In the Shadow of Alabama

by Judy Reene Singer

  August pulled his garrison cap from his head and held it out. “I’m kinda good with birds, Sarge. Give it here.”

  Fleischer gently lowered the bird into the hat.

  “Bread and sugar water,” August said. “That’s what you feed them.”

  “Okay.” Fleischer grabbed a few coins from his pocket and pointed to the jeep parked next to the hangar. “Get a loaf of bread from the PX.”

  August hung back and gave him a sheepish look. Fleischer looked puzzled. “I know they sell bread,” he urged.

  Willie cleared his throat. “It’ll take him at least an hour, sir,” he said, his words making sharp points in the morning air. “The colored PX is on the other side of the base, and it’s not open until fourteen hundred hours.” Fleischer took this in, but his face gave nothing away.

  “So, go to the white PX,” he said.

  “Not allowed in the white PX, sir,” Willie called out again. Fleischer glanced at the name tag on Willie’s khaki fatigue shirt.

  “Jackson?”

  “Yessir?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive, sir.”

  Fleischer looked down at the bird sitting in August’s hat and tightened his lips. “Okay,” he said to Willie. “Take over.” He nodded toward the wash rack. “Get the men inside and started on your first plane. I’ll be back.”

  “You leaving, sir?”

  Fleischer jumped into the jeep and turned it on. His face was filled with disgust. “Looks like I got to waste precious Army Air Force war time buying myself a loaf of bread.”

  * * *

  Planes in, planes out. It was endless. Maybe it was because of the crashes that their production was doubled, then tripled. Get the planes out, get them out, get them out. Strip them naked, wash them, steam them, there’s a war on and it’s going badly. They needed the planes for bombing training. They needed the planes to get the pilots in the air to teach them how to fly. Get them out, move it! On the double! There were fewer planes than ever; the Vultee Valiants were dropping out of the sky, sometimes two or three a week, crashing. Falling from the skies like a shot bird, though no one knew the reason. It seemed to Willie that the crashes were killing their own pilots before the Jerries could. Which meant the brass was up their ass every day. Orders were to find out what was crashing them.

  First there was Major Seekircher, who planned to spend the day observing and taking notes. He refused to put on protective gear, and after an hour in the wash rack, left coughing and gagging, tears streaming from his eyes, snot pouring from his nose.

  Then there was the team of engineers from Vultee, led by Lieutenant Colonel Chester Fairchild. It ended in a shouting match. One of the engineers had pushed his face right into Fleischer’s to make a very vocal point.

  “We did some research,” he yelled at Fleischer. “Those planes are crashing right after they come out of Maintenance. Your men are responsible.”

  “Is that a fact?” Fleischer shouted back, the veins in his forehead bulging pale blue under his skin, reminding Willie of the baby bird. “We follow everything you wrote in the manual! To the letter! Maybe that’s the problem!”

  “I’m thinking maybe sabotage,” the engineer yelled. “I’m thinking—”

  “Don’t blame my men.” Fairchild stepped between them. “We had a problem with the planes crashing before Fleischer was assigned here.”

  The engineer backed off and looked at the masked figures who had assembled around them. “Maybe it’s because you got a bunch of niggers and a kike working on them,” he said snidely to Fairchild.

  Fleischer lunged for him, stopped only by Fairchild’s sharp command to attention.

  Fleischer struggled to bring himself back under control. “My men work hard, sir,” he stuttered with frustration. “I won’t have anyone talking like that about them.”

  Fairchild turned to the engineers, who were milling about uncomfortably. “Maybe I approved this model too soon. The BT-13As—not as fancy as the BT-13s. The general will want to run over the specs for it again.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with this plane,” the engineer countered. “Maybe you just need to get some competent men on it.”

  “My men are competent.” Fleischer clenched his fists at his sides. “You’ll have to prove to me it’s not the design.”

  The engineer clenched his own fists. “I don’t have to prove—”

  Fairchild stepped between them for the second time. “This isn’t solving the problem, and I want it solved.” He glared at the two men. “I plan to make brigadier general, and this thing could hold me back. My ass is on the line for this.” He nodded to Fleischer and his men. “As you were,” and he led the engineers outside. Fleischer spit on the ground, then looked around at his dumbfounded men. “They’re all crazy, blaming us. I have an engineering background and I’m washing planes. This whole damn Air Force is crazy.”

