Two Lost Souls

by Scott D Wagner

A good tale always is.

  Thursday March 8. Forty-eight minutes out of Denver International Airport. 34,500 feet.

  Daniel:

  As you know if you do, if you don’t you will now; air travel for me can often be a misadventure. Consider the term: Airline Travel Impaired. Political Correctness; a scourge that has infested our minds and dictates our chosen words. To me, it seems it is this century that has spread this ill pandemic-ally. The diagnosis is over sensitivity. The symptom is group’d anger. Deal with it, often with censored words that retard my thoughts, I do. Searching neurological addresses, I can not locate a single finding of a recent blog posting that went without reprimand. All that I find is binary discipline. (Do you remember that tin voice; ‘You’ve got mail!’ It sent you stumbling to your mouse in anticipation. Oh for those long lost semi analog days.)

  Everything I think, I write, I post, is diagnosed for the faintest glimpse into Political Incorrectness. Any person, group, or inanimate object, perceived to have been wronged, express their or its anger with nearly all of my postings. On occasion, this scrutiny makes me question the moral stances that I present. This self-investigation, I quickly close. Re-reading a past blog, one I pulled to use as fodder for this exact moment, I will make my point.

  This posting was a mostly harmless non-expert commentary on economics. Expert, a word as you know that I often have trouble defining. In this posting, it is very well defined as non.

  This writing contained the following statement; ‘Why do toothpaste manufacturers make tubes with unattached caps?’ Yeah, I know, economics, toothpaste? Not new to you, I often wander write.

  My personal problem is that I tend to lose the caps. The toothpaste dries, clumps, ends up on the toothbrush and then on my tongue. To me it is texture revulsion. I admit as an adult I should be able to maintain cap control, but I do not. However, I ask you, does it deserve what follows?

  Mister Rengaw!

  I and others make those tubes. They are called Detachable Top Tubes. We are very proud of these tubes and work very hard to maintain quality control. It seems that you are an idiot. If you don’t wish to use our fine product that is your choice, but please don’t spread your detrimance on others.

  (I don’t know what that means.)

  I make a living producing this product; if I lose my job are you going to pay my bills? Maybe you need to get your mommy to help you.

  Name withheld.

  Okay, this apparently hit a nerve. However, the idiot thing? And my mommy? Leave her out of it. Come on people! I’ve said it before and I will say it now; ‘Let me give you a little advice. Pull down your pants and slide on the ice.’

  So far, Xanax does not seem necessary. My ATI a mere emotional ripple. Being a nurse, Pami prescribes me the window seat. This left me guarded by the window right and her left. Satisfying to me, I know no Gammy and her baby’s would be overwhelming me. As Grandmothers will. As best I wished and hoped, all was well. The words ‘serenity now’ chuckled in then out me. Pami looked to me.

  Pami reaches to her seat back and pulls out Catch 22. A read unlike Pami in so many ways. There are very few, and I hate to admit that there are indeed any, but I started reading and did not finish that book. I know that it is a cult classic and revered by many. But for mental health reasons I could not finish it. With each new character that was introduced, every new character that purposely wandered apart from the safe place that I wished to shelter my mind within, my ordered rule was jarred by a mocking thump. Dear reader, if you were a psychiatrist, this would be the place where you would say; ‘How does that make you feel Daniel?’

  I hung in there for about a third of the book, and then I placed it away. Far away I thought. Not far enough I now know. I had made Pamila aware that Catch 22 had scared me off. Perhaps this set her intrigue afire.

  The day before leaving, Pamila asked me to fetch Catch 22 for her. I did not. However, I did draw her an oral pirate’s map of where it hid within my office’s bookshelves. She located the X, dug it up, and now holds it in her hands.

  Probably it was a weak deduction, but I thought she hoped it to be everything I was not. A temporary escape from Doctor Daniel Rengaw. I did not like her wanting to be away from me. However, I relent that if I were she, I would need a getaway as well.

  My uncomfortableness not of any importance to her, and most likely not to you either, I was pleased that she was venturing from her Romance Novels. Even if it was to be only for this one. I had mixed feelings. I was glad that she was stepping into a different genre. But worried that she might like it. Like, meaning escape. I clung to, rationalized, that it was a good thing. She could tell me what I had left unfinished.

  Aware now for forty-nine minutes that my seat back held a yellow folder containing a short story that I had converted from an interview nearly fifteen years ago, I was now keenly aware of it. With my inner strength being what it is not, I was proud that I had held firm. I had crossed through time. Time that was set aside for marital obligatory conversation.

  Simply knowing that the yellow was there, was not the wanting magnet drawing me to it. Knowing that I had not read it in around ten years, two months, and seventeen days, was the anxious force of my curiosity. (Rojer would be so proud.)

  The reason I brought the story; ignorance of its content. Simple to me, it was journalistic preparation. This is what I was selling myself. My brother the salesman says; ‘You do not need to believe it, you only need to sell it.’

  I fully knew the facts fictions and emotions that the words within held. My curiosity was brought of insecurity. A story that I had written during a different life, I needed to fall back in to. It was not the fall that I worried about, it was the sudden thump. Not the what of the story, the how. How was my writing of so long ago? A question I would not ask, but an answer I needed. A moment of apprehension. An eighth grader being handed a report card.

  Even before wheels up, it was right there. I could touch it, open it, pull the papers and start my analysis. However, I knew if I gave it any mind, it would become a neurotic fixation.

  Pami now searching for the elephant ear in Catch 22, signaled the end of our conversation time. Elephant earing a book is wrong. It is wrong, always has been, and always will be. It has always been a bug-in-my-boo. (My late Grandmother’s saying.) Deliberately damaging a perfectly good book is wrong. Pami was deliberately anti bookmark. I know it is one of those things that she does to get under my skin. Not marriage damaging, but just plain snotty. She would never do it to one of my books. Well really, this was my book. But it was the whole Catch 22 thing.

  Pre this moment our conversation was general and scattered. Even to me, it was obvious that I had to control my conversation domination problem. Therefore, all topics were Pami’s. She drove the conversation. I did not drive from the backseat. Rhythmically Pami put the pedal down on a deliverance that was both fluid and quick of pace.

  Some topics are important to you reader, some are not. Some topics, to me… I will take the 5th. All topics, to her, I assumed had importance. You can decide which fit where. Pami traveled on the following routes.

  “It was nice of Rebecca to give us a ride to the airport. Did you see how big that bruise on her upper arm was? She must have fallen very hard. What did she say, she did it rock-climbing.”

  “Tina and Dennis invited us for dinner the evening we get back. That was nice, now we won’t have to worry about cooking.”

  “How long has it been? When was it ‘96’ when we last were in Sparta?”

  “I hope Mervin is okay with Sarina. He is kind of lost when his Daddy is gone.”

  “I hope the weather is nice while we are there.”

  “Catch 22. So far I’m enjoying it.”

  “Billy…”

  “Rojer…”

  “Wade…”

  “Stick...”

  “Derron…”

 
“My upcoming optometrist appointment and my one year transplant follow up at University Hospital.”

  At this point reader you should say; ‘Thank you Daniel.’ Even as short as this rather benign summary was, I fear that I may have lost some of you. Truth being told, my hurried synopsis was probably more for me. Now, I get to do this:

  ‘This.’ As much as my mind is demanding, and my right hand tries to reach and grasp, I can’t leave you quite yet. I indeed need to leave you with the briefest of preface.

  Pamila was right; it was 1996 when at The Old Crow Tavern, adjacent to the Boardwalk, located in Old Downtown Sparta, that I met Harry Mortson. Harry was the reason we were heading there now. We, I am pleasantly surprised that it is. These types of trips I usually venture alone. Pami wanting to return to the site of my youth has sparked a childish exuberance in her. Her excitement has leaked on to me.

  When first we met Harry, he was a man of four and seventy. For a man of his age, I found him to be well spirited, mentally sharp, and seemingly healthy. (As I age, I tend to say these things less and less.) This only being significant because our first meeting was fifteen years ago. What was, and is significant to me, is that he was a WWII veteran. Paydirt!

  I need to throw this in; ‘There are, more than you think.’ This statement is a bit of self-defense for what will follow. Please refer back to this statement, as it will indeed concern you.

  Pamila will interject whenever it fills a space in a conversation, that there are none like him. Him, meaning me. Still following? Okay, so, those that are like me, find that the more one studies significant historical events, there are more events revealed as historically significant. Therefore, I tend to define more events as historically significant than many other people might. Probably more than most. My too long gotten to point; I find many events as significant. And few will deny WW II was. I agree, and thus I search-out and absorb intently the words of all WWII veterans. (When you lay down this evening, and try to fall asleep, I hope that paragraph will not keep you awake. I guess I could rewrite it. But I don’t want to.)

  Harry was a B17 crewmember; a Bombardier. Like a moth to a porch light, his stories timelessly drew me. We spoke for a rather long time; a mere instant. My mind vicariously played every role in his tales. Backing a line, I wrote ‘we’. That is because Pami did not want to leave the conversation either. I believe it was Harry’s emotions that gently embraced her. Almost without taking needed breaths, Harry reveled romantically of his crewmembers. They were his friends. They are his brothers. Some moved on in that time. Some moved on later. All would be forevermore.

  In the end, I found out that there would not be one; only a pause. Harry now aware that I was a starving writer, wanted to tell me one other story. A longer story that he would hold for the next day. With an obvious loss of pleasant remembrances, Harry’s face molded stern. His new tone harshly mellow, he alluded to a less frivolous story. I was elated. Pami politely received his invite and apologized for her inability to attend. There was not a literal reason for her decline. I knew the meaning of the reason. Harry’s sudden sullen body language convinced her that what this would be, would not be her. My own reasoning questioned her turndown. Surely, this would be a Significant Historical Event.

  Now, ‘This’.

  When: September 1996.

  Who: Harry Mortson.

  What: WWII B17 Bombardier.

  Where: Sparta New Jersey.

  This story is about a man that…

  My ballpoint not warm yet, I have placed it down for a rest that it does not need. I sit staring at abrupt letdown. Studying the absorbed black ink held by the yellow sheet, and the pen lying next to it, I understand that neither pen nor words are parallel. Both must be. This understanding quickly lifts a flush of anxiety from stomach to thought. I geometrically line pen with tablet. This corrected, I stare at words not parallel to the story, as you must live it.

  ‘This story is about a man that…’ Running atop lines that are perfect, these seven chosen words are so not. They have given birth to a lifeless tale. My story is of only seven words.

  I am at a loss as to how my thoughts written were these. Wondering and looking, staring at the resting pen, I decide the Bic is at fault.

  Silent speaking to pen; ‘How could ya do it man? You have started this tale with words that have instantly sent it polar opposite of where it needs to be.’ Perhaps I should change pens. Or… or… perhaps I am to blame and should stop talking to pens.

  Is this the first, first sentence, that I have ever started a story with? No, but quite possibly it is the worst. As abbreviated as the sentence is, structure and flow are irrelevant. As I lazily understand the hard working rules of grammar, grammar is not eh problem. The problem in my little mind is that both scope and direction have singleness. A solitary man, a moment that is only once, a lone story. Three commas, three untruths. All three simplistically and unintentionally place you in a closet that should have had a locked door. I do not want you in there. However, you have taken a comfortable seat within. Let me see if I can coax you out to the sundeck.

  Noticing my use of ‘Tale’ and ‘Story’, I will add them to be wrong as well. What Harry Mortson gifted me with is neither. Therefore, Tale and Story, I banish you to the Isle of Unwanted Words.

  I am a mere word vessel. My wish is to keep your read goblet full. Again, and I need to stop causing them, this is a problem. I am not sure that I can relate to you the gift Harry gave to me.

  Of what Harry will tell, I have grasped the following. For one, it is emotion. For eight, it is attachment eternally bound. By many, it is the ultimate sacrifice. By the greatest generation, it is unyielding resolve.

  I ask myself; how will I present this with what it merits? Not only do I owe it to them, you must see it as it was. They deserve no less. At this end, my work will not be complete unless I have given clear the attached emotional resolve of those that sacrificed.

  All that knew, and always had forever known, now, remembering is all there is. Remembering waving fields of amber. Now, knowing was of unsettled brown silt that refused to find a place to lay in rest. The once growing soil that was now unable to enter a long fertile slumber. The grape that was being wrath’d was all of America. This land once so green on the plains, and greener in the Banks, was Steinbeck’s metaphorical turtle. Agonizingly slow, yet determined, America was crossing the highway so fraught with ever danger. With every tiny lumbering step, the possibility of its own demise was a single misstep ahead. An end that would not be seen, but always possible, and never out of thoughts.

  Harry Mortson, Lieutenant Army Air Corps.

  Harry Mortson, Lieutenant Colonel United States Air force, retired.

  “I don’t know how to say what that time was.” Harry questioned me with a gaze. “Sad maybe. It was all so sad. Everything was wasted. Do you think?” I did not know if it was sad. I did not have the right to know if was sad.

  “We… my parents had sixty acres of beautiful farmland in Hamden North Dakota. It was.” Harry’s face, round and sagging with age, was filled with emotion. It was of missing amongst a sadness of hurt. His still full head of bright white hair appeared a little less as he was now back in Hamden. “My Grandfather bought it in 1899 for a little over $1,800.00. It was the only place my father ever lived. MY father.” Harry took a moment spent in a smile. “He told me shortly before he passed that he had never been out of the county. ‘Why would I? No need. What do I need that I can’t get here?’ ” Harry chuckled longingly with his father quoting.

  “My brother and I were both raised on the farm. We had a wonderful youth. Care free and easy. It was the best place to grow up. It was just so always welcoming. Happy ya know. It was the last time that it would be.” Harry exhaled a short chuckle. “But now, living, seeing outside the farm, it was a tough life. Farm life was hard. I guess I am spoiled now.�
� He hunched forward as if he hurt. “It was a wonderful place though.” He sat straight, the pain gone.

