He waved disgustedly at their less than clean bare feet. "Walk in horse dung, then leave it on the carpets. Ought to have a water bucket to dip your hooves in." The Major led the way to a side door and into a kitchen that had only a wooden floor anyway.

  He pulled out a straight-backed kitchen chair and sat down. The boys stood side by side, Logan important with his plans and Mickey rolling his eyes around until they fell on the old hammer gun leaning just inside the door.

  The Major asked,"Now what's this about dispatches?"

  Logan reached inside his overalls and hauled out his folded-over plans. "I've invented a flying submarine, Major. Nobody knows about it but me and Mickey." He handed over the papers and Major Clouser took them.

  Wanting to be part of it, Mickey said, "We've kept 'em hidden, in case there are any German spies living in the hotel, Major."

  The soldier suffered another coughing fit while getting out his reading spectacles to study Logan's drawings.

  The Major took a long time doing it. He "ahemed" a few times and nodded over Logan's circled explanations, with arrows pointing to appropriate details.

  Finally he spread the sheets on his table and began talking about them.

  "Seems as though you've put a lot of thought into this invention, Logan." Both youths noticed the use of Logan, instead of boy.

  "Sure have. Major. I figure our army'll need 'em for the next war. If they get smacking, a few should be ready before ice closes in."

  The Major's features again twisted with his choked up coughing, and Logan waited politely until he was finished and was wiping his eyes on a red bandanna.

  "We figured you could get the plans to the army's top man, so's they could get right to work, Major."

  After a few more throat clearings, the Major directed his visitors to chairs, and the three of them went over Logan's plans more closely.

  "I see you've got wheels that crank down for landing."

  "Yep, I put on four, like a car has. Didn't seem sensible to have the rear end scraping along on a skid the way some airplanes do."

  "Well, you've put together lots of ideas, Logan." The Major massaged his chin in thought.

  "Of course, submarines, armored cars, and airplanes have all come in since my time. We had rifles, a few Gatling machine guns, and field artillery. War is different now."

  "I reckon it's a lot easier with machines helping

  "Not easier, Logan. War never gets easier. In the last one, millions of men fought in stinking trenches, living poorer than hogs, with aircraft strafing and bombing. Tanks rolled over them and cannons blew them apart. If a head stuck up, machine guns ripped at it. Mustard gas burned them, and phosgene and chlorine ate their lungs. War is the awfulest work man performs. I hope you boys never experience it."

  Logan didn't agree and was planning on being in the next one.

  Major Clouser asked a lot of questions about them and their families. Making sure they were true blue Americans, Logan figured.

  Finally, the old soldier located an official looking brown envelope and slid Logan's plans inside. With some ceremony he hid the envelope under other papers in a cupboard drawer.

  "All right, Logan. I'll forward these plans to just the right man." He paused as though judging time. "Don't look to see any flying real soon though. Could be the navy will lay claim because of the submarine part and squabbling could break out."

  Mickey said, "We want the army to have them, Major." Logan agreed.

  "I'll make a special note of that when I send in the plans."

  They were ushered to the door and outside.

  Logan said, "I'm working on other inventions, Major."

  "Well, when they're ready you can bring them by."

  The Major's voice sterned. "But don't try for my melons again or your inventing days might be over."

  "We'd been considering a night raid, Major, but seeing we're in the same platoon now, we'll let it go."

  Major Clouser appeared confounded but regrouped quickly. "Glad you drew off. I patrol after dark. Then there's the land mines I put out. Step on one of those and your foot is gone clear to your hip."

  Mickey's eyes widened, "Wow!"

  The boys' visit had made an ordinary day special. The Major watched them dart up the street, bundles of pure energy. Never got tired and parts didn't ache. Everything seemed possible at eleven years. Imagination ran rich and friends were closest, sharing all sorts of dreams and secrets.

  He eased into his sitting room where his bay window let him see his garden as well as passers-by on the street. When he had seen the two lurking like robber crows halfway up the old dogwood tree, he knew they were on a melon raid. That Logan Dell was a determined Injun. A night raid! The Major hoped his imaginary land mines would hold them off seeing his rock salt threat had failed. As far as he knew, no one had fired a charge of rock salt since muzzleloader days. Maybe they hadn't even then, but salt sounded dangerous.

  Now, who did he know around the military? After a while he remembered Abe Tressler's boy, who was a regular doing something at the Third Army Corps headquarters in Baltimore, or maybe at Fort Meade. The old Major mixed a little water into his inkwell and found paper to write on.

  He hoped Captain Tressler was the kind to go along with a young boy's tender dreamings. Some wouldn't take the time. He supposed they forgot their own early years.

  About the time school started, a letter came for Mister Logan Dell. Logan and Mickey opened it in their secret camp in the woods between the farms.

  There was a letter heading that said, "H.Q., 3rd Corps, U.S. Army" and an address. The boys sniffed the letter and agreed that it smelled army all right.