  * * *

  Every morning landed another baby bird in their laps. August just collected each new addition and put it in with the others, into a nest he had fashioned from clean rags, and which he kept in a box labeled RADIO PARTS. The box was left out on a bench in what served as a corner office off the Radio room so he could feed them the required five or six times a day. The door protected them from the fumes. Fleischer hovered over them almost as much as their mother would have. He seemed almost proud of how well they were thriving.

  “Looks like they’re bigger than they were yesterday,” he would comment to August.

  “’Cause they is tough army birds,” August would agree admiringly, as he fed them bread soaked in sugar water. The older ones were graduated to canned K-rations, which he carefully pushed down their throats with a soda straw. Some of them had already grown pinfeathers, which stuck out like gray needles from their skin, finally opening to cover their heads with a fluffy gray down. Moses, Flapjack, Big Boy, Little Man, Oswald—August had named all of them. Willie found it pleasant to be greeted by a chorus of sweet, demanding chirps as soon as they opened the doors to the wash rack every morning. It kept some of the war away.

  * * *

  “Fly-shit!” Hogarth was standing in the front of the hangar, with a clipboard of papers and a big grin. He liked creating new and obnoxious variations on Fleischer’s name and did it every opportunity he got. “Fly-shit?” His presence meant he was delivering bad news, senseless orders or a denial for a requisition. Willie knew Hogarth enjoyed this particular work, being the messenger of bad news. He could have easily sent a buck private, but he liked to take it upon himself to personally hand the papers to Fleischer as soon as they came across his desk, then stand back and grin like a carved pumpkin. Willie tightened his grip on the steam hose and watched from the corner of his eye as Fleischer walked over to Hogarth, his hands on his hips, his face betraying no emotion. It could only be a problem, Willie knew. Maybe they had to double up production, triple-check the wiring on the dynamotor because of the Vultees falling out of the skies, maybe add another sickening, noxious chemical to the soup they were already using. He watched their expressions as they spoke for a few minutes—Hogarth looking smug and satisfied; Fleischer, a studied indifference—before Hogarth finally handed Fleischer the orders. Fleischer read them without expression, then called out Willie’s name.

  “Jackson!”

  Willie handed off the steam hose to Leon Hamilton, careful to first shut off the nozzle, then point it down and away at an angle, before Hamilton could take it over from him.

  “Yessir?” he said, joining Hogarth and Fleischer. He had become Fleischer’s right-hand man and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like being singled out.

  “You boys got some extra work to do.” Hogarth nodded toward the orders, still grinning happily.

  Willie looked at Fleischer with a question in his eyes. He didn’t like to talk in front of Hogarth. The less he said, the less he would provoke him, although it didn’t take much to start Hogarth on one of his social discourses on nigras.

&n
bsp; “New orders,” Fleischer said to Willie.

  “Salvage,” said Hogarth. “Y’all are going to do some salvage.” He was nearly pissing in his pants with delight.

  Willie had to ask. “Salvage what, sir?”

  Just what Hogarth was waiting for. “You boys gotta salvage the planes that crash,” he answered triumphantly, rubbing his hands together. “That shouldn’t bother a kike and a coupla nigras. You boys, I’m told, are real spiritual, and those planes can get spooky.” He giggled at the thought.

  Fleischer clenched his fists. “Watch your mouth, Hogarth.”

  But Hogarth was in too good of a mood to pick up on the fight. “Yessiree. Just came down from the brass today—Y’all got to mop up the planes that crash. Take out all usable parts and clean ’em and catalogue ’em.”

  “That’s not part of wash rack duty,” Fleischer snapped. “We’re supposed to stay right here. I can’t handle it; they already reduced our turnaround time.”

  “There’s a war on.” Hogarth shrugged. “We’re shorthanded. The other salvage teams are being retrained to serve in the mess hall. They burn out after a while.” He looked from one to the other. “You boys can read, can’t you? ’Cause I know y’all said you was coll-ege edoo-ca-ted. So y’all got the orders and the manual for salvage operations and y’all should be all set.”