  What Harry was saying, or what I thought he was saying, confused me. These words care free and easy; he was implying that their truest meaning would only be found after the farm.

  My days of youth had grown into remembrances. However, I needed to be back there again. Otherwise, I could not meet Harry’s past. Even then, it was a time that I could not go to. It was a place in time that only his generation could go. His words could only have meaning for the greatest generation. I was only a come-along-later of that generation.

  How could this be? How could his life after the farm be his easy? What little I did know of Harry, most of us would not. There was battle. Men died. Friends and enemies. He had killed combatants and he had killed innocent. He had killed. Easier? Carefree? I did not know. I would not know. I am so young confused.

  Harry again went home. “Worth wise… aah, the farm probably didn’t have any.” He grunted. “It was useless.” Harry sighed deeply as these words did not come comfortably. Slight and slow, Harry’s head shook. “All those years, every year.” Harry’s eyes, square on the coffee table in front of him, were seeing the farm in all its different moments. He lifted his head away from the farm. He stared at me with an intended pause. The pause asked me to listen to what would follow. “ ‘Mister Rengaw, how does your mind work?’ ” I laughed short and hard. He chuckled. As did Todd. “No no that is not what I mean. How does your memory work?” He did not pause for an answer. “Mine, not always, sometimes, I guess mostly with good remembrances. It is like pictures. Photographs.” Then he paused waiting. I had nothing! His head quick and slight tilted to his left. “In this remembrance I have four photos.” He needed to modify. “They are color photos. Not just shades of gray.” I smiled at his apparent need to prism this memory.

  “Like a Vegas dealer tuning hole cards, these four pictures rolled through the year in a sequence determined by the seasons. My first focused memory is the snow. It was always clean. Brilliant white. But sometimes it shined more than other times. You know, depending on the wind. A northern or southern wind.” He stared at me. “Temperature.” The old farmer clarified for someone so young.

  “This photo melted into the next. So fresh smelling. So full of anticipation. It is my favorite.” Harry waved his hand in an erasing manner. “I’m sorry I don’t know why I said that. They are all my favorite. They all have a different feeling attached. A different meaning. Ya know what I mean?” I marveled at how Harry himself was able to sequence. I first noticed it the previous day. When he was deep in thought, memory driven thought, he was one person. He was eloquent and succinct with his thoughts. When he was just Harry, he was just Harry. Real, what I believed real Harry to be. However, it was his ease with toggling the switch back and forth that intrigued me. He did it flawlessly, smoothly, never trying too hard.

  Only my thoughts interrupted Harry’s telling. He never paused. “The rolling hills of perfectly plowed, perfectly brown, perfectly seeded land. Hmm… I don’t know why I see it that way. You know, rolling.” He chuckled short. “Our land was as flat as a pond on an early spring morning.” Again he chuckled. Again he toggled.

  “Green Sprouts… did you ever hear tell of the Green Sprouts? FDR? The Green Sprouts?” My mind circled a trail around nothing. I hoped he would lay me a path. His face puzzled briefly as he tried to fit the pieces. “The Green Sprouts of the growing economy. FDR. You know. Roosevelt spoke often of the Green Sprouts of the growing economy.” I wasn’t sure if I should be, but I was embarrassed that I couldn’t find my way. But more, I didn’t want to embarrass him.

  Softly I said; ‘I don’t recall… I never-’

  “Oh hell I’m an old man my memory sucks maybe it wasn’t FDR maybe it was somebody else.” Harry indeed had billeted away some years. However, his mind was laser sharp. Harry did not suck. “Aah! It doesn’t matter anyways. I loved that crippled son-of-a-bitch. Loved him. That angry old mule always plowed on. He wasn’t afraid of anyone.” He chuckled quick and then continued; “I don’t know who was more afraid of him, the Germans or our communist allies. Russians!” In disgust, his head shook. “General, George, Patton, was right! Those assholes! We should have blown them to bits. Look at the years of trouble we have had with them. Where’s your wall now you Bolshevik bastards!” Harry rocked forward in laughter. His openness tickled me. However, with my neurotic need for structure, I did wonder if his path had been lost.

  I waited, he enjoyed, he switched. “The next slide is Green Sprouts. That is next. The millions of dirt blisters, slowly being raised until they without ever being noticed were tossed aside by an uncoiling green sprout. My brother and I use to bet chores on the day that the first sprout would appear. He was really good at it. I usually had his chores to do.

  “The soil, the fertile life giving brown would be so slow, so continual. I always felt that the soil was alive. Alive. And… I don’t know, sort of confident. Yeah! Confident! It knew it could grow the best wheat in the county. And it did. Our wheat was magnificent. The best! Always the best.

  “From sprouts, to young, to adult plants, whatever kind of plant they were. Almost all was wheat. Our cash crop. The rest, the Kitchen Garden, had dozens of different plants. The colors. The Kitchen Garden was beautiful. All the colors. I’ll never forget the perfect colors. Do you know what I mean? Green, perfect green. What everyone thinks of as green. Perfect red and yellow. Mmm mmm. Perfect!

  “‘ ‘Mister Rengaw have you ever been in a field of golden wheat? Amber waving wheat?’ ” He hiccup’s a laugh that held satisfaction. Looking into my eyes, he knew the answer. He was right. Knowing he was right he tried to share. “Wheat forever, shoulder high, it covered the world. When you stand in a field of adult wheat, wheat ready for the yellow and red Harvester, you understand what fresh smells like. Nothing else has the scent of fresh like wheat. I can not describe it. That smell, it is every bit a part of my last photo as are the colors. But you know what? This last picture is in black and white. And yet I know every color. Is that strange? How can that be? It makes no sense right.

  “This is the last photo. When I think about it now, it makes me sad. But then, in this picture, or maybe right after, there is nothing but satisfaction. A sense of a job well done. You did it. It was slow hard and constant. The wheat is in. The Kitchen Garden harvested. You are done. It’s a powerful feeling Mister Rengaw. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt that. I don’t think you have. Unless you have farmed, I don’t think you can. I don’t feel like there is anything exactly like it. But ya know that feeling was never around long. Soon, way too soon, that feeling would swell into restlessness. You couldn’t wait for the pictures to start rolling again. You had nothing but energy to burn. Oh there were still chores. But you could finish all before lunch. Or you could spread them out over the day. It was a very restless time full of anticipation. It was like you had to work at not working. I felt like I was floating in the middle of the Atlantic. I wanted to go somewhere but there was no land in sight. There was nowhere to go. Eventually, slowly, the Gulf Stream would take you there. But damn it took a long time. Do you understand?”

  I thought I understood. But there was no way that I could. My adult life to this point did not repeat itself over and again in a perfect cycle. Maybe, a single day was this. Seasonal cycles my life lived only on the calendar. Only with rain and sun, heat and cold. Emotions? None like Harry’s. Work, less work, work again, was not rhythmic in my life. Sure, there were pauses and interruptions. Sometimes planned sometimes not. But they were always brief. No, Harry was right, I did not understand. That feeling, I had never had. I want to need to be a farmer.

  “Now, which is now then, the brown confidence is gone. The Kitchen held only pity. Holding it loos
e, stagnant in a soil without a top. The perfect colors were a tertiary of dead. The photos stopped rolling. Now, which is then, they for me are only remembrances blown eastward.”

  Harry’s hands, those that had so been a part of Hamden and of this he was now telling, had their plug pulled. Arms without another word to emphasize dropped on either side of his chair. Slowly, and without thinking to, Harry’s hands curled into fists. Not a clench of anger, more of a frustration that he could not fix. A frustration that was still held deep within him. A self-failure that Harry had never forgiven himself. This wrong, as he saw it, will be seen by a mistaken Harry until his end. Anger, he would share with me later. By now, now which was now, hidden after all that was The Good Farm, there was indeed an anger.

  “Hamden I knew would always be my home, but I couldn’t live there any longer. My brother also came to grips with cupboards bare. Hell, there was less than enough to feed Mom and Dad. This land was their home. There never was a choice, they would always stay.”

  Harry’s face filled with the warmth of something. Surely, it was what he would call a good remembrance. “Ya know…” His words fell off as he shaped thoughts. “It is so different today.” He turned to his son. It seemed like he was going to thank Todd. It was an admiring look. One of love holding respect. His eyes were reflective, then searching. They sought what I was. Yes as a man, but it was the person that he most wanted to identify. I have no idea what he did find, but he did begin again. “The family, the spirit of the family changed. Almost overnight. A specific spot on the family time-line. Can you see it? The mark is right there. The depression. Right in the middle. The war. Right in the middle. That’s when it happened. Families splintered, members left, it changed. It never shifted back. It won’t and I guess it shouldn’t. It is all so different now. Isn’t it? Do you think?”

  Harry smoothly rubbed his chin. “Before and still then, in America, family, the word, the bond, it was all inclusive. Dominant. It was lives always. Yes!” he shouted. It was with an epiphany happening. “It was everything every way. Family was singular. The force of the family always did everything. Every decision was decided by the family, for the good of the family. All moneys went to one. Things were done only after discussion. Damn we were always discussing. That is the way it was. Every crisis, no matter the size or shape brought open discussion. And not just by the senior members. Yeah they made the final decisions, but there was always a discussion. Formal, they were formal discussions. Hmm…” I chuckled softly. Not softly enough.

  ‘Why do you find that humorous?’

  ‘No! I don’t… sorry it is only something that popped into my head. It was not you.’ Considering me, a look, his look, slammed me back to Basic Training. I was a young Airman about to piss on a highly polished Barack floor. And can someone please tell me why this large man with the Park Ranger hat keeps yelling at me.

  Sorry! I digress.

  How bad was my faux pa? My giggle was brought about by inner recognition that I do that. Harry’s sudden change in direction is what Pami calls a Danny Digress.

  I waited without breathable air. I had done a bad thing. Pay the gatekeeper I surely would. Bad interviewer! Maybe this is why I am a starving writer.

  Harry’s face slowly turned toward Todd. However, his eyes stayed fixed on me. I reached to turn the recorder off. ‘Go ahead Dad it’s okay he didn’t mean anything.’ Harry’s eyes jerked to his son. ‘Dad he is just a stupid Kid.’ My hand held above the recorder. Not possible to move any slower, Harry returned to me. Todd winked at me. I pulled my hand back.

  Without inflection, but with earned respect, Colonel Mortson asked; ‘What popped into your empty head Airman?’ Trying for sincerity, I instantly told him. My voice cracking like an Airman Basic, I clumsily spit it out. As stupid as it was, I told the Colonel. Finished telling, it was the stupidest thing I had ever said to an Officer. Well… maybe not.

  Harry took it in. His eyebrows lifted for attack. His lips quivered. I sat back as far as I could. Slapping a thigh Harry burst into laughter. Not knowing anything, I did nothing. ‘You are an idiot!’ Harry was nothing but raw laughter. A moment passed while Harry enjoyed. Unsoiled, I eased in my seat.

  Just like that, Harry was over it. He calmly began again. “Both me and my brother had been away at college. Oh yeah… That is where I was going. It must make you wonder how the two of us could afford college. See, that is what I was speaking of. Remember! Family! Anyways. It was always understood for as long as I could remember that I was going to college. Never a doubt, which was the family decision. With this decision was the always putting away of money for the both of us. It didn’t seem like it was hard to do. It was just done. That was it.

  “Both of us being gone September through June was both good and bad for my parents. Two less mouths to feed, two very hungry mouths, that was the good. The bad, the bad that made their lives almost beyond what they could physically endure, was us not being there. Not working, not helping. Sixty percent of their workforce was off at college. I guess I’m being sexist against my own mother.” He huffed twice very deep and quick. ‘Don’t write that.’ Todd laughed hard. I wanted to as well but was afraid to. It was too soon. However, ‘don’t write that’, you just read that.

  Harry’s body went limp with heavy. His chest supported his chin. “Damn. It never was worse. Damn!” Todd rose quickly.

  ‘Dad why don’t we take a break.’ With eyes glossed, Harry did not acknowledge his son. Not his suggestion, perhaps not his presence.

  “Oh both me and my brother would come home every summer and help, but it wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough. I thought it was more of a burden than a help. Mom would have it no way other.”

  Todd was looking down at his father. Harry looked up. ‘What?’ Harry asked his son. Todd understood, taking his seat again. Harry pushed through. “In 1938 I got my degree and hitched back to the farm. I can’t tell you how many times on that trip I asked myself what the hell was I goona do now?” Again he huffed. “All dressed up with no place to go. You understand right! There were few jobs at that time. You know that right! Hamden, forget it.” His anger began to show. Not at me. Which was good. But it was there. There, a dark mist that would never lift from the farm. Still, so much was always warm bright weather. This is what Harry took off the farm. This is what he held on to tight.

  “So it wasn’t…” Harry stopped. His words seemed too bulky to get out. Whatever he had to say now was very important to him. He got a bit louder. “Oh I forgot! Sorry I need to tell ya this.” Again he looked for my attention. “Just before I left for my freshmen year, I took a Civil Service examination. I took it and never really thought about it much after that. Until…” He paused. Thinking aloud, he started again. “Oh… maybe not yet. No, it is okay. I think you will understand.”

  Harry took a pause to change mind flow to word flow. “It was late in the summer of 38. I remember it was a very hot day. For September very hot. I had spent the morning circling around the property on a wagon. I was doing some general maintenance. Fixing the irrigation system and inspecting the crops.” He huffed quick. “Crops. For what they were. It really wasn’t hard work. But damn it was hot.

  “I’d been watching the sun’s height but I must have misjudged it. Splashing water on my face from the wash basin, Momma who was disgusted with me, scolded in the way she did.” Harry grinned. “It’s funny, but when I was twelve I started laughing at her scolding. Her tone wanted to be angry, but her voice had so much love. I would laugh and she would get madder and madder. But she still could not lose the mad love. I would laugh.”