  Signed by David Tressler, Captain, Ordnance Department, the letter thanked Mister Dell for submitting his plan for a submersible airplane. Captain Tressler noted the title change from flying submarine was to avoid possible naval claims for the invention.

  Logan said, "I knew that army was smart, Mickey. They'll lick the navy every time."

  Captain Tressler assured Mister Dell that appropriate disposition of his plan was being undertaken.

  During the winter of 1929/1930, Captain Tressler received from Major Clouser four Logan Dell inventions.

  Each was meticulously answered, but Captain Tressler's personal favorite was the scheme to train hawks to capture an enemy's message-carrying pigeons.

  +++

  1936 - Mickey

  Mickey couldn't believe it. When Logan called "18 ... on two" he had felt relief because the play gave a center snap to Logan who would run around right end with three other backs and a pulled guard for interference. It was a powerful play, and in some games they had done real well with it.r />
  Mickey liked the call because as left end, he hadn't much to do. He was falling down exhausted, his bad knee was a grinding ache, and with only time for a play or two, they had held Carson Long to a nothing - nothing tie.

  For Bloomfield High School, that feat was a monumental victory. The cadets almost always walked over Bloomfield.

  After he called the play, Logan reached across the huddle and knocked his knuckles on Mickey's helmet. Mickey Weston almost threw up.

  To the rest of the team, the knock meant nothing, but between the end and Logan Dell, it signaled their secret play.

  Mickey wanted to call out that he was too tired. His cracked knee would never carry him, and coach would surely kill them both. Instead, he broke with the others and made it to the line. He forced himself not to look downfield or act any different than usual. His mouth had gone dry and his arms felt weaker than wet spaghetti. He would fail, he knew it, and he hated himself for letting down Logan and the team.

  It was the simplest of plays. Logan and his interference went right. Logan would float and delay to the scrimmage line. Then, without even looking, he would pass across the field to where Mickey would be waiting all alone.

  Mickey Weston, the smallest team member, who rarely caught a pass even in practice, whose trick knee barely held together, and who ran even slower than Cal Ruby, who played guard, would romp the seventy or so yards to a touchdown and victory for his team.

  They had practiced the play a thousand times, even before they were in high school. The play had never been used in a game because Mickey was so small, slow, and beat-up that the coach would not consider it. The play was not a part of Bloomfield's game, but Logan and Mickey had their signal and someday, Logan had always sworn, they would run it.

  Mickey Weston should not have played football. Logan claimed he had bird bones. Mickey weighed one hundred and twenty-five pounds, and his uniform weighed almost as much. It hung so loosely his thigh pads often twisted around behind his legs. The smallest helmet swallowed his head, and if the chin strap was loosened, Mickey could rotate the helmet full circle without raising it a lick. Most of the team wore old football shoes donated by players long gone; Mickey's were more than a size too large.

  Mickey played because Bloomfield High was so small it required everybody available on the field. The playing ground behind the school was mostly shale, and there were no permanent stands for supporters. A bench was brought out for each team to sit on. Carson Long had a full string of substitutes who looked like giants. Bloomfield's bench mustered eight sophomores and freshmen ready to do or die.

  With Logan Dell calling plays and carrying the ball, Bloomfield had enjoyed a good season against Ickesburg, Blain, Newport, Duncannon, and two others. To hold Carson Long to a tie would be a strong finish. To beat them was almost unimaginable. Except for Logan, of course. Logan had always planned on licking the cadets.

  Mickey knew it wouldn't work. Coach was right, throwing clear across the field, into your own flats, was too risky. Mickey Weston might hurl himself at opposing interference and smash his small body into enemy tacklers, but even Logan had given up calling his pass plays. Mickey never got out in time and he had no hands. Balls bounced off his shoulder pads or slipped across his jersey. There were better plays than throwing to Mickey Weston.

  Logan called, "Ready," and the line got down. Mickey only bent over because his knee hurt too much. On "Set," muscles tensed and targets pinpointed. Mickey feared he would wet his pants or throw up. Logan shouldn't have done it.

  "One, Two," and the ball went back. Cal Ruby pulled out of the line and lumbered off to the right. The left tackle filled some of his hole and—Mickey Weston stumbled and fell down.

  Nobody really noticed because Logan Dell was rolling right, out of the single wing with four men in front.

  Carson Long faded across the field to meet him, the halfbacks and safety easing that way but watchful that no receiver slipped in among them.

  Logan ran with the ball held in one hand instead of tucked securely against his side. Coach would be grinding his teeth over that. Logan ran along the smashed together linemen as he floated to the right. He would never turn the end. He was seeking a hole to cut through but the four man interference began to crumble and Logan was forced even wider. Like vultures, the cadet secondary swept in on Logan Dell.