  A sudden twitter of birds emanated from the radio parts box. August left his post pushing the planes into the hangar and went into the office to feed them. Hogarth’s eyes followed him.

  “What’s that noise?” he asked.

  “Just fixing a bad radio, Hogarth,” Fleischer snapped. “You got any other business?”

  Hogarth pulled a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “Just about those wire cutters you requisitioned. I took ’em—I needed ’em for my office. I’ll put y’all down for the next set.” He gave Fleischer a little shrug and patted the tool that was poking up from his shirt pocket.

  Fleischer glared at him for a moment, then gave him a sarcastic smile. “I’m sure your desk job demands a lot of wiring,” he said, “but no problem. I’ll just resolder the handles back on the ones we have until the new ones come in. Seems a waste of time, but it’s easy enough.” He jerked his thumb to the door. “Now, take a hike,” he said. “I’ve got a squadron to run and a manual to read.”

  * * *

  It was August who found the birds. The next morning. Right after roll call. Right after they rolled back the hangar doors to let the pale peach light of day into the darkness. The night crew had gone home, and the hangar had shut down for one hour between shifts. August went first, with his paper sack of dog food and bread. There was an anguished cry, like the moan of a sick animal, no words, Willie remembered, no words. Just the long, agonized moan. They all rushed to the office. The bench where August kept the box was smeared with blood. The bench was red with it, shiny, congealed blood. The box, too, red. The birds were dead, the whole lot of them, their heads neatly nipped off with a brand-new pair of wire cutters that were left on the bench, right out in the open, right next to the box that said RADIO PARTS. And there was a note from Hogarth.

  “Hand-delivered new wire cutters. They work good.”

  Chapter 13

  “That white horse disappeared like smoke.”

  Malachi had called me on my cell phone from his, which is unusual for him, because he believes that cell phones send out waves that make your brains evaporate. I had gotten him his own phone three years ago, for emergencies, and he’d only used it once before, reluctantly, when he got a flat tire on the truck while he was picking up some extra grain. His voice is filled with concern, telling me about Lisbon, who has apparently vanished from his paddock. I try to concentrate on his words, but my head is filled with the sight of small, bloody, fragile, dead baby birds.

  “Where could he have gone?” I ask Malachi, trying to focus. I know Lisbon couldn’t have gone far; there are thick woods surrounding my farm, which would make running away difficult.

  “Damned if I know,” Malachi continues. “I turned him out early, and when I went back to give him hay, he was gone. Spent two hours so far, trying to find him.”

  “Problem at home?” Rowena Jackson asks me. It is late morning, and she is driving us to the hospital for me to visit with her father again. The plan is for her to drop me off, and continue on to work, then pick me up again in the late afternoon. I nod to her, the phone to my ear.

  “Are any of the fences down?” I ask Malachi while nodding vigorously at Rowena. “Gate open?”

  “First things I checked,” Malachi replies. “He just disappeared like smoke.” I can picture Malachi lifting his tan cap to scratch his head, the way he always does when he’s puzzled. “Only way out of his paddock is to jump.”

  “He doesn’t know how to jump,” I say.

  “He does now,” Malachi replies. “Fence is four feet high.”

  * * *

  There are miles of fields and woods surrounding my farm, and Lisbon could be anywhere. Though he could live off the land for a time, browsing on the undergrowth, drinking from streams, weaving in and out of the shadows of trees, before long his color will betray him; nature can’t hide a white horse. Malachi always said so.

  “Take my truck and drive along the road,” I tell Malachi. “Go real slow—you’ll probably spot him. Bring a bucket of grain and shake it out the window. He’ll come. He may even be on his way back to the barn by now. They don’t like running alone in the woods. Besides, you always tell me they come back.”

  “Well, the smart ones do,” Malachi replies. “But since it’s Lisbon, he may need a map. It’s better I look for him on horseback. That truck of yours can’t get around no trees.”

  “I don’t want you riding!” I exclaim. I am thinking, Maja hasn’t foaled yet, the other mares have foals at their sides, the young horses aren’t fully saddle-broken, the geldings can barely steer, the only horse available would be MoneyTalk. And the thought of an eighty-one-year-old man combing the woods on a young, high-strung, ex-racehorse that didn’t even belong to me, looking for a fancy, high-strung, rescued show horse that did, is making my brain spin. I am thinking of asking Rowena to drop me off at the airport right now. “It’s not safe for you to ride.”