  Harry was smiling loud as he continued; “Drying my hands I heard; ‘Harry I swear you get lost more than any child I have. Do you want to waste this food?’ Of course I laughed. Well I just told you. You’d laugh to right. I
mean she only had two childs. And I never wasted food. ‘I’m sorry Momma.’ I was always saying that. Then I would kiss her cheek. I ate my lunch and sat back. ‘You want some more Harry?’ Mom asked. Dad snorted. He and I both knew there was not more. Not for this meal.

  “After I finished my meal, only after I finished, my mom brought me an envelope. There was no writing on it and it was open. I didn’t think it had been sealed. But if it had it didn’t matter, my mom would always open it. She would always say; ‘It might be important.’ And really, back then it usually was. It is not like today. Back then mail was rare and always had meaning.

  “Quickly I realized that this was not mail. It couldn’t be from the United States Post Office. ‘’What is this?’ I asked.

  ‘Just open it son. Read it.’ My dad said this with a smile on his face. It wasn’t much of a smile, but still more than he was trying to let it be. I looked up at my mother. She was standing there wringing her hands in her favorite apron.

  ‘Open it Dear open it,’ Mom begged. My heart pulsed warmth to my head that my hand held something wonderfully important. Moms are the worst poker players.

  “I guess it was pure excited nerves, again I looked at both sides of the manila envelope. And there still was no writing. I fumbled with it and pulled the yellow paper out. It was twice folded and opened to six inches by four inches. It read.

  Washington D.C..

  If offered… Would you accept… a civil service position in Washington DC. $10,080.00 per year. Please acknowledge in 7 days.

  “It was signed, not a signature but it was from the Assistant to the Secretary of War. I don’t remember the name. Does it matter? I could look it up but I’d rather not. I wish I’d saved that telegram. I’d love to have it but who thinks of that stuff in the moment. Ya know?” Not thinking he did, he did, Harry waited for an answer. Not knowing what he wanted answered; I hoped I would pass with a slight headshake. “Good!” Harry boomed deep and satisfied. I laughed cautiously. Todd’s torso jerked a silent chuckle.

  Without any notice, Harry started to his feet. Todd jumped and grabbed his arm to assist. Harry lifted his arm up away and free. He did not want any help and I did not think he needed any.

  Light, presenting words of importance only to himself, Harry said; “It’s gonna rain on the Fuhrer.” My eyes followed as he headed to a hallway and disappeared. Rain on the Fuhrer? I didn’t… My thoughts of not understanding must have showed on my face. Todd said; “Rain on the Fuhrer. My father told me that his crew use to say that as they left the briefing room and headed to their aircraft. I think many crews said the same. It was kind of a thing. It was like their war cry. Now, after the war, it morphed into a new meaning.”

  “Pissing on the Fuhrer?” I asked. Todd nodded.

  “Yeah, pissing on Hitler.” Instantly that was hilarious and I wanted it saved. I folded it and tucked it away.

  “What does Harry say about-”

  “About shitting?” Todd grinned huge. Without saying another word, Todd said everything. He left it to whatever I wanted it to be. It was perfect.

  Having not been at Todd’s home very long, it was already raining. How often would the clouds be opening up? How long would this interview take? Searching yesterday’s visit at The Old Crow, it had only poured once in three hours. With this look back, my concern faded.

  Harry’s steps were hard on wood, his feet not yet seen. “Damn did he get wet.” Now in the room. “That sure felt good. At my age anything feels good.” At himself, Harry chuckled and sat back down.

  The fingers of Harry’s left hand passed over his lips. He pinched his chin into a dimple. “So where were we? Oh yeah… It was uh… December, yeah December, the middle of. So I left for Washington D.C.. What a place. ‘Have you ever been there Mister Rengaw?’

  ‘Once. I was pretty young.’

  ‘Good!’ he once again boomed out. Once again it startled me. Okay Rengaw... get a handle on it. You cannot jerk every time the bear growls.

  ‘Did you know Mister Rengaw-’

  ‘Please call me Daniel or Danny.’ He sat back stiff upright. Harry’s loose lips tightened, his mouth shrunk and his head dipped slightly. Dark eyes lifted meeting mine. Harry swung his face to meet Todd’s

  ‘Daniel, my father would prefer to call you Mister Rengaw. Or Sir. Sir would work also.’ Todd shrugged. ‘It is a military thing.’

  ‘It’s just respect that’s all. Politeness. Damn politeness that’s all. Where have manners gone?’ Harry snapped this at Todd. He swung back to me. He had snapped it to me as well. He had snapped it to all the world.

  I wanted to defend myself. ‘Harry I am…’ My lungs had no air and my larynx was closing. In mid-sentence, I glimpsed into horror. For the past twenty-four hours, I had been calling him Harry. It was awkward in thought; did I think it would be better in sound. ‘Is it okay if I call you Harry?’ It was only a tenth of a second, but I thought it bad. ‘I… I meant no disrespect.’ He was going to rain on me. His brow was hiding a full third of his eyes. His cheeks were pulsating. Should I duck from the explosion? He stared a stare that was not going to end. The interview however…

  ‘Dad!’ With Todd’s naming, Harry slammed back in his seat with a loud slap of a thigh.

  ‘Gotcha boy! Damn you’re an easy son-of-a-bitch.’ I was.

  ‘Dad!’ Todd said firmly.

  ‘Oh take it easy son. I’ am just screwing with the boy.’

  ‘Just once Dad, behave. He is a guest in this house.’

  ‘Ahh! He drank whiskey with me yesterday. He’s not a guest. Right Mister Rengaw?’ I guess I was not a guest. Still, Harry wanted to call me Mister Rengaw. Twenty-three years in the military will do that. I kind of appreciated it. Not so much the words of respect, more his want to.

  ‘Sir you were speaking of Washington.’ His thoughts re-sharpened with a quick cutting of his chuckle.

  “Yeah I was. Do you know about Washington? Washington the man designed Washington the city. He engineered the entire city. It is a wheel and spoke layout. European. French I think. Hell I’m not sure. The whole damn thing was built on swampland. Soggy Ground or some such. Son…” He leaned toward me. ‘Did you know that by law it can only be one hundred square miles in size?’

  Replace Soggy Ground with Soggy Bottom, take some of the engineering applications from Washington the man, I thought Harry to be right. Or some such.

  ‘No I didn’t know that Harry.’ Again the brow, again the stare. Both theatrically over presented.

  ‘Dad!’ I laughed freely.

  Through his self-enjoyed laughter, Harry rattled out; ‘Sorry Mister Rengaw. Sorry. You are a good kid. I’m finished now.’ The switch in Harry suddenly contacted closed. His eyes drifted upward. ‘Wait!’ He found me again. ‘Mister Rengaw didn’t you say yesterday that you had been in the Air Force? Noncommissioned right?’

  ‘Yes Sir. I was a Technical Sergeant when I left the service.’ That title sent him searching rank within today’s Air Force. ‘E-6,’ I clarified.

  ‘Oh okay. Good!’ His cheeks pushed his face to one of appreciation. ‘NCO’s! Hmm. The heart of the Service. The heart and soul. The brains as well.’ He bellowed a single laugh. Quick, his eyes dashed first right then left. His voice hushed to a whisper. ‘Officers. Not worth a damn. Fat ass pencil pushers. They didn’t know shit about shine-olla. His volume gained. ‘I mean the Desk Jockeys. You know!’ Getting smarter, I said nothing. I hoped my face said the same. I thought I was now good with him, but why push the envelope.

  ‘Would anyone like something to drink?’ Todd asked taking to his feet. Todd’s abrupt intervention made me question if I’d dropped another faux pa. Had I… Did I say something wrong? Thankfully, calm swatted away my paranoia. Todd was simply playing good host. Harry lifted upward but not out of his chair.

&n
bsp; ‘Schlitz! Get me a Schlitz Todd.’

  ‘It’s too early Dad.’ Father, with un-words that I was not supposed to be a part of, looked hard softly at Son.

  ‘Water. A little water would be nice Todd.’ I thanked Todd for his offering. He headed to the kitchen. Harry watched the kitchen door swing closed behind him.

  Harry turned to me and gently said; ‘He’s a good kid. He just worries about me too much.’ Todd was at least fifteen years older than I, but to Harry he was still a kid. No doubt I was just cutting my first teeth.

  Wanting to keep the interview moving, I prompted Harry to do so. ‘Go ahead Harry.’ He sat back covering one hand with another. Both now rested in his lap. This body language grabbed me. It looked forced, it took effort, it was awkward, it was not Harry.

  “Yes. Let’s see. Okay. Yeah so I was assigned to the Quartermaster General’s office. It was a brand new building and was still under construction. I think it was supposed to be for the new Social Security Administration. They never got it, we took it over.” Harry grunted victoriously and then looked at me questioning. “Do you want me to tell you what happened over the next couple of years?” He did not slow. “The work was pretty menial. Mostly clerical and some courier. Oh and some research not much. It was mostly bureaucratic bullshit. Let’s move beyond all that. Although...” He smiled. “I could tell you some great stories.” His head tilted slightly back, his grin was remembering some great playtime. He waved his hand away. “It was mostly chasing skirts and getting drunk. Just stupid shit. You know. Kid crap!” I was still. “Never mind! I’m sure you don’t care.” I would have loved to care.

  Harry looked to the kitchen door that was yet still. Leaning forward he whispered; ‘Would you like some Moonshine? I’ve got a little Still in the shed. MY Dad made Shine most his life. Mom didn’t know. It’s kind of a hobby for me. Probably sentimental. You think. My son pretends not to know about it.’ He leaned back and chuckled short.

  With a pushing of air and a metallic squeak the kitchen door swung out. Todd placed a glass of water on the table before me, and a cold can of Schlitz in Harry’s hand. Harry looked into Todd. Todd looked deeper into Harry. Todd’s look I had seen before from Pami. It said; I shouldn’t, you don’t deserve it, I love you. From Pami, it would end with ‘Idiot’. But it’s not just Harry or me, not only Todd or Pami, it is all of you. Oh yeah! You all have gotten that look. You know you have. They probably shouldn’t. You did not deserve it. They do love you. They cannot not. Sorry if you also get ‘Idiot’. However, do not let it bother you. Consider yourself lucky to have someone to call you idiot. You, I, all, are stupidly loved. Pamila chose to marry me. So if I am stupidly loved, what does that make her? My father did warn her. Oh. By the way, thanks Dad!

  Todd allowing, Harry won. I am certain that this is common, a theme of their relationship. Harry shared a smile with his son. He looked at me. His look asked; ‘Did you see what just happened there?’ Taking his seat, Todd’s look was; ‘What ya gonna do?’ Two taps on the top of the can, a pop, a swoosh, Harry drew a good sip. I so wish that I could tell that it all ended with a long and satisfied ‘Ahh!’

  Refreshed, Harry’s head tilted back and rested against the chair. Harry still inspecting the ceiling, more memories trickled to my ears. He spoke deliberately. “One afternoon, a rather warm day in early December 1941, the four of us were waiting for any last assignment that might come in. There was a radio playing in the secretary’s office. It was one of those old wooden boxes. It had that wishbone shape ya know. We couldn’t hear it very well. That thing crackled like a bowl of Rice Krispies. Fading, always fading in and out.” Harry grinned that of a fond memory. “Suddenly Miss Nelson let out a gasping scream. Not loud but we all heard it.” He paused briefly as he looked to Todd and then back to me. As he continued, I felt him looking around me into a different time, at a different place. Throaty and low, Harry went on; “Oh Miss Nelson… Miss Nelson, she was a real doll.” Miss Nelson was a Harry photograph. “She use to wear those knit skirts. You know the ones that would form to her… to her form I guess.” He made a curvy motion with his hands. Harry scooted forward and now saw me. His mind was… I was curious where it was. However, if I did know, I am not sure I should share it with you.

  Todd was staring at him. Harry’s face was flush as his emotions were revving up. His words rambled. “And those stockings the ones with seams running up the back of her gams her thighs and then disappearing under her skirt you know the ones I mean? And those sweaters. Elizabeth could wear a sweater. Damn! She knew how to wear a sweater. You know what I mean?” Hands cupping high at his chest, Harry further illustrated.

  ‘Dad!’ Todd’s verbal slap was without conviction. Harry broke and looked to his son. Harry’s glance was of missing lust and lasting respect. His face fell into a shade of blue sadness. I didn’t know why or where the color came from. As curious as I was, now was not the right time. Asking why the sudden color, would have to be left to my wondering. Good interviewer.

  Whatever the emotion was that now held Harry, it drifted the conversation silently along. I would tell you that it was an uncomfortable moment, but I was okay with it. I refreshed with a mental cleansing.

  As quickly as the chalk of his emotion could be wiped from a slate, it was. “Did I tell you that I named our bomber after her? Luscious Liz. I had her painted on our ship. She was beautiful.” His inflection, though unique, did not help me to picture Miss Nelson. I did have a picture, but it was not Harry’s. That which he was not describing, left it so to me. I will let you paint your own. Miss Nelson, Luscious Liz. Both are Harry’s. Harry should keep her.

  Harry’s desire was stashed away as he stepped back in to line. “Elizabeth’s pitch, her inhaled delivery caught all of our attention. We ran in to her office. Kip spoke. And thinking back on it, he was the only one to do so during the next minutes.

  “Kip shouted; ‘What’s wrong!’ Liz’s left hand covered parted lips. Finger extended, she pointed to the RCA. It’s funny but I remember looking to the radio like this would help me hear it better. My ears picked up a reporter that was obviously excited, but was trying hard to be professional. What I heard was; ‘Earlier today... To repeat. The Department of War has just released a statement that reads. Several hours ago our fleet in Pearl Harbor Hawaii, and our ground forces on the surrounding islands, were attacked by aircraft of the Imperial Nation of Japan.’ The reporter paused for what seemed like a long time and started again; ‘At this time, it is not clear exactly when this occurred. We have no reports on casualties or damage. To repeat…’

  “I don’t know the announcer’s name. I’m not sure I ever did, but I wish I did. It would help you don’t you think?”

