by Dan Walsh
A direct hit from a single flak gun could instantly turn a bomber into a fireball of flaming debris. An indirect hit could knock out engines or flight controls, kill or maim anyone caught in the shrapnel’s path.
Shawn, piloting a B-17 Flying Fortress nicknamed “Mama’s Kitchen,” tried to sound calm as he took in a damage report over the interphone from Nick Manzini, their starboard waist gunner.
“Hastings bought it, sir,” Manzini said. “Took a big piece of metal in the neck. It ain’t pretty. Looks like he went quick, though. Anderson is alive. Took some metal in the leg. Got a tourniquet around it. The bleeding has slowed a little, but he’s in a state of shock. I can’t even get him to talk to me.”
Shawn forced his emotions to stay intact. The entire crew looked to him for stability. But these men were more than just gunners under his command; they’d trained together for months, had flown every mission together, so far without a single mishap.
“And Captain,” Manzini continued, “that last flak burst open a brand-new window back here. Can’t take too many more hits like that.”
“Your guns operational?” Shawn asked.
“Let me check.”
Shawn heard the sound of both machine guns being test fired.
“They’re fine.”
“Okay, get back to your station. You’re gonna have to man both guns on the way home. Once out of Bremen, the fighters will hit us again. Make sure Anderson gets covered up, stays warm. Maybe he’ll snap out of it in awhile and give you some help.”
“Got it,” said Manzini.
For several minutes, no one said a word. Only the droning engines and muffled explosions of flak bursts could be heard over their pounding hearts. The plane jumped and shuddered with each one. The crew didn’t even react when another bomber just ahead fell out of formation and spun out of control, its left wing half shot off. No chutes were seen before it dropped out of sight.
Shawn tried to keep the plane steady, trying to keep his mind off the possibilities. With each new flak burst, he fought the temptation to steer the plane out of its path. The fact was, there were no safe paths; no amount of evasive action mattered. Survival seemed entirely a matter of fate or chance.
Some, like Shawn, believed it a matter of Providence and prayed every prayer they knew. Others superstitiously clung to their rabbits’ feet, lucky coins, saints’ medals, or some other homemade talisman.
Every few moments, Shawn looked down at a photo of Patrick and Elizabeth. She’d sent it two months ago. Patrick was holding the baseball Shawn had caught at a Phillies game two seasons ago. Elizabeth . . . he still found it hard to believe he’d won the heart of such a beautiful woman. She could have been a cover girl from a fashion magazine, with her shoulder-length blonde hair, all natural, lightly curled, parted slightly to the right. Her lips were plump and soft, almost set in a pout, immanently kissable. The hardest part being married to her had been holding back the urge to deck guys who couldn’t keep their eyes to themselves.
He thought about the first time they’d met. For him, it was love at first sight. For her, love came later. Her faith made her cautious. But that was okay. He had it bad enough for the both of them. She was sitting all alone at a table in the Penn State library. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. His stares had finally gotten her attention. At first, she turned away, pretending she hadn’t noticed. Then came that first smile. It happened on her third look up. He could still remember how it made him feel.
“It’s time, Captain,” said MacReady, the copilot.
“What?”
“Gotta turn the ship over to Davis.”
“Oh, right,” Shawn said. He reached down and flipped on the autopilot. “Okay, Nick. You’ve got the plane from here on. Make it count.”
“Roger, Captain.” The flak stayed heavy for ten more minutes. Every so often he heard a bang or a ping, as a stray piece of metal smacked into the fuselage. The plane seemed to be straining on the left side. Shawn feared one of the engines might have swallowed some shrapnel. Still, they held their place in the formation. He heard the bomb bay doors open.
Nick Davis simply announced “Bombs away” and closed the doors.
“How’d it look, Nick?” Shawn asked.
“A little hazy down there, but I think we nailed ’em.”
Shawn braced himself. Once they cleared Bremen, the fighters would return.