  “Actually,” Malachi says slowly, in an I-hate-to-tell-you-this tone of voice, “it’s too late.”

  “What’s too late?” I yelp.

  “Telling me not to ride,” he says. “S’why I called you on my cell phone. The barn phone won’t reach this far.”

  “You go back to the barn right now.” I try to sound like I’m in charge, although we both know better. “Wait—what’s too late?” Then I suddenly realize what he means.

  “Can’t go back,” he replies. “We’re in the middle of a stream—well—whoop-de-doo!”

  The phone is silent for a few moments. I know Malachi is fearless. He will grab the halter of a runaway horse that is coming right at him and just pull it to the side. He will stride across an icy barn roof with a broom to sweep off the snow before it accumulates; he will hop on anything that has four legs and is still standing upright. He has even made me feel brave when I was far from it. It’s all quiet except for the sound of water swishing in the background.

  “Malachi?” I yell. “Malachi!” I am picturing him sprawled, injured, floating facedown. I mentally run through my emergency numbers, hoping I can get someone there to help him. He’s a crack horseman, but even he has limits. “Malachi! Are you all right?”

  “Ha-ha.” He giggles, but I hear a big splash of water and his breath coming in hard pants. “Well, he don’t like getting his feet wet. Sucker’s got a bit of a buck in him. Don’t worry, he’s fine.”

  “I’m not worried about the horse,” I reply, then ask what I dread asking. “By the way, exactly who are you riding?”

  “MoneyTalk. The only other horse you got that’s rideable is the one we’re looking for.”

  “Just go back to the barn,” I plead. “I don�
��t want you to get hurt.”

  “I’ll go back presently,” he says. “Lisbon can’t get far. Not with that bad leg.”

  “His leg is healed,” I say. “You told me that his leg is all healed.”

  “Not that leg,” Malachi replies, and then, “The other leg.”

  Okay, I think, though I am starting to feel like the straight man in a vaudeville act, I’ll bite. “What other leg?”

  “The leg Toby kicked this morning. Swelled like a balloon. I hosed it, but he was pretty upset. S’why he jumped out, I suppose.”

  * * *

  Rowena pulls into the parking lot and drives me up to the hospital entrance.

  “Sounds like you got a lot on your plate,” she says. “Please don’t feel obligated to stay. I’ve heard my father’s stories a hundred times over the years. I can always jot them down, when I get a chance.” She gives me a reassuring smile. “And e-mail them to you.” But I realize that I want to stay. That part of the stories is hearing Willie tell them to me in his own words. I want to hear his voice. I turn to her. “He told me about the baby birds,” I say.

  “Oh yes, the baby birds.” She reflects. “I was never allowed to have a pet when I was growing up. He never forgot those birds.”

  * * *

  I try David on his cell phone; my hand shakes as I push his number. It goes right to voice mail. I take a deep breath and realize that I am feeling a ball of ice in my stomach. I will try him again in a little while. Whatever he had been planning to do, he probably has already done. That part of it is over. My phone call won’t stop anything.

  * * *

  Willie Jackson is asleep when I walk into his room. Even asleep, wearing navy pajamas with tiny white dots, he looks dignified. But I see his frailness, his face a dark wisp against the stark white pillows. There’s a nasal canula over his mouth and nose, bringing him oxygen; his hearing aid is in his ear, the wire resting on his chest; and a thin, plastic IV line in his arm, bringing him medications. I see the shape of his body under the covers, the outline of his one remaining leg. I sit by his bedside for a few minutes, wondering whether I am intruding. I promised him I would return, but I feel a bit embarrassed to be bothering him. I am not family. I’m barely an acquaintance; I haven’t earned the right to be sitting by his bedside watching him sleep. We are too vulnerable when we sleep; it is an act that should only be done in the presence of those we totally trust. His hands grasp the bedcovers in two loose fists, like he’s holding reins. It reminds me of Malachi, foolishly galloping through the woods, and I worry that I’m going to be spending the rest of my summer visiting old men in hospitals.