  ‘I can find out,’ I said. I didn’t think I would, it just seemed like the thing to say.

  Without me noticing, Harry in the exuberance of his telling had eased to the edge of his chair. Like a curtain dropping between acts, Harry dropped deep within his padded chair. He sat there, but he was not here. I was however sure that it no longer was with Luscious Liz. His location I had heard tell of, more times than our world should have allowed. However, the noises that gave odors, the objects created for pain, the instant finality of death, only brothers be au fait with. Only brothers would together live through. Only brothers could never be apart from.

  When it was time, when Harry returned from afar, we again would be settled in this place. What had happened afar, I did not know. But the happening was suddenly finished. Harry startled. Back and seeing me, it took him a moment to thaw. A puppy suddenly jerking awake from a deep slumber, Harry searched his surroundings. He glanced hard right to Todd, then slower back to me.

  ‘Dad?’ asked Todd gently. With a fidget and a clearing of throat, Harry buried thoughts he no longer wanted.

  Harry goes to war.

&nbs
p; “Over the next couple of weeks, the four of us friends thought about what we were going to do. Kip was going to keep working at the Quartermaster General’s office. He had shot off two toes on his left foot in a rabbit hunting accident. He knew he wouldn’t be drafted.”

  Harry laughed pretty hard remembering Kip’s telling of the accident. It was quite funny. Mostly Harry’s telling and animations. However, it was also quite lengthy and I will tuck it away for a time that is not this.

  “Floyd enlisted and became a Dive-Bomber. Who the hell would do that! Landing on the tiny decks of aircraft carriers. Forget that shit! Crazy bastards. But that was Floyd.”

  Harry smiled shaking his head. “Crazy bastard. He was shot down in the north pacific. Over No Man’s Land. Chichi Jima I heard it was. He was officially listed as Killed in Action.

  “What those Japs did to downed flyers. I’ve heard horrible things. Beheadings, lancing’s with bayonets and sharpened bamboo. Torture, a lot of torture. I hope Floyd died a peaceful death.” Harry snorted. “Is there any such thing. Can death be peaceful? Maybe I guess.” He chortled. “I guess I will find out soon enough.” Todd grunted. ‘What are you grunting at?’

  ‘You are way too ornery to die.’ Harry laughed. Todd smiled. I wanted to do both.

  Harry’s questions I knew some of. My answers would have been information he didn’t need to carry forward. Under oath, before the Senate Oversight Committee, my truths would have only added to whatever sadness he held.

  Harry realized that he’d asked me to go somewhere that he had stayed away from all the years. His rushed continuation cloaked all memories that he wished protected in a mist of forced naiveté.

  “Floyd was my best friend. A good man.” Harry struggled, not wanting to let loose that emotion which was a clump in his throat. His passages rid the dirty air, expelling the unwanted melancholy.

  “Stanley Distick he was an ass. I did not like him. I mean he was a good enough fella. He was an ass though.” These words flew from his lips still trying to protect and blanket. “He certainly didn’t like me. He was one of those… what do you call em… know it all’s. That’s it. He didn’t know shit. I mean not about real stuff. Ya know. We had several fights. Drunk, we were always drunk. Mostly they were about Miss Nelson. We never really hurt each other. We were young stupid and drunk. In the end, I won.” Harry’s smile filled to a sly grin.

  “Anyways, I lost touch with him. He planned to keep working at the Agency. Shortly after I went overseas, he was drafted into the marines. I heard he’d been killed but that was all I knew. I guess I could have found out more, but I didn’t care. Do you think that wrong? You know… me not caring.

  “I guess I decided that I wanted to be a pilot. I didn’t really decide then, I had wanted to be a pilot most of my life. All boys did. Why not. Airplanes were so new then. They were exciting. Adventurous. All boys wanted to fly. Hmm! That probably hasn’t changed today.” Harry looked to Todd.

  ‘Ya think?’ Todd shrugged.

  “So I enlisted in the Army Air Corp. The 8th Air Force. The 8th Air Force had been formed in Savannah Georgia. It had no planes and only seven members.” Harry grunted a smile. “Do you know what the first words I heard after enlisting were? They were from the Captain that swore me and four others in.” Harry jumped to his feet and assumed Parade Rest. Todd flinched in his chair. ‘Men! You have been chosen from a select few. You are the best this country has to offer. You are to be the nucleus of the 8th Air Force. You, and others that will soon follow, will defeat the most powerful flying force ever assembled. The Luftwaffe.’ ” Harry slapped his hands together and bent forward in a quick laugh.

  “Do you know how stupid that sounded to me? I swear I almost lost it.” Harry seemed to be reflecting. “But damn if we didn’t do just that.”

  As Harry sat back to his seat, his face showed a pride that only those that had been selected could.

  “Did you know Mister Rengaw that the 8th Air Force lost 26,000 men in World War two? More than the Marines did.” He had me. This I did not know. And this, he would never know.

  Like a cheetah pacing the Serengeti, he searched for the weakest wildebeest. My historical knowledge was being stalked. Harry wanted to know with what he was engaged. I understood this. Eventually satisfied that I was not the weakest of the herd, Harry moved on to other prey.

  “First, I went to Maxwell Field and enlisted.” Loosely fisted, he held his right hand shoulder height; his thumb extended. “It was crazy how many different locations I went for my training. Then I was ordered to Sarasota for pilot training.” Index finger popped to count two. “There I trained to fly PT17’s. It was also there that I did not become a Pilot.” Still talking, Harry’s head shook gently. “I had done everything. Almost. All the formal education. No problem! I passed all the flying skills.”

  ‘Not all!’ Todd said with more than an ounce of irreverence.

  Any man, well skilled in the art of fathering would respond thusly. Father, not a glimpse at son. Father did not reply to son. Most importantly, to father, not a pause. Harry didn’t slight a syllable. Perfect!

  “Well there was this one thing.” Todd was staring at me. His grin was anticipating. He was trying to keep it just a grin. Though I did not know the smirk’s reason for being, Dear reader, you are about to.

  “There was this one stupid test. Really, it was pretty important. I was supposed to find a telephone poll line or a railroad track or anything similar. Then I was to drop to 2,000 feet and follow the line. Every damn time I did I would lose my lunch.” Todd’s entire body cramped. “My flight instructor took me into his office and yelled at me.

  ‘What the hell is wrong with you Mortson? You have passed everything except low level paralleling. I am going to give you one more chance. That is all I can give you. Damn it Mortson you have to pass. If you don’t… if you can’t… if you vomit one more time, well… you are through. Do you understand?’ I acknowledged, saluted, and turned to leave.

  ‘Lieutenant!’ I turned back. ‘Look... I am on your side. I am going up with you. I will be right next to you. You will be fine.’ ” Todd coughed chokingly. “The next day up I went, and up it came. I was done.”

  ‘No no finish it tell him the rest tell the rest Dad.’ Todd was on the edge. Harry looked hard at son. His hiding smile was noticeable. Todd leaned hard away from Dad; his enjoyment began to leak. Todd did not wait for the rest. ‘He… he puked…’ Todd looked at Harry. Difficult to talk, Todd pointed at Dad. ‘His flight instructor… he threw-up all over his flight instructor.’

  Harry looked at me with a wonderful enjoyment. ‘Well I didn’t want to throw up on the instruments.’ Todd wiped tears with the back of his hand. ‘Oh shut the hell up Todd. What did you want me to do?’ Todd fell away and down the hallway. Harry looked to me with a smile that hurt just a bit.

  The two of us enjoyed a moment. This story was one of those family treasures tucked away for always. It had been told and listened to many times. Todd loved to tell it, and Harry loved to have been it. He lived it now as a funny Harry moment. However, then, at 2000 feet with the instruments spared and his instructor covered, even then it had to be perfect.

  Harry’s head too quickly flipped back like a Pez dispenser. He squinted with pain. His raised hand presented thumb, index, and middle finger. “Washing out of pilot school I was sent back to Maxwell. I was given two choices: Navigator or Bombardier. I really didn’t know what either was, but Bombardier just sounded cool. It sounded kind of tough. Bombardier! Don’t you think?” Small pause. “So off I went to Santa Anna California; Bombardier training.” Ring finger.

  “Then to Victorville and back to Santa Anna.” Pinky and other thumb. “Back at Santa Anna I finished my book learning; algebra, geometry, and a touch of mechanical physics. All in three weeks can you believe that?”<
br />
  A glimpse of a nervous habit, Harry’s Index finger that had yet to be a visual, scratched beneath a bulbous nose. “Let’s see, it was now… July of 1942. Yeah July. Off to Albuquerque and more flight training. We flew PT10’s.” His scratching finger now another tally tick’d. “My training was complete. I graduated.

  “Idaho, Boise, I was assigned to Boise. The 379th bomber group; squadron 527.” Myself knowing it to be, it still intrigues me. You can ask any former military member, any age, they can tell you. They remember every assignment, every Command, every Group and Squadron they were ever in. It is somewhat unusual. But not if you are one of them. It is as much a family to you as your own. It’s just a thing.

  “Here is where I got my B17. I was assigned to a flight crew. She was a beautiful aircraft. Not even painted yet. The sun bounced off of her like something… mystical I guess. All silver, beautiful, brand new. I cannot describe it. Liz wasn’t mine. I mean she belonged to the 8th Air Force. But yeah, she was ours. All eight of us. The crew.” Glossed with remembrance, admiration pooled in the corners of Harry’s soft eyes. “We were a great crew. All of us. Not a dead weight in the lot. Yeah I know, all crews say the same thing. But we truly were. We were awesome.

  “There was Teddy Malone. He was our Tail Gunner. Corporal Malone. Sandy! Sandy was a good kid. Mellow. He was just 18. He faked his father’s signature and enlisted at 17. He ran away from his home in Nebraska. Sent his family a telegram saying he had gone to New York to find work. Dumb kid. I use to tell him; ‘Sandy, you do know that every time you send them a letter they are going to know that you are not in New York.’ Oh, they knew he had enlisted alright. He would not admit it at first, but he knew that they did. I mean once we were in England the letters had a military post-mark. Come on! I mean I know that Nebraskans aren’t the smartest… but…” Harry chuckled. I enjoyed his state competitiveness. Todd rejoined us. He had left his laughter somewhere else. Although, his face was still red. Harry gave no hint of noticing him.

  “I remember that all of Sandy’s letters from home ended the exact same way; Be safe. We are proud of you. Love.

  With this fond glimpse into the past, Harry chuckled with abdomen only. “Mickey was the funniest of the crew. Mickey, Michael Phillips, had only humor in him. I mean it. When the conversation was a serious one, nothing, not a word. Literally. If he could not make it humorous, he would not say anything. Ever. At times it did seem a little off. But that is just the way he was. Don’t get me wrong, Mickey spoke a lot. He was funny a lot. Mickey was our Radio Man. He didn’t have a nickname. Everyone else did. Hmm!” Harry paused. “I never realized that before.” Pause again. “He was also the tallest of the crew. Tall, very slim but young strong. He was nearly 5’ 10”.” Harry’s eyes widened on me. He seemed to be looking for something from me. Nothing, he continued; “For bomber crewmembers he was tall; most men were short and thin. There isn’t a lot of room in a B17. I know that sounds strange, they are so big; but inside there just was not a lot of room.

  ‘Have you ever been on a B17? An air show maybe?’

  ‘A couple of times but they were mostly stripped inside. Most of the avionics’ systems weren’t there anymore.’

  “Mickey struggled to get down the tunnel between the flight deck and the middle of the bomber. ‘Did I tell you he was from Kalamazoo?’ ” Harry waited for something. ‘Kalamazoo is in Michigan,’ he added.

  “He was also the oldest. Twenty-eight. He was twenty-eight.

  “The Pilot, Engineer, and Navigator were officers. Ball Turret and Top Turret were noncommissioned.” Harry took a long pull on his beer. I waited for him to begin again. He didn’t seem to want to. Tentatively, I nudged him.

  ‘Harry, can I please have their names?’

  Instantly and definitively, Harry said; ‘No.’ Harry’s single word was void of tone. This no tone had meaning. As all awkward moments do, this one passed slowly.

  So now what? What would Mike Wallace do?

  ‘Daniel, my father… it is kind of a big deal with him. Out of respect for them, he won’t talk about them.’ Todd studied his father who was looking at what I did not understand. Todd continued; ‘I don’t know their names. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say their names.’

  ‘Oh oh that’s okay,’ I said. Harry’s eyes snapped to me. They asked me if it truly was okay. Then I didn’t know what they wanted. Stupid Kid.

  Harry’s emotional light clouded over in dark shade. His voice along with all he now was toned somber. Each, all his chosen words came only after careful consideration. Up until this place, where Harry had now come, he had been exuberant in his animated telling. A man of age telling stories of youth. Because of what he would now tell, he had aged. What would follow were words warily chosen and gently placed. Neither exuberance nor animation belonged.

  “It was then that I became confused, then angry. Then I just tried to figure it all out. It was very emotional. So damn young.” A gentle mist fell upon Harry’s eyes. Struggling to come forth from a gullet determined to keep them, his words finally got loose. “One week. That was it. All I had. One week’s leave before I was to be shipped out. My choice, it was mine, but really it wasn’t. I mean I had to get married. I had to! That’s what I did. That was my choice. Home, my parents, I couldn’t. I didn’t have time. I didn’t know when… or I guess if... ya know? I mean I was going to war. Tough choice. One of the toughest. Haa! It was perfect! It was fine.” He finished lighter, eased by his knowledge of a good now choice.

  “Next!” His word leapt loud. It was forced, trying to move on. My mind was questioning if I had missed something. “Goose Bay.” He got married? “All eight of us headed out aboard Liz. Liz, it wasn’t Liz yet. We stayed there, Goose Bay, for two days and then we jumped the pond. Ireland; Benetton Green Ireland.” Had I missed tell of a fiancé?