  All alone, Mickey Weston got up. Just as they had planned, no one was near him. Everyone was hurtling away. To this play, Mickey Weston seemed as unimportant as the water bucket. He started downfield, running as he had the thousand times before. He did not look over toward Logan; no need, Logan knew where he would be.

  Coach came off the bench. He said to no one in particular, "My God!" He saw his end all alone, deep downfield and he knew Logan Dell was not driving for the scrimmage line. A hundred times he had seen the two of them, all alone on the field, run the play he had forbidden. It could work, Weston was wide open, but ... Weston?

  Logan was trapped. He drifted a step deeper into his own backfield with nowhere to go. When he threw, Logan just cocked back and dumped his whole arm and body behind the pass. He didn't seem to look or measure, he just let the ball go.

  Then the crowd saw Mickey Weston, all alone, running hard with his usual limp. The cadet safety saw him, too. He was the deep man because he was whippet-fast and never missed a tackle. Like an outfielder, who goes instinctively with the crack of the bat, the safety went with Logan's pass. Hopelessly far ahead, the Bloomfield end and the ball closed on each other. The safety gave it all he had anyway. A player tried, no matter what, until the whistle ended the action.

  When Mickey looked, the ball was just where it was supposed to be, right where Logan always put it.

  The fear and doubts had gone with the center's snap. Even the toothache pain in his knee was forgotten; Mickey went for the pass. He had no slack—he stretched for it and the spinning ball struck his hands solidly. He sucked the ball into his body, stuck it under his left forearm, and aimed straight downfield.

  Now the pain came back. It bit with a vengeance and closed like a vise around his knee. The yard markers passed incredibly slowly. He could hear the crowd's roar and he risked a look across a shoulder.

  There he came, running like a deer, the cadet safety angling across. Mickey feared it was still a race.

  The safety ran the hundred in close to ten flat. He had followed the pass without hope but, just as suddenly, there was a chance. The receiver could hardly run. He limped badly and his free arm pumped with the effort of keeping himself going. About the ten yard line, the safety judged. They would meet there. He focused his mind and drove for it.

  Logan had thrown from his own ten yard line. Mickey had snatched the ball near the thirty. It had been a hell of a play, Logan thought. Mickey was almost along the sideline and legging it the best he could. From near his own goal line, Logan could not tell just how far along Mickey was.

  Both teams stood and watched the cadet safety rolling like an express train on the struggling Bloomfield runner. Logan clamped his teeth and growled, "Come on, Mick, come on!"

  Mickey Weston tried to forget the safety closing in. He fought to ignore the agony of his knee. The goal line only crept closer, and he wondered a little if he couldn't go faster by walking. He tried to stretch his stride but got nothing. He attempted to shorten up and step quicker, but he seemed locked into one speed. Another glance at the onrushing cadet told him it wasn't enough.

  Logan had all kinds of running moves. He could spin, fade away, fake with his head and shoulders, or leave a leg sort of hanging out, just until a tackier tried for it. Mickey Weston saw the moves and tried, but they never worked. When Mickey got a ball, he just ran until someone pulled him down. He ran now, hearing the cadet coming, bracing himself to weather the tackle until he could reach the goal. His mind knew it was too far, but it was all he had.

  Coach could almost feel the coming impact. He hoped his end could hang onto the ball. There would be time for another pl
ay and, from within the ten, Logan might get it in.

  The cadet safety saw the runner hunker his body to take the shot and he came like an arrow. He aimed exactly and left his feet in a flying tackle that would drive a shoulder into the ball carrier's thighs and blast him off his feet.

  Mickey stopped! He hadn't intended to. He didn't know he was going to. He saw the tackler launch himself—he was committed—and Mickey Weston slapped on the brakes.

  Instinct or countless earlier tries? Who could know?

  The cadet's arm struck Mickey's bad knee and almost folded it, but the tackler's weight swept on by. He sprawled and skidded into a miserable heap while Mickey limped the few remaining yards across the goal line.

  Hardly daring to believe, Mickey touched the ball to the ground, the way Logan did, for his first and certainly his only touchdown. He waited for officials to arrive, and the cadet safety got up and shook himself together.

  "Damn, you faked me out of my socks. Nice play, fella." The compliment was sincere and it made the pass and the touchdown even more wildly unbelievable.

  Then the team got there, and Logan's grin was splitting his face. They got organized and Logan drop-kicked the extra point. Coach put Mickey on the bench for the kickoff because his knee was swelling and he could hardly move.

  The cadets made a feeble runback. They tried a long pass that was incomplete, and the game was over. Too jubilant to tolerate, the Bloomfield team huddled around, cheering, whooping, and handshaking. For the first time, Mickey was the center of it. Townsmen thumped his shoulder pads and coach smiled benignly, although Mickey suspected he would have words for him and Logan later on.

  Bart Ruby, who was out of work again, was telling how he had helped work up the play before he had dropped out of school. It was news to Mickey, but that was Bart.