The crawling speed of the bombers had always been a source of frustration for Shawn. On every mission he’d watch the enemy fighters dart in and around them at will, picking them off one at a time. And every time a bomber fell from the sky, ten men went down with it. Some to their deaths, the lucky ones to prison.
Shawn looked down at Elizabeth’s picture again. “God, just let me get out of this alive.” His thoughts were interrupted by Manzini yelling, “Here they come!” into the interphone.
The fighters.
Man, they were coming in fast. Shawn heard a loud explosion, followed by piercing screams.
A moment later, it felt like he was losing control of the plane.
Eleven
Patrick decided that this had officially become the second worst day of his life. It began being terrorized by his grandfather about the wooden soldier, then digressed into total, absolute boredom. After the scolding, Patrick hid in his room until lunch. He didn’t plan on coming down, but his grandfather yelled “lunchtime” from the stairway like a troll growling from under the bridge.
It wasn’t a suggestion.
Over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and milk, they sat together in silence.
After lunch he politely excused himself and headed back to his room again. Just before going upstairs, he noticed the large brown box at the foot of the stairs. What could be inside, he wondered? Maybe his father had sent him something from England. Maybe Christmas presents. He looked back and saw his grandfather staring at him from the dining room table. He couldn’t read the look so he made his way up the stairs, straight to his room.
He stayed there until dinner, playing with his toys on the bed, but didn’t really have any fun. Dinner had gone much the same as lunch. After picking through a plate of dry meat loaf, corn, and potatoes, Patrick went back upstairs all alone. During the next two hours, he heard some of his favorite shows playing downstairs on the radio but couldn’t work up enough nerve to go down.
He decided his grandfather must still be sore at him for touching the wooden soldier. Why else had he ignored Patrick so completely? As he lay back on his pillow, he wasn’t sure what had hurt the most: getting yelled at, being alone for another day, missing his mom and dad, or the thought of never being able to play with the wooden soldier again.
This had been a day entirely devoid of childhood joys.
He glanced at his parents’ photograph, first at his father’s face then his mom’s, finally focusing on her eyes. He hadn’t been able to hear either of their voices since this morning. He imagined what she’d be telling him if she were here now. She’d say to get ready for bed, the right way. No shortcuts. Put all his toys away, change into his pajamas, wash his face, and brush his teeth. So that’s what he did.
He could hear his grandfather making little noises downstairs. The smell of his cigar drifted up into the hallway. Patrick didn’t recognize the radio show playing now, but whatever it was, every few seconds it made his grandfather laugh out loud. Once he laughed so hard it made Patrick laugh too. But he didn’t want to laugh. He walked back to his bedroom, sighing as he closed the door. Would they ever laugh together? Would he ever see his grandfather even smile at him?
He folded the covers down and sat on the edge of his bed. He hadn’t planned to look at his mother’s picture anymore tonight. He was simply going to get on his knees and pray one of the shorter bedtime prayers she had taught him. But it was almost as if she was calling to him.
“I hate it here,” he said. “It’s only been one day, but it feels like a hundred. How many more days until Daddy gets here?” He
realized he was raising his voice. He buried his face in his hands. “Why did you leave me?” he said. “I can’t do this all by myself. I’m just a boy.”
As he poured out his sorrows, all the painful moments of the day floated through his mind one by one. Each received its own parcel of tears. When the parade of images ended, he felt a strange sensation, as if a peaceful presence had entered the room. He lifted his face, expecting to find someone there. He was still alone. But the peace was there. And it was strong. Somehow it washed away all his sadness and anger.
He glanced at his mother once more as he lay back on the bed; her smile seemed fresh and alive. He didn’t even notice the light was still on. As he closed his eyes, it felt as if the bed rocked back and forth, almost like a cradle. He heard himself singing just before he drifted off to sleep, almost in a whisper: “Little ones to him belong; they are weak, but he is strong.”