  “I’m not sure if it was the excitement of the adventure, but flying in and looking down at that place was amazing. Beautiful! It was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen. I do think it was part of the excitement, also the day, the bright weather. It was a beautifully clear morning. The sunlight bounced off the sea with a prism’d sparkle. A rainbow it was kind of like that. Yeah a rainbow.

  “The grass and the flowers, all of the ground was still moist with dew. It was so green. All my life, never seen green like that before. Not that color. Millions… no, billions of droplets glittered light in all directions. Never seen anything like it. It was a special place. Magical. Surreal.

  “We stayed there just about a month. Liz got her camouflage paint scheme there. Also, it was there that Luscious Liz came to picturesque life.

  “We flew six missions out of there; all daytime sorties. Three into France and three to North Africa. Milk Runs.” He chuckled slight with contempt. “Shit. That is such crap! Milk Runs, no such thing. We knew. Oh we didn’t want to think about it, but it was always there. No doubt, we knew that every time we got on board… we knew.” Harry paused. “Some were worse than others. Yeah! Way worse. Hell.” Battling his devil, Harry again paused.

  “Eventually we left Ireland and went on to England. Northwest of London; our war home. For some of us… our final home. It was not like Ireland, it was not special. Hmm. Not for me.”

  For Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour, Harry spoke without a break. His tone varied so little I never perceived it as a change. Harry was shadowed in a valley of calm as he described where he was. His emotions spoke little. However, they were right there. Right below the thinnest layer of control. It was a sadness of loss buried shallow in a row of freshly plowed Brown.

  To a stupid kid, his words only stoked my imagination. To a man who had been seared black by this life event, meaning was clear of imagination. Without color for me to see, but brilliant and alive in Harry’s mind sight,
the life path that he stumbled across was England. Not merry ole… a whole world at war. Not a Yule Log tale; a burning Europe. He was one of those so few; one of those asked to perform such a task. He was one of a fellowship of brothers. He sits before me with timeless pride. Only those that did, had this Honor

  Later, much as Hollywood develops cellulose, I would edit and frame all his words. Now, I stick thick on every word. Had I drifted in thought, I would not have gotten what it was. It would have been just another poorly written movie.

  It was presented with a thin line of subtle. A single word placed specific for consideration. Barely noticeable, there was knocking-over inflection. There was all that Harry was not saying. All made it real. All of how he had touched it made it all too real. Not real as most guard against it being. Harry lived hardship magnified by a missing home. He was fear ever present. The kind of fear that boy warrior was not allowed to show. It was not the glory of war that was historically ablaze on the Silver Screen. It was taking, peace forgotten, never giving. The final scene of death that scrolls forever into Closing Credits.

  The happenings of an experience is what he played out for me. Moreover, Dear reader, Harry wished it to be yours.

  Indeed, within the theatre of war, millions experienced this exact disturbance. ‘Exact’, as I used previously, as defined in any dictionary, is a poorly chosen word. None shared what he would now tell. True, there were others there; then they were gone. However, the sounds that warned, the smells that were the results of these sounds, the results of the happening, all were exact only to Harry. And as I would soon learn, Harry understood this and held it a banner of fortitude. Harry knew much more. His life forward, after The Happening, was continually guided by that more.

 

  “The sixteenth! Sortie number sixteen was our last flight as a team. There is something about that number, something that ignites my senses. They always flair up. They always burn without pain. Yup, every time. Not always good energy but always energy. Usually they are mad; always it is sad.

  “Not often but sometimes it is a glad electric trickle. I guess it depends on time and place. When I hear it, where I am at when I do. I think it may be like mathematicians. They seem to have personal attachments to certain numbers. With me, it is just this one. Do you think a word can have life? You must huh?

  “We were going to Hamburg. It was… what was it called? Damn! Oh Blitz Week. Yeah. Blitz Week that’s it. We’d been there yesterday, and we were going back today.” His head shook with the unbelieving that they were going again. “Blitz Week was when we first started wearing the electric flight gear; electric thermal flight suits. They worked pretty well. Shit it was cold up there. At altitude, forty below sometimes. Exposed skin touching metal would instantly burn. When I had to use my bombsight, I would have to take off my lined mittens. Only thin flight crew gloves. Damn I still feel the cold in my fingers.” Harry rubbed his hands together.

  “Hamburg; yesterday was a bumpy ride. I do not know how Liz held together. She did get wounded but she is a tough old bird. Today, second day in a row we were going back. All of us. One hundred and seventy-eight bombers took off from different Air Fields; all headed to Hamburg. Wheels up plus an hour we were all in formation together. Incredible, our formation was massive, far as I could see. It was hard to tell it was a formation but that is what it was supposed to be. We laid a shadow on the ground as we moved across it.” Harry chuckled hard. “Sorry! A bit theatrical perhaps. It must be you Mister Rengaw. A good story and all. Aah I’ll leave that to you.

  “I couldn’t see our shadow on the ground any more as it had turned into a very cloudy day. More we’d flown into a cloudy day. An hour, maybe three hundred miles from Hamburg, just into the Fatherland, our mission was scrubbed. Mickey received the orders. Hamburg was socked in with weather; we were ordered to turn back. I was not surprised; we had been flying in weather since shortly after take-off. My work for the day was done. I headed back to stretch out for the return flight. I mean I might as well be comfortable right.

  “In flight we had procedures. We had procedures for everything. Mickey passed the orders to the Pilot; the Pilot radioed the order to the group. See our pilot was the lead in our group, he and my crew were considered veterans, we’d been flying lead for some time. Our group also had a lot of experience and we were near the front of the entire formation. The Pilot repeated the orders twice to the group. In minutes, on his order, the group would initiate a turning maneuver.

  “It was Mickey who was now tasked. He had two procedures to accomplish; standard protocol. First, he was to get a Confirmed Reply Count. Basically, Mickey had to verify independently that every pilot in our group got the orders and understood them correctly. Our Pilot and Navigator monitored Mickey’s procedure. You know… they monitored the communication. It was like a second and third check. In addition, he had to coordinate with the other bomber groups as to which maneuver we would be using. This he did with interplay from our Navigator. The maneuvers were kind of coordinated front back. Lead plane navigator’s organized it all. There was a pecking order, a chain of command. There had to be. I know it all sounds complicated but it really wasn’t.

  “Mickey was very deliberate and methodical. Mickey was a damn good Radio Man. It took him several minutes, three maybe four and it was done. We were ready and At-Wait. I could hear the chatter over the intercom as I made my way back toward the middle of the plane. Mostly I wasn’t paying attention until I heard; ‘Radio man. Captain, maneuver coordination is fixed and we have a complete CRC. Maneuver ready on your order.’

  ‘Rodger Mickey.’ Our Pilot always dragged out the word ‘Rodger’. It was as if he had forgotten the word halfway through it. Roooooodger.” Harry chuckled at himself.

  “Mcikey, switching channels, two electronic pops cracked from the intercom. A second of dead air and then there was; ‘Lead 109. Lead 109. In thirty, on my go, initiate Delta 2.’ Delta 2 was a seven-degree right turn with a ten degree down slope.

  “I was placing four 55 pound ammo cans together; they made a perfect back rest. Wanting to be seated before the turn was initiated, I quickened my pace. The radio cracked loudly. Too loudly. Instantly the pop was followed by a brief buzz. I didn’t recognize either for what they were. I waited to hear the Pilot’s voice but there was only silence. Still there was silence. Liz bumped and eased right and down. Still standing, looking backward and over the bomb bay, the unexpected turn pushed me left. My left hand extended seeking a vertical skeletal beam. Hand on beam the jolt swung me hard around. My back slammed hard against the side. Realizing we had initiated the turn, I tried to fight slight G’s as I stepped toward the cans. One step forward and then a stumble left. Bouncing off the metal that held her together, there was a tremendous bang. A hurting sound of an immense collision. It rang my ears for minutes. With a tremendous jolt she lifted; tossed thirty feet straight up.” Harry’s hands tossed thirty feet straight up.

  “I was on the deck now, lying on my right side. My head buzzed and the top of it was throbbing. My left shoulder… it was bad. I got up on all fours. Three really, I could not put any pressure on my left shoulder. Something was not right but I didn’t know what. You know… it was one of those things. You just know. The floor wasn’t… it was warm and getting warmer. The cold that should be burning my knees and hand was not.

  “My sore neck lifted my head toward the plane’s tail. My eyes struggled to focus. Coaxed by what I saw, it was then that I heard it. It was a single roaring sound. It was gray and littered. The cold air that had once been outside, and now unable to escape inside, was an angry tempest. Shredded pieces of insulation, sharp edged pieces of twisted metal, hard slapping cables, all were in an explosion that had no end. The whirlwind was desperate to be let loose. Frantic in its pursuit of anywhere else.

  “The ship was eerily twiste
d along her length.” Harry paused and stared at me. “A ship on a reef with a broken back.” Finishing these chosen words, words I later figured he had borrowed from Elton John, Harry smiled proudly.

  Harry continued; “The floor bulged inward, yellow-red sifted through seams now separated. The source of the tempest, an almost perfect circle where once had been a Ball Turret. Where once had been a Ball Turret Man.

  “A balsa plane buffeted by a slam of wind, she jerked hard right and nosed slightly down. Liz eased slowly into a flat spin. This sent me on to my left side, my left shoulder. As I lay, my head first felt it. Heat, fire, flames now poured through the seams; the seams above the bomb bay. The bomb bay was full of fire. Bombs, dozens of incendiary bombs were engulfed in flames.

  “As a crew, during our training, we had gone through emergency situation scenarios. You know, when you should bale out, when you should try to save the ship. No scenarios for me, my ass was getting out.

  “Although stupidity and suicide had been denied by sanity and a will-to-live, there was an instant flash of: ‘Get forward and release your bombs’. It was very brief.

  “I tried to pick up anything from the intercom as I struggled to my feet. Any sign of others, any chatter. If there was any, I couldn’t hear it over the roar. Knees bent and hunched over, I stumbled a run into flames that lapped to my knees. Close enough to do so, so I thought, I dove and rolled onto my good shoulder. Coming up again to my knees, just a few feet away, I was staring at an escape hatch. Grabbing my left wrist, I pulled it tight to my waist. Just as I started to my feet, I was floored again. Crashed on and back down. Down on my left shoulder. I screamed loudly. Something squirmed on and then off me. Rolling on to my good side, I looked up at a terrified Mickey. His forehead had a long gash but he seemed mostly okay. He had watched my bent running jump and done the same. Of course, the same meant directly on top of me. I wish I could say that I didn’t use his name in vain, but that would be a sin.

  “Liz’s nose drifted more downward; her flat spin was getting faster. Standing was now impossible. Mickey crawled to the fire engine red escape hatch. Fast as he could, he spun the release arm counter clockwise. It did not drop off. In training it just dropped to the tarmac. Repeatedly he slammed the bar as far as it would go. Mickey swung his legs around to a sitting position. He hammered his heels down. The manhole cover did not budge.

  ‘Ammo can Mickey! Drop an ammo can on it,’ I yelled. He crawled several feet and laid out grabbing the handle of a can. Sliding it, he swung it as if it weighed nothing. On his knees, struggling with balance and the weight of the ammo, he lifted it over his head and slammed it down. The can bounced slightly and just looked at us. Mickey kneeled back, sitting on his heels he looked up and back. Instantly with ease he slid the ammo can off the hatch and out of our way. Mickey screamed with a tone that was almost humorous; ‘Stupid assholes.’ Turning to me, he grabbed my flight jacket by my collar. ‘Come on Mortson!’ He was pumped with adrenaline and dragged me toward the tail. I tried to keep up but he was dragging me. We stopped about ten feet later, one foot from the near perfect circle.

  ‘Harry get out!’ He was staring at me intensely. I hesitated and he was not patient at all. ‘Damn it Harry you’re gonna blow us up.’

  Smiling a little Harry continued; “At least that is what he told me he said. You know, later. I didn’t hear him. I knew what he was saying but I’m pretty sure I couldn’t hear him.

  “The sounds of our wounded craft overwhelmed our voices. The expanding crackle of heated metal. Eerie, creepy groaning of a twisting ship that did not want to. The pinging of a dying craft’s stripped inners that were being slung amongst a thin air tornado. Ya know! How a piece of that flying debris did not chop my head off, I do not know.

  “Draping my legs out the ball turret opening, I grasped the edge tightly with bent knees. The bomber’s descent, which now was pretty steep, made it hard to sit upright. ‘Mickey I-’ My shoulders led by my head were slammed forward. Down and out. My back hit hard, my lungs puked all their air. I was dead. I could not breathe, and I knew I never again would. Mickey, the hard soles of Mickey’s boots, had killed Harry Mortson.

  “I don’t know what I was going to say to Mickey before he killed me. But I knew that Mickey did not want to get blowed up.” Harry guffawed once.

  “I don’t know about aerodynamics, physics, wind and all. I don’t know why but I did not plunge toward earth. I did not drop, I ejected up. Maybe it was the slipstream from the belly of the plane. Maybe it was the dropping rate of the craft. All I know is that I went up, and up meant into the tale of the bomber. I Thank God!” Todd guffawed once. “He knew I needed a big ass. I used that ass and bounced off.” Harry winced. “It was pretty hard to.

  “This sent me into a head first tumble. The tail spit me into the sky like unwanted chew. I guess it hurt, but without good air in me and the jolt of this moment, sensory deprivation left only a hurt of death terror. Once one is there, this kind of fear, there is nothing else. Well… there was the soar ass.” Todd winced.

  “Tumbling in a loose ball and still shooting up as I perceived, I had no control of anything. The centrifugal force opened my body. My arms and legs extended full out. I know this because my shoulder screamed. This began slowing my spin.

  “In seconds, I don’t know, ten, fifteen, my spin eased into a calmer tumble. Terror stepped aside and ushered thought into an opening. I had some needed oxygen and a bit of body control. I had stepped around death’s door. Mickey did not kill me.

  “Two or three easy summersaults and I looked to the ground. My training… yeah I thought of my training. Our training taught me that seven thousand feet was the optimum height to deploy my Seat Chute. I couldn’t tell shit. I had no idea how high I was. My dumb ass thought; ‘Just pull the Ripcord Mortson!’

  “Hitting the plane must have jarred my chute aside. As I fumbled for the ring, it was not where it should have been. The Reaper’s sickle was reaching to hook me again. I was going to crash through the roof of a Kraut farmhouse and land square on the dinner table. Right into a platter of some kind of Wurst. I thought about whether it would hurt. No kidding!”

  It clicked in me that Harry had indeed told this story many times. He had strung together his favorite lines. I was getting the final edit. I thought it perfect.

  “My right hand frantically patted my side and around to the back. Fingers hit metal and bounced off. They went back, back to what felt like a metal bar. I tap tap tapped it and loosely grabbed it. Still feeling to identify it, identifying it, I ripped it so hard that it was torn from my fingers.

  “At first there was nothing; I didn’t think my chute had deployed. Then there was a loud whoosh, which popped into a huge jerk. At the pop, I was upside down and the jolt swung my legs above my head. I was sure the momentum of my feet was going to throw them back and over my head. They seemed to pause above me as I hung upside down. Then my legs dropped. My feet settled into a pendulum’d sway. Now… as you can imagine… jerk… shoulder. Tell you what Mister Rengaw; I am done with my shoulder. It hurt. When you write this, you do what you want. Only know, every time something physical happened to me, every little bump or jostle, my shoulder shot lightening. Done! Okay?”

  Harry neither looked at me nor paused. ‘Okay’ was not a question he left waiting. Harry’s brook of remembrances had pooled at stream’s bend, but he pushed it to trickle on. “Now hanging stable in my float to the ground, I diagnosed myself. A most important first, my breathing was still quick but slowing. Leaking in spots, oozing not spurting, blood was still flowing were it should be. Good!” Harry patted his left shoulder. “Dislocated, but I didn’t think there was a fracture. I really did not have time to think about it, but I did think briefly about how I could reset it.” Harry gently felt his right cheek. Noticeable scars were scars. They were well aged, but they
were there. “My right cheek was burnt. Frozen I figured. Both of my knees were throbbing and the top of my right hand had a long gash. It wasn’t deep.” His gashed hand held up a peace sign. Although I wondered later if he meant it a victory sign. No matter, they are synonymous. Victory is peace. (A rather hawkish thought. Is that me, or am I over-creating. I will let you decide Reader.)

  Whatever the meaning, if any, Harry told me of it. “These two fingers I thought were broken. Over the next days, I developed numerous black and blue bruises. I also had small burns on my face, neck, legs, and hands. I did not notice the burns at first. The quickly tightening bruises I was noticing right now. All in all, I was confident that I would survive what had just happened.

  “Survival now became primal. Training and actions to take took over. I sought and found my 45 still holstered snug under my jacket. Unzipping my jacket to just below my sternum, I lifted my left hand and tucked it into the opening. Like a sling ya know.

  “Above me and heading away, Liz was on her final Final. She was nose down and in a spiral spin. Two great forces colliding had imploded her under side. From front landing gear to tail, large silver scraped sections showed. The right wing was mostly gone. Black smoke from the burning bomb bay corkscrewed behind her. Unable to look away, I watched the end of her final sortie. Liz disappeared into the German countryside. A Hollywood explosion on impact, there was not. There was nothing. No sound, only smoke billowing up into a black drifting cloud. I couldn’t believe it, all those incendiary bombs and no explosion. Real in Germany, not pretend from Hollywood.

  “Up and to my left a white flickered. Distant, above and behind, a hum drifted in and out. The gray dome I was searching smothered the tiny flicker. Needle, haystack, you know. My eyes slid past a dark spot and then snapped back, acquiring a target. Dark was green, spot was man. A tiny white dome hung within a huge gray one. It was a deployed parachute. ‘Mickey!’ I thought loudly. ‘I guess it is Mickey,’ I thought more hushed. I mean I could see it was a man. His legs and all. He was not very big in my eyes. Trying to magnify and focus, I stared as hard as I could. ‘Mickey!’ I yelled. It was for me. There was no way he could hear me. It was for me only. ‘Come on Mickey move. Move Mickey move. Come on damn it Mickey.’ That may have been aloud. I’m not sure.

  “I thought his arm may have moved. It was limp at his waist. I zeroed in on his arm. ‘Come on!’ I never saw it move, but his hand was now grasping his chute strap. His other arm joined. Both arms were up and holding tight. Mickey was alive.

  “The distant waffling hum from behind had gotten louder. It was more of a drone now. Then it came from in front and very loud. I scanned the sky looking for what now could only be five more chutes. Frenzied I guess, my search pattern was not very methodical. My darting eyes found what I did not want; a single plane in front and a single engine sound behind. No chutes. Crossing in front of me it seemed to be circling our chutes. Over my shoulder, the sound from the engine was doing the same. Two, there were two Luftwaffe planes. Two attack planes; FW 190s. FW 190s with 20 mm cannons onboard.

  “I guess because I now did not want to be, I realized I was still pretty high. Probably close to 18,000 feet. All of us had heard about what the Krauts would do to pilots hanging in chutes. I wanted to be much lower, much closer to the ground, much sooner. Hanging there defenseless…” Harry suddenly chuckled. “Well sort of defenseless. Mickey had pulled his handgun and was shooting at the circling planes. It was hilarious. Later it was hilarious. I was yelling; ‘Get em Mickey. Shoot their Kraut asses.’

  “But ya know… those pilots circled us at least twice and they did not fire a single round at us. It all seemed very strange at the time. I respect them for that. Honorable! At least those two Germans had some honor.

  “Sensory Overload. I think that is what I had. All that had happened in the past minutes; the pain I had, the concern for my crewmembers, what was going to happen to me, all this made it hard to pinpoint a thought. All made it hard to concentrate, to put together a plan. I know I keep talking about it, but this is where my training came in to play. I mean I didn’t have to think about it. I knew. I had been taught what to do, what to think in this situation, what to plan. Oh and you know what? Let me tell ya this now. I was so very pumped. My adrenaline had me on a different level. I mean being alive; it was exhilarating going through what I just had. Orgasmic. Can I say that?” Harry paused only slight. “Never again in my life would I have any kind of rush like that. Never! That seems warped don’t you think. But damn, it was a powerful feeling. No! It was not a feeling. I was! I was everything that had ever been. Never so attached to what man is. Never.

  “It was at that moment that my training sent my eyes downward. I looked to evaluate. Beauty overwhelmed me and again overloaded me. The German farm-scape; I can not describe the setting. There is not a single word that would properly describe it. But I don’t care. That is your problem.” He huffed. “It was like a painting. No! It was exactly like what Hollywood would portray the German countryside to be. Clay shingled stone houses layered with ivy were squared in with stone fences. Sheep, cows, mules, all kinds of animals were roaming free in the barn areas. Wooden carts pulled by assorted animals slowly moved along dirt roads. The fields were full of yellow, green, and any color that can be grown. It was checkered. The homes, the fields, the hills, they made a giant checkerboard. It all seemed surreal. Very ironic in its placement. Right here was unblemished serenity of life. The war that was scarring a continent had not here touched. Fighting to focus on that which I needed to do, I did waste seconds to take it all in. I am glad now that I did.

  “The houses, barns, fence lines, I was now taking in with more than enjoyment. Where I thought I was going to land, I tried to memorize into a map. Enlarging this map, I looked to Mickey and where he might end up. Grids; set them up to include roads to escape on, fields to lay hidden within, and barns to shelter me.

  “Looking to the sun, I tried to determine north. Compass north. My north. I always know my north. It is just in me. Canada is always north. Others, all people, have an exact direction in them. Everyone knows exactly which way one compass point is. It is not the same for everyone. Everyone is different. My point, north, is Canada. Always. North Dakota, Canada is north. Always.

  “You for example; west, west is within you. You live near Denver, Denver is east of the mountains, the mountains are always to the west, and you always know where the mountains are. Right? People that live on the East Coast always know where the Atlantic Ocean is. It is east. Always east. Everyone has some sort of landmark that they set their inner compass to.

  “Now… dropping into southern Germany, I had no idea where Canada was. If only for a calming sense, I wanted to know. So… I looked to the sky. However, being near noon, the cloud-covered sun would be no help. I knew that clouds normally move across the sky with the prevailing easterly winds. However, the sky was horizon-to-horizon gray, and again, no help. It was unsettling. I did not know where Canada was, I did not know where north was, I was lost.

  “One last time I looked toward Mickey; projecting his destination. My free time was over. The German countryside was getting large. I hoped it would not be my last free time.

  “Within maybe one square half-mile, I knew where I was going to land. When I did, I would not be lonely. My drift was going to take me directly over a Kraut soldier. He was on a bicycle and pedaling furiously. He knew where I would land as well. Crossing over him, maybe fifteen hundred feet above, I identified only a green coat. There was insignia, but it may as well have been macaroni. A long rifle was slung across his back. Others, the few that I could see, were stopped in their chores and looking. Some looked toward Mickey. A few were staring toward the crash site smoke. Most were locked on to me.

  “There were two safe-houses that I thought as being
best. One, I was pretty sure was unlived in. Its porch field was unkempt, and its crop fields had no furrows and plenty of weeds. The good earth in famine time. Wang the farmer had gone south.” I recognized the Pearl Buck reference. He… this surprised me. Perhaps it is time that I stop being staggered by Harry Mortson.

  “The second safe-house didn’t seem to belong. It stood close to others at a great distance. It was lonely. The faded red barn’s doors were missing. No farming implements were seen. There were no wandering animals. A shame; no one loved it.

  “Both were… well I didn’t know. They were that direction.” It was with frustration that his right arm lifted and pointed a twisted Index finger. “I was close now, maybe a thousand feet. I did not see anyone in the immediate area. No civilians that I was ridiculously imagining would help me. And no soldiers that I knew would not. However, my ears were toying with me. I was hearing phantom quick tinks of chain links spinning fast on sprockets.

  “Maybe I didn’t see them, but they were there. Both soldiers and civilians. Well... the farmers, I wasn’t sure. The soldiers I was. My reception was not going to be from the Welcome Wagon.

  “Bend knees, land, run forward, roll if needed; Jump School 101. That was the course. Knees bent, land, heels slip, ass first in thick mud. That is how it happened. Thank you God.

  “Slow and in a panic it seemed to take forever; I pulled my chute into a bundle with one arm. Maybe twenty yards away, there was a row of bushes. Thick bushes with thorns as I found out. Hunched over, I stumbled across the wet open field as quickly as the mud allowed. Shoving the silk under the bushes the best that I could, I gathered a handful of branches to try to camouflage it. I will admit that it was a pretty weak effort. Pitiful! But why… I mean think about it. They knew I was here. Did I really need to hide my parachute. Training!

  “Unzipping my jacket I pulled my 45 from its shoulder holster and began running toward the alfalfa field. The field was in my map. It was maybe one-hundred yards away. Immediately this was a bad idea. I could hold the handgun, but the pain in my fingers told me it was a bad idea. I re-holstered it and continued my mud trudge.

  “Straining eyes and hard-working ears were in full Intel gathering mode. Still I couldn’t mask the pain. My left arm out, my right hand surely broken, I understood that holding it, firing it, defending myself, I didn’t know.

  “Literally how far away I didn’t know; but the green man was not far off from my thoughts. I knew he was coming for me. Most likely he would not be alone.

  “The land I was working across was untamed by any of the little farms. The soil wet and heavy was carpeted with yellow life. A Moss was woven to the ground’s fabric. Every hunched stride forced water from its sponged hold. There were no trees to speak of. Only shrubs and other flora dotted and seemed to run the line that I was on. Mostly small groups of bushes. None more than four foot high or ten feet around.

  “I darted from group to group. Well… not really darted. Poor choice of words. My boots squished and sucked noise with each step. I was sure the sound could be heard for kilometers.

  “The irregular hiding path I was taking, my heavy steps, my wish to suppress the sound of my watered steps, all caused my crossing to be nervously slow. I wondered if the alfalfa field was farther away than I had determined. Or had I ventured in the wrong direction. I wanted to know where Canada was.

  “Crouched and peeking over another clump of tangled wood that wanted to slice my fingers with deep green razor edged leaves, intently listening, I lifted steady and cautious to an upright position. Twice thinking I had heard something, I fell down to a scrunched kneeling. Nothing being heard, and thinking it safe, I raised slow to full height. No more than fifty feet away, the edge of the green field began. I did know where Canada was.

  “I scrunched, listened, thought, and chose poorly. No veering, no stopping at a safe bush, I straight line bolted to safety. Safety as I wanted it to be. A child playing an insignificant game and darting to the safety of Base. This was not a game. This was life. Life that I carelessly taunted.

  “Yards into the cover of green, I lay as still as my dashing breath allowed. Tracking through my memorized grid, trusting that the real grid was as I thought, I balanced my next move on a Triple-Beam of options. Off to my right a large dog barked and was joined by a second. German Shepherds; no doubt. German soldier’s attack dogs. Huge dogs ready to perform their trained task. Right, was not only out, it was the direction with the most immediate danger. Left, away from angry teeth, instantly became the best choice. But my gut told me that straight ahead was best. I had to believe in my map. The safe-house was there. Believe Mortson believe.

  “The instant that my boots splashed mud on impact, the frantic moments that followed spun my mind’s compass in all directions. I heard excited whining of a chase that was on. Single deep barks occasionally broke the whining. Barks that were getting louder meant dogs that were getting closer. Fast from fear, straight ahead I was. Clear and straight, a furrow of brown was my guide. Crouched but a little taller, I made spurts of ten yards or so. Each run ended the same way, me on my belly. Briefly I would listen for the chasers and any others that may be new to the chase.