Three more inches of fresh snow had fallen during the night. In the predawn hours, Collins manned his post on the porch, coffee mug in hand, as the procession of defense plant workers marched down the street. Watching the falling snowflakes made him mad enough to spit. His was still the only house on the block with an unshoveled walk. That miserable Matthews boy five doors down said he would shovel it two days ago. Well, if he didn’t come first thing after sunup, Collins would grab the first person he saw and pay them double.
He walked back into the house, hung up his coat, and stood over the box that had been delivered the day before. He’d been fighting his curiosity ever since the box arrived. He knew it was none of his business what was inside. His son should be getting back from England soon. By rights, he should just leave it alone and give it to Shawn as it sits.
He walked back into the kitchen and refilled his cup. As he sat at the dining room table, his eyes locked onto the box again. This was getting ridiculous. He should just go on over there and get it over with. The way it was sealed wouldn’t be spoiled by him opening it. The four side flaps had just been folded in on themselves. He could put it back the way he found it, and no one would be the wiser.
He got up and walked to the stairs, leaning his ear upward to catch any movement from the boy. He waited a full minute, but there wasn’t a sound. He walked to his favorite armchair, a brown stuffed affair contoured by thousands of hours spent in its folds. He slid the matching ottoman over with his foot and sat on it. He listened again for the boy. Quietly, he wrestled the top flaps free of their hold and peered inside.
He didn’t know what he’d expected, but this was a disappointment. Just a box of clothes folded sloppily, an assortment of pots and pans and cheap silverware, some framed pictures stacked sideways like a deck of cards. Then down there at the bottom was a cardboard shoe box tied around with string. He hoped to find something to warrant the level of distraction this thing had caused him over the last twenty four hours.
After staring a few minutes, he was struck by a thought that made him both sad and angry. This box represented all his son had acquired in this world. He and his wife were just renting that apartment on Clark Street, furniture too. He probably couldn’t get five bucks for the stuff inside this box at a church rummage sale. So, for the contents of this box, Shawn had turned down an opportunity to run a healthy, growing business, which had more than quadrupled in size since the start of the war. A business that would have been entirely his at this point. And because the business manufactured defense materials, Shawn would have likely received a deferment from the military to keep it running. He would be home and a rich man right now. Instead, Shawn was risking his neck every day over Germany, sending home just enough money each month to sustain what Collins was now looking at in this box.
What a waste, thought Collins. What a total waste.
He was about to close the box back up when the little shoe box caught his attention. Perhaps at least it contained something of value. He wiggled the string loose without untying it and lifted the lid. Just a boxful of folded papers. A bunch more of nothing. They appeared to be letters, at least on top. He thumbed through the stack, half hoping to find at least some stock or bond certificates. But they were all just letters, must be fifty of them. He laid them back in the box and was just about to close the lid when he saw the words “with all my love, Shawn” at the bottom edge of the first one.
He stared at it for the longest time, then set them all down carefully. He noticed something small sliding from the corner of the shoe box, tied together with a piece of brown twine. A pair of rings. A wedding band and another ring with the tiniest diamond setting he’d ever seen. They would have belonged to Shawn’s wife. Just stuck there in the box like that.
Somewhere deep inside, a flame of sympathy flickered to life. These were all letters from Shawn to his wife and the rings he had placed on her finger at a wedding Collins had refused to attend. A wife Collins had never allowed himself to get to know but whom his son loved with all his heart. He recognized Shawn’s handwriting. His wife had even saved all the envelopes. A knot formed in Collins’s throat. He hated how it felt and wished he could will it away.
The knot was the realization that he and Shawn did have something in common now after all these years. The love of a wife and the terrible anguish that follows when you realize she is gone. By now, Shawn had to have been told. Collins missed his Ida so bad just then, almost as badly as the moment her eyes had closed for the last time. Sometimes it seemed like it happened just yesterday. Sometimes like it was a hundred years ago. And sometimes—and this was the most peculiar feeling—it felt like it had never happened, like he had made the whole relationship up in his head, like he had always been just an old man living alone.