  “On my fourth burst, I heard the low gear shifting of an engine’s growling struggle. With each jolt on the suspension, there was the clanking sound of hard heavy wood bouncing off iron. Rubber graveled slowly forward and spit rocks with a popping sound. Down again, the dogs were closer still and heading straight for me. I understood that I now was a target acquired. Each time, farther and faster I ran. I don’t know… maybe six seven more bursts.

  “Trying to shallow my breathing that made hearing difficult, I listened. Nothing, I heard nothing. Were they gone? From my four-o’clock, intended for me and just thirty feet away, a growl had meaning. Meaning she wanted a large chunk of my ass. Thank you God.

  “Slinging my legs around and under, I sat up to face my still unseen enemy. Hurriedly but trying to protect my fingers, I pulled my sidearm from its holster. Protecting or not, it hurt like hell. A locked elbow held the 45 eye high. I clicked the safety off. Fumbling with it, I found the trigger-guard; I wrapped my ring finger around the trigger. Aiming at nothing was easy. Waiting for anything was hard.

  “Restrained gasping replaced growls and muffled their barks. I heard a voice. I heard it again. It might have been a different voice. My alarm loosened just a bit. A single voice or two different people, they were both female. As I pushed myself forward and prone, I awkwardly waved my gun searching for what I was now expecting. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I wasn’t a soldier. I mean I was.” He chuckled. “I must have looked ridiculous.

  “Wanting to get a peek while remaining hidden, I looked over through and around the thick alfalfa. The panting dogs told me they were indeed close. They had to be right there, but where! Loudest and snapping, there were two quick barks. ‘Neine neine!’ A woman’s voice yelled at the dogs. To this day, I don’t know why, but I lowered my weapon. I froze with my eyes probing and ears on alert. There was just breathing. The dogs’ panting over mine.

  “ ‘Soldier. American. Help you.’ One of the two said in cryptic English. It was loud but not threatening. I took it as a trick. ‘Flyboy no harm,’ said the same voice. An older voice said something in German. It was hushed and I didn’t think for me. The young voice said; ‘Coming soldier. No harm. No shoot. Help.’ The gasping stopped and the alfalfa no longer hid me.

  “Fight or flight never flashed through my thoughts. I rose to my knees. My empty right hand went straight up over my head. Two concerned women stood looking down at the Flyboy. The girl on the right was young and probably thirty years younger than the other. Eighteen, nineteen, hard to tell. Her face was a reflection of the elder. It was fresher but near the same.

  “With an extended and taught arm, each woman stru
ggled to restrain a dog. Dogs that were rising against their leashes. Their yapping was unyielding. The two great beasts, the German attack dogs, the fear of my fear, they were… they were scrawny mutts. Tail wagging fleabags. They definitely were not monsters trained to kill invading Americans. They were shaggy, bearded, brown black and white mutts. As their owners did, they looked alike.

  “Hmm! I have never told that part to anyone before. You know… better story if they were man-eaters. At least better for me. You do with it what you want.” Harry smiled broadly as he looked to his Son. He snapped back to me. “Do not write that I was some sort of sissy. Make me brave! Aah! Whatever.

  “This is a good spot to tell you this. These two women were perfectly Hollywood depicted. They could not have better fit the role. The older was plump sturdy and wore a white peasant blouse. It was laced with hand ticking along seems and edges. A pleated green and yellow wool skirt hung to just below her knees. The skirt touched the tops of her string-laced knee-high leather boots. They were well worn and now spotted with farm mud. Her hair was pulled back to a ponytail and covered with cloth. Red, the bandanna was red. At least it once had been red. Her face also was plump with character. Well-crafted lines scribed the story of her life.

  “The young woman… and I know you won’t believe this, but she was dressed like every young German girl in any Hogan’s Heroes episode. Golden hair braided in pigtails. Her white blouse was low cut and presented plump breasts lifted by one of those… those busty, bust lifter things. I do not know what their called. She was the perfect German farmer’s daughter. She was! Well anyways, that is the way I remember her. Haa!

  “The younger brought her hand to her chest. Patting it gently she said; ‘Melany. Melany.’ Her open hand extended right and pointed. She said; ‘Lilly. Lilly.’ She took a pause and stared at me. Her hand extended to me. ‘Friend, friend, you come.’ Lilly rattled something off hurriedly to Melany. Melany nodded emphatically and took two steps toward me. ‘Come, come, soldiers! Friend help come.’ ”

  What happened next was detailed to me at length. For me, and I am saying now for you, it was too detailed long. In Harry’s remembrance, I am certain it was not too. I will leave it for him alone to be detailed.

  I will give it to you brief. Lilly and Melany rushed Harry to their home, their barn. It was not the safe-house that Harry had taken in memory. Harry had concluded through their actions, aided by Melany’s limited english, that they were Partisans. For this moment, he thought this a good thing. They would help him. Friend. He was eased by what he perceived to be happening. He was also cautious of what he perceived to be happening.

  Harry; “The way that they brought me to, at times dragged me to, and into the Hip Barn, I felt strongly that they were not the enemy. Momma kept tossing Prussian that seemed angry. Certainly, to her, her words were imperative and time significant. Melany was strongly calm and steered me to a group of scattered wooden fruit crates. Pushing me back toward one, she insisted; ‘Sit! Sit Flyboy.’

  ‘Harry,’ I said as I patted my chest.

  ‘Harry,’ she said smiling and pushing me hard down. Momma cursed at me. I know she did. Momma’s tongue was flying but her tone was softer as she gently picked up my left hand. Melany bent down in front of me. She placed both her hands square on my chest. Lilly grasped firm my left wrist and forearm. Melany’s hands squeezed my collarbones as her elbows locked. I looked down her blouse. Momma jerked! With all of her weight momma yanked my arm straight out. The force sent her back and down on her big butt. The pain shot from its source up and down my arm. My good arm and its not so good hand pulled the limp one tight to my side. I screamed. I mean I really screamed.

  ‘Shh!’ Melany placed her fingertips on my mouth as I rocked in pain.

  ‘Because I looked down your shirt?’ I asked knowing she would not understand. I kind of giggled at this

  “The shooting pain turned to an ache, and then a throbbing ache. Testing it, I gently eased it away from my side. Again, and again, I did the same. Oh it still hurt, but it was a different pain. You know like a better pain. I thought it was back in place. I looked into Melany’s eyes, she smiled and said; ‘Yes?’

  “Still rotating it ever so gently, I answered; ‘Yes.’ I grinned a relieved feeling. ‘Yes. Yes thank you.’ Momma went back to angry words. Melany quickly lifted me, turned me, and I began up the loft ladder.

  “The barn’s ground level was an organized clutter of leather, steel, and wood. Farm implements of all types. Reaching the top of the wooden ladder, getting there as quickly as possible, it was geometrically packed with bales. Alfalfa and straw, green and dry, were stacked high and took up much of the loft. Not being sure, but pretty sure, this was to be my safe place in their safe-house.

  “With swift purpose, Lilly moved to a predetermined spot. Lifting and hauling bales, she built a blocked pile. Every bale had its place. The place was being engineered. Precise and mechanical, Lilly had no doubt done this before. She went on without pause.

  “Melany rattled down the rungs and ran from the barn. Minutes later, as Lilly finished her task, Melany started back up the ladder. Looking down to the climbing girl, she was struggling. Her climbing was hindered by a wooden bucket in tow. My thought was to help the girl anyway that I could. I leaned down over the ladder. I was jolted. Rather rudely, very effectively, I was nearly lifted from my feet. Lilly grabbed my jacket collar and put me anywhere she wanted me to be. Longshoreman Lilly hooked me and tossed cargo. Let’s just say she persuaded me out of the way. I got kind of pissed! I mean her jerk did not help my shoulder any.

  “My place… I would say it was about eight feet deep and half that wide. The back wall, which was the barn wall, was protected by a single layer of bales. Tight, sunlight did not slit in. I knew that if I did not go in myself, Momma would persuade me again. So… I entered man strong. However, going in was not as easy as you might think. I am a little claustrophobic. I mean not bad. Small spaces… yeah, I’d rather not.

  “Several steps in I turned to face them. ‘Sit!’ Momma knew sit. I sat. My back was a couple feet from the bale wall. Melany placed the half-full water bucket next to me on the right. Parched, I pulled the metal ladle and sloshed water into a thirsting mouth. The well water was sweet cool. It was good. Very good.

  “Melany pulled three large green apples from a skirt pocket. I do not like green apples. Can you believe I thought that?” Harry snickered. “Melany bent over. Well… she started to bend over and then stood up abruptly. She got a sly smile and gently tossed the apples into my lap. She did understand.

  “The other pocket produced something sorta square. It was the size of a small bible and wrapped in a linen cloth. She knelt down. With a small giggle, Melany looked directly into my eyes. She placed the salted pork into my hand. It was a forced placing; it had meaning. I have made that meaning what I want it to be. You can make it whatever you want.

  “What an asshole I was. Even now, with all that was happening, I tried to flirt. Flirt thoughts chose words and I parted my lips to speak.

  “‘Bastard! Bastard! Bastard!’ It was in German, but I know that was what Momma said. Momma ended our playtime. Mother pulled Melany from me in my safe place.” Harry’s smile now was what I pictured it to be then. I pictured young Melany’s smile to be more sinfully delicate.

  Harry paused briefly and then finished his thought. “I don’t know, probably not, most likely she wasn’t saying bastard. But who’s telling this.” Good enough for me.

  “With what I will call Momma’s jostle, Melany spun and began her role in their now task to entomb me. I hoped not literally. I was now certain that they were helping me. Momma and daughter were hiding me from the soldiers. Hiding me from the same soldiers that were so desperately trying to find me.

  “All the bales I had stacked in my life, I couldn’t he
lp but to wonder how they were going to cover me within this open space. My curiosity caused me to pay attention to their work. It was precise, simple really. With four levels of hay, they built a roof above me. It was like the peak of a house; triangular. Each bale was placed half or so on top of the previous. Balance and weight, easy, physics, engineering. They did this quickly without hesitation. Again I was certain, they had done this before. My now dark place was complete.

  “It was dark and it was quiet. I strained to hear of the outside and I could not. There were times during the next three or four hours that I heard something. I was sure that that something did not bode well for me. But there wasn’t anything, only an imagination that was running wild. All I was were thoughts amongst the dark time. I ate two apples and some of the pork. I drank my fill of the water and tried to sleep. But the same unceasing thoughts trickled on within me. Me within my place. I was wired tired. My mind let me restlessly walk to the edge of rest, and then it would drop me back into the stormy valley of awake. I wondered how long man could go without sleep.”

  Harry went on for the next ten minutes describing what was rattling around in his thoughts. I found that I was hearing his words, but more I was trying to place myself into his emotions. I never got there, and since I did not, I can not properly put you there. Thus, your colored imagination can paint the worry, fear, anger, and missing brothers. This is the strength of written word.

  Harry ran away and walked back in. “My mind lost in an unyielding dream of wake suddenly faded to white. There was something. Not sound but something. A vibration that I felt in my legs. Shutting all else down I tried to gather it. It turned into a slight vibration of rhythmic taps. They were quick and rather long lasting. Just as suddenly they stopped. I could not have been more alert. All my senses were searching. For minutes for seconds nothing. Then I made it out and placed the action. It was hard soles beating on wooden rungs.

  “My imagination thought a movement of my place’s left wall. A man’s voice. Both were not imagined. Anxiety smacked terror into alert. An unexpected and unwanted second. My hand slapped for the 45 that was not there. Fight or flight flew to flight. I pushed myself hard back against the wall. Heavy and painful, my legs were pinned by a fallen bale. Black pupils full open slammed shut retreating from the blinding light. Metallic slides and clicks I recognized. Forms screened by translucent glare were armed men. Five young soldiers holding rifles. Rifles pointed in a frantic moment at a scared flyboy. A flyboy whose hand reached to the sky for life.

  “A corporal, at least I think he was, pushed forward and stood just feet from me. He was very excited and started screaming Kraut at me. Nervous men fidgeted for a stance of defense. I waited for the bang that I would not hear. The corporal’s words caused one soldier to slide down the ladder and run from the barn yelling in kraut.

  “I didn’t know what the Corporal’s problem was. He kept flicking spittle and screaming. I read the faces of the other three. All were very young, none more than seventeen. Two were gripping their rifle with white knuckles. They were a pale sweating scared. I was worried by the third; he was creepy young. He was much his moment. There was nasty evil in him. At this second, if I were to die, it would be he. Although, I did worry about a startled jerk from one of the other two. The Spitter, still screaming at me, was older; in his early twenties I figured.

  “ ‘What is wrong with you asshole?’ I yelled back at him with a nervous burst of scared anger. Protectively, his head jerked back as he lifted himself in a step back. This caught him and he stopped yelling. Two Scared flinched and pulled their rifles still tighter to their shoulder. Creepy lowered his weapon to his waist and grinned. That cat… there was something really wrong with him.

  “Spitter, standing further back but still over me, looked into my eyes. I wasn’t feeling warm and fuzzy. With a grunt, he collapsed knees first onto the bale that still pinned me. Proud of himself, he spoke to me with a tone that I describe as ‘wanna-be-important’. He was an arrogant shit!

  “Finished speaking, he stared long at me. I think he was trying to intimidate. Finally, he pushed himself off the bale and off me. Standing, still staring, he ever so slowly turned from me. He walked through the three. With an instructing tone, he said something as he disappeared down the ladder.

  “Informally at least, Creepy was now in charge. He directed Scared Two. They moved on me and one of them lifted the bale off me. The other was ever vigilant and held his weapon on me. Creepy raised the stock of his rifle to his shoulder. His gun sight was square on my temple. I gotta say… these next few seconds… I thought my time was done.