He realized where all this brooding was taking him and did not wish to go there. It was a dark empty place without a stitch of comfort, a refuge for the weak and sentimental. And Collins was neither of those. He swallowed hard, quickly dropping the letters back in place. He closed the lid to the shoe box and looped the string back around it. He set the shoe box back in its proper corner and snapped the top flaps shut.
He was startled by a noise on the stairway. “Grandfather?” a young voice called out.
Collins moved away from the box and looked up. It was Shawn coming down the stairs in his pajamas, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. “Shawn,” Collins said, a tenderness in his voice that hadn’t been there in years. “It’s too early for you to be up, son. A growing boy needs his sleep.”
“Huh?” the boy said, rubbing his eyes.
Collins started to walk up the stairs, extending his arms to the boy. But something was wrong. He couldn’t catch it at first. Then he realized. The hair was too light, and the face was off somehow. “Oh no,” he said, suddenly aware of his mistake.
It wasn’t Shawn. How could he have been so foolish?
Twelve
Patrick awakened with the same peaceful sensation he had at bedtime. The sun shone brightly through the blinds. His bed felt soft and warm beneath the blankets. A vague memory of a pleasant dream was slipping from his mind, involving his grandfather of all things. Only a snippet remained, but in the dream his grandfather had met him halfway down the stairs and even talked kindly to him. If Patrick had it right, he’d even tucked him back into bed. It didn’t make any sense, but it was a pleasant way to start the day.
He sat up, pulled off his covers, and smiled at the picture of his parents, this time focusing on his father’s face. Soon he’ll be home, Patrick thought. Miss Townsend had promised. Maybe his grandfather would let him call her today and find out when.
He got out of bed, stretched and yawned, then turned to make the bed. As he did, he remembered the wooden soldier in the attic. There had to be a way to see him again. He wouldn’t break it. How could he make his grandfather see? Other kids his age broke things, but Patrick wasn’t like that. His neighbor, Mrs. Howard, said he was the only little boy she had ever trusted in her parlor.
He straightened the rest of his room, changed his clothes, and went into the b
athroom. Along the way, he stopped and eyed the attic door. He’s up there all by himself, Patrick thought. In his mind, the soldier was well on his way to becoming a living thing.
When he finished in the bathroom, he went downstairs. The living room was empty. He walked into the kitchen and peeked around the corner. The kitchen was empty too. He began to panic. He hadn’t heard any noise upstairs. Was his grandfather still upstairs? It was starting to feel like the bad dream he had two nights ago. He was just about to run upstairs when he heard footsteps coming from below, behind a doorway in the dining room. His grandfather emerged from the basement, wiping his hands on his pants.
“So you’re up,” he said, closing the door. “I suppose you want something to eat.”
Patrick breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ve got some oatmeal made in a pot if you want it. Help yourself.”
Patrick wanted to remind him he was only seven. Seven year olds weren’t supposed to fix their own breakfasts. “Thank you,” he said. “Is there any milk, sir?”
“Some in the icebox. Smell it first.”
After eating breakfast by himself, he began to dread the day ahead. A half hour in his grandfather’s presence and his morning joy had evaporated. He got up from the table and cleaned up his mess. As he worked, he tried building his nerve to just walk right into the living room and talk things out with his grandfather. First, he’d ask him about calling Miss Townsend. Then about what was in that cardboard box. Maybe even about the wooden soldier in the attic.
Well, maybe not about the wooden soldier just yet.
Patrick tiptoed in and stood in front of him, silent as a sentry. He was reading the newspaper. Patrick hoped to catch him when he changed pages. The doorbell rang, startling them both. His grandfather jumped in his seat, newspaper pages flapping in the air. Patrick jumped back.