  “Creepy spoke and the Two reached down to lift me. ‘No!’ I yelled, trying to pull my arm back. I was firmly against the back bales and my arm could not escape his reach. They jerked me to my feet. I screamed like no other. The Two Scared flinched but they did not let loose. I pushed toward my arm. Sort of fell on one. The one of Two now seemed to understand as he released my arm. Weighing a ton, my arm dangled as I slowly stood up and off. I did not want to scream. The pain… I tried to mask it.

  “Creepy wanted to know if I had cigarettes. ‘Cigarette?’ he asked.

  ‘I would love one,’ I said, extending an open hand.

  He didn’t need to speak english to understand that I was being an ass. In afterthought, I really wasn’t holding the cards to be an ass. It was then that his wicked showed. First, it was with his words. With his words, Two, the tallest of Twos, began frisking me. Searching, finding, he pulled and handed my unopened cigarettes to Creepy. The peasants cheered in merriment and there was jubilation throughout the entire kingdom.” I laughed at this but quickly pulled it back as Harry was not pausing.

  “Creepy and Short Two exchanged a verbal volley. Short disappeared down the ladder. I figured out that I was supposed to follow and started down. Moving slowly, one maybe two rungs down, wicked showed in action. The butt of Creepy’s rifle drove deep into my left shoulder. Right hand holding, right foot balancing, I swung and hit hard the face of the loft’s shelf. Holding, balancing, I knew I was going down. My feet hit but I did not land on them. Unstoppable backward momentum set me on my ass. Thank you God.

  “I sat. Short stepped to me with rifle pointed. Tall and Creepy joined us on the barn floor. All but me lit up my cigarettes. Well… they weren’t really mine; I did not smoke. We all carried them. They were good to help persuade Friendlies. They were not much good to me now.

  “I sat in wonder. I was again frantic in thought. They started on a second cigarette. There were voices outside that were getting closer. Panicky, a female’s voice was mixing it up with a male’s. Louder, because closer, a second female joined the fray. The back and forth, the begging and dictating, was earnest in waves. Now it seemed to be taking place just outside the barn’s door. Melany and Lilly who sounded to be crying, rambled on top of each other’s words. My insides filled with a dark dread, unsolvable terror scared their voices. Never, never again do I want to hear that sound. That guttural, primal, awful sound that was not sound. It was finite passion.

  “During the next couple of minutes, the male would interject few and only short sentences. Into the wall of light built by the open door, a moving shadow appeared. The two women joined to be one. It was different though. It was demanding, yet it was unyielding love.

  “Slender and tall, a figure stepped from the wall of light. Shadow to figure, figure to German soldier. A Colonel German Soldier. The Stooges snapped to attention and saluted. You know… the way Nazis do. The women, softer it seemed, continued as the officer stepped to me.

  ‘Stand!’ he demanded, as he stood rigid. Creepy and Tall rushed to lift me to my feet. I guess my cigarettes had mellowed them, as they were now carefully wary of my shoulder.

  “The Colonel wore navy blue riding britches tucked into polished dark brown knee boots. A waist long
blue jacket was adorned with ribbons. A Lugar was resting in a leather-flapped holster. All was adorned with rank insignia and bar SS pins. It was all very kraut bullshit.

  ‘Welcome to Germany Lieutenant. I do hope your flight was comfortable. For you… the war is over.’ He smiled as he noticed my look of curiosity. His English, diction, and delivery, were all perfect. Better than mine. I assumed Midwest America.

  “Then I saw it peeking from the opening of his jacket. Sticking out the top of his pants was the brown handle of another sidearm. I mentally noted that he had a second gun.

  “ ‘Indiana?’ I asked. His head tilted slightly and his smile broadened.

  ‘University of Iowa. Class of 31.’ He said this with an awkwardly proud tone. ‘Go Hawkeyes,’ he added. This clenched my jaw. I detested the way he said it. It mocked.

  “He two-hand adjusted his hat. Making sure it had the right amount of tilt. He two-fist yanked his short jacket downward. Making sure it had the right amount of pop.

  ‘Lieutenant, are you a religious man? Does faith be in you?’ Surprised by his questions I only looked at him. He continued; ‘No. Perhaps? It does not matter.’ He paused with a stare. Maybe I had ruined whatever fun he was trying to have. He did not give up. ‘King Solomon was a very wise man. A little misguided perhaps. Perhaps, a little like me. Here, now, I am he.’ His horribly ugly Fatherland blue eyes searched a reaction. I was now committed to silence. He came back from where he was and went to where he was going. ‘Excuse me Lieutenant, for just a moment won’t you.’ His heels clicked, as Nazis do; he slightly bowed as... I don’t know. It was all overly dramatic. I am sure with intent to be.

  “Toe to heel, he soldiered a perfect Basic Training About Face. I was left standing and thinking within my silence. His biblical riddle was my thought. It was a game of thorns that he was playing. I wondered how it would end. The end could be the unthinkable. Would the fear cried by the women and the unthinkable be one?

  “The women were a different hushed. Their timbre was more sorrowful than fearful. His departure from me, and his arrival back to them, frantically began again all of everything.

  “The women’s new audible flurry was brief. It ended with the Colonel’s turning of the door’s edge. Steady he moved on me. The Colonel flinched with it. A single shot. A shot never to be removed me. The Colonel smiled coldly. My eyes instantly went to his Lugar. It was still flapped and snapped in its holster. Loud sobbing fell deflected, muffled.

  “From him there was no motion. In him, a bad that he felt good, was evilly stirring his cauldron. He was reveling in it. As if to get a better line on me, he lifted his chin. He exaggerated a head tilt. He had to know; did I feel it. He had to know if I… if any men feel the good in bad. In order to feel alive he needed that good from bad. He was only good alive in bad.

  “His Solomon was so engulfed in the moment that his lip quivered as he began again. ‘Their choice was made. It was, their choice.’ He gave voice to a prophet of the world’s bowels.

  “Feeling proud in his work and desperately wanting to present the same, an open palm swept toward the light’s wall. ‘Shall we?’ he asked. It was not a refuse-able offer.

  “Creepy cross-checked my back with his rifle. Staring, I walked passed a face that was pouring evil satisfied into a dark pool of redemption felt. His hand still offering.

  “That walk, my thoughts were rushing ever most fast. Too fast to allow for remembrances to become color snapshots. For me, over the years, I knew the development of black and white was best. Yet, the darkness of one, never developed to be understood.

  “The wall passed warmth over me from brow to foot. My place I left; I entered their house of un-safe. Her forehead was sunk and her hands were clawing into the life giving soil of all that was left. On arms that had often comforted a young life, down was a mother. Slow in rocking and low in sobbing. Still to be heard, newly missed, could not have been more love gentle. Her heart so broken, only her tore own would be more so.

  “Daughter, just feet apart, knelt collapsed on her right side. Beneath her still mind, the life taking soil was of ending red to black. My eyes needing to know, they found the Colonel’s belt. It no longer peeked. Short, as the distance of life from a young woman’s hand, was a sidearm. My sidearm.

  “He waited for me to grasp this. I snapped to him. His eyes enjoying what mine said, they asked if I felt it. He, his Solomon, spoke; ‘Choice! Their choice is unexpected to me. If I was capable of being, I might be humbled. The daughter chose to die so that her mother might live. Does it humble you Lieutenant?’ Thirsting for an expressed emotion from me, he would have to wait. Bastard! I only looked at him. My look fell on an empty man. ‘Hmm! Perhaps you feel more Lieutenant.’ These were his last words to me.

  “Emotions were challenging for my consideration. So very young. I was not ready. Young was left in this place. All the chatter, instructions, and sobbing, were faint in my ears. They weren’t irrelevant, but I simply could not attach meaning to them. There was only one thing that I did and did not comprehend.

  “Tall was shook and shaking as he turned me with a not so firm hand. This moment in him brought his young forward. His touch to me was one with care. His palm easy on my back, he guided me away from where he no longer wanted to be. Unsteady with my steps, I had gone just a few paces. An unsnap I heard, a metallic slide I recognized, the sobbing died away.

  Barely noticeable, and just enough to have meaning, Harry’s chin dipped. His eyes darted the room. It was not a looking for something; it was anxiety of remembering. An alternative is that he was remembering to forget. However, there was no doubt that he was dwelling in his photo-album and wishing he were in Hamden. Hung on the walls of his mind’s home, some photos were in color, some were in shades of grey, and some were in exact black-and-white. There were others still; they would develop differently each time. Harry’s at-the-time mood would determine the picture.

  Although I had not noticed a building posture of tenseness in Harry, the grown energy was being released as a body loosening. Time passed, barely a notice, but it had indeed been some time since… since much. Since he last paused, last took a pull on his Schlitz, or last looked at me. Making me a fibber, Harry was looking at me. His eyes looked to be seeing a clear comfortableness. His face was… a little… well I am not certain. I will call it a happy life in progress.

  His loosening was now my tightening. An awkward moment of silence. Harry was searching for and wanted my thoughts. Later, which is this now writing, I took this uneasy moment wrong. I placed too much importance on me in the moment. Harry just wanted me to sit there and look cute.

  “Perhaps you feel more.” Harry quoted the Colonel. I found it strange that Harry’s tone flowed with no detriment. He seemed to cherish these words. “Those words, from then, continually pop into my head. No! That is not what I mean. Those words never go away. They are always there poking at my person. All my life… all my life this ideal has tried to guide me. At first, I had to work at placing these words on the table. I had to choose them. Eventually, it was not a way I had to choose. My person thrives with them. Not a choice but yes a choice.

  “Choice; they made the ultimate one. For us, most of us, our choices are light in comparison. Yet many think of their choices wrong. A wrong kind of self-interest often guides them to the wrong choice. Are my choices always right? No! Of course not. I have certainly missed out on opportunities. However, I want to believe that they were the correct choice for the way I want to conduct my life. The way I choose not to hurt, to protect, and to help others when I can. Not to hurt. I think people that intentionally hurt others are in the mix of the evil of the world. I mean it’s not hard. It is my life. How will my choice affect others? How will it not hurt others? I live those questions. Simple. Don’t you think! I believe this defines me, this is the way I want to b
e defined, this will be my ending salvation. Simple! For me it is. Look… I am not a wealthy man. I am not considered a success in the eyes of others who define success that way. But in me, success is this. Simple. When my time comes, this is all that matters. I think it is. Others, their choices are their own. But when their time comes, have they made the right choices. Hmm! I guess I will see. It is all I can do. Simple.”

  This afternoon with Harry being recorded, I would replay it many times for the details. However, its now had most of the meaning for me. Harry’s chosen words had smothered the journalistic seeking that I had come here for. Inquiring analytical was pushed aside by emotion.

  “Daniel you are a young man, you have lots of choices to make. Make them wisely. Make them in the context that I am speaking of. You will. I know that you will. That is your choice.” I was working through what he was saying. Suddenly he shook me out of it.

  “Mister Rengaw do you enjoy riddles?” This direction change caught me off guard and I shook my head no.

  “I’m not… riddles? I really don’t-” I was tumbling on my tongue as Harry cut me off.

  “Here is one: This one, not black, in one, had three.”

  Starting to focus, but not quite there yet, I asked; “Could you say that again please.”

  Harry; “This one, not black, in one, had three.” Harry smiled at a blank face. “You will figure it all out. You are a smart kid. Moreover, please, I do ask that you do think about it. You need to figure it out.”

  Not thinking about it, I watched as Harry lifted his warm beer to its end. He rose. “Well Mister Rengaw, I believe that we are through hear today.” I knew there would be another day. I was sure he wanted to finish his story another time. I wanted to know more. What happened next, what happened in the prisoner of war camp, what happened to Teddy Malone and Sandy. Sadly though, there would be no more. Harry had told me what he wanted told; what he wanted you to have; what he wanted me to understand. Harry was not finished, but he was done.

  My actions were unseen by me. I had gathered my stuff and now stood at the front door. My many thanks and our ending began. Todd grabbed the doorknob. “Wait!” Without intent to, I said this quick and too smacking. “Harry! There is one more thing. Can I…” I looked to Todd. “It is your mother Todd.” I went back to Harry. “Harry you said you went back to Washington to get married. But you didn’t… you haven’t spoken of anyone.”

  Todd smiled a wide grin. He said; “My mother Elizabeth passed away seven years ago.” My eyes flashed bock to Harry. Harry verbally snapped me.

  “You are a stupid kid. The fights; remember? I told you I won all of them.” Full of himself, Harry’s face again showed a life happy in progress.

  The End.

  On queue, a bump of turbulence shook me from Harry. Placed on the tray before me, my palms were firmly holding down my visit of nearly fifteen years ago. I pondered it.

  Preparing for this flight, I had printed it out two days earlier and placed it on the Steamer Trunk for a noticeable do-not-forget-this. It had disappeared from the trunk and then reappeared several hours later. Pamila The Spectacular, had made it disappear. Magically it reappeared after she had read it.

  Turning to Pami I asked; “Is this really how I write?” Away from Catch 22, her head lifted but did not turn to me. Now, she pondered it. I was not sure if she pondered an answer, or pondered how stupid the question was. Not wanting to let her respond to the latter, I asked another stupid question. “I mean what kind of a person wants to read this? This… whatever this is.” It was one of those moments of writer’s doubt; a very questioning one.

  Index finger placed to bookmark, she slowly closed her book. Her face turning and pressing close to mine, she gave an answer. “Doctor Rengaw, those persons are the kind kind. The kind that make it possible to make our mortgage, drive our cars, and pay our electric bill. Those kind. My favorite kind.”

  My head tilted to my seat back as I went into a doubt-satisfied chuckle.

  “Rengaw?” Our name questioned came from directly in front of Pami.

  “No!” I think I said. Popping up, a young woman’s head. Her eyes flash across Pami to me.

  “Daniel Rengaw. You are Doctor Daniel Rengaw?” Pami flashed me a huge enjoying grin. My sigh was heard throughout the plane.