I love Louis L’Amour
books and stories. I like the highly-romanticized version of the American West,
which is only half myth. Some of it might even be real. And a lot of the rest
is bullshit—
We’ll talk about that
some other time.
I suppose it’s the
action, the adventure, the escape into a world where the moral questions are
easy enough.
It’s good versus
evil, no mistaking that.
One must assume the
characters are engaging, the women beautiful, the villains are clearly the
villains. The landscapes in the background speak for themselves.
Louis L’Amour is one
of the few authors that can regularly bring a tear to my eye. This is when the
male character arrives in town, immediately goes for the most beautiful girl in
town, and often noting that he’s going to have to buy a cow—for the milk,
right, like when they marry, settle down, and have lots and lots of children.
That’s pure romance, and even men
like a little romance once in a while.
This is the character
with a bag of peach pits and cherry pits and apple seeds to plant when he gets
his own spread…a hard worker, someone with a dream, a story to tell, and not
afraid of a fight.
Coming from an
interesting background, not without its hardships, L’Amour had one hell of a
resume.
From Wikipedia:
“Louis Dearborn LaMoore was born in Jamestown, North Dakota,
on March 22, 1908, the seventh child of Emily Dearborn and veterinarian, local
politician, and farm equipment broker Louis Charles LaMoore (who had changed
the French spelling of the name L'Amour). His mother had Irish ancestry, while
his father was of French-Canadian descent. His father had arrived in Dakota
Territory in 1882. Although the area around Jamestown was mostly farm land,
cowboys and livestock often traveled through Jamestown on their way to or from
ranches in Montana and the markets to the east. Louis played Cowboys and Indians in the family barn,
which served as his father's veterinary hospital, and spent much of his free
time at the local library, the Alfred E. Dickey Free Library,
particularly reading the works of 19th-century British historical boys'
author G. A. Henty. L'Amour once said, (Henty's
works) enabled me to go into school with a great deal of knowledge that even my
teachers didn't have about wars and politics.
After a series of bank failures devastated the economy of the upper Midwest,
Dr. LaMoore and Emily took to the road. Removing Louis and his adopted brother
John from school, they headed south in the winter of 1923. Over the next seven
or eight years, they skinned cattle in west Texas, baled hay in the Pecos
Valley of New Mexico, worked in the mines of Arizona, California and Nevada,
and in the sawmills and lumber camps of the Pacific
Northwest. It was in colorful places like these that Louis met a wide variety
of people, upon whom he later modeled the characters in his novels, many of
them actual Old West personalities
who had survived into the 1920s and 1930s.
Making his way as a mine assessment worker, professional boxer, and
merchant seaman, Louis traveled the country and the world, sometimes with his
family, sometimes not. He visited all of the western states plus England,
Japan, China, Borneo, the Dutch East Indies, Arabia, Egypt, and Panama, finally
moving with his parents to Choctaw, Oklahoma in the early 1930s. There, he changed
his name to the original French spelling L'Amour
and settled down to try to make something of himself as a writer.”
Something has been said about the Social Darwinism of some of his later
books. It’s not unlikely he would be a conservative, a Republican. It went with
the terrain. These were hardy, independent, self-reliant people who had
overcome all odds, (those who didn’t die young), which is a recurrent theme of
his stories after all. The fact that they’re not preachy or beat the reader
over the head with it, is what helps to make them readable in the first place.
I doubt if he had much sympathy for the truly criminal or the irresponsible or
the just plain no-accounts.
Louis was not a lazy man and neither am I.
One of his more
popular titles is the book and film entitled Shalako.
In a kind of tribute
to a writer of what was, essentially, pulp, my name is Louis Shalako. If a name
has any power, and I believe that it does, this is a great name and a wonderful
homage to Louis L’Amour. Louis is of course French, and the Zuni Shalako is a
celebration of the winter solstice, a time of rebirth, renewal, and
consequently, great magic.
It is also a tribute
to myself.
It’s very symbolic,
but in a sense, I have remade myself. I wanted to make a few changes and so I
did. All I ever really wanted to do,
was to write pulp—genre fiction, ladies and gentlemen. I doubt if L’Amour set
out to sell 200 million copies, that’s a ludicrous proposition. What he said, was that he would ‘try to make
something of himself as a writer’. You have to admit, the gentleman was very
successful. And imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
It’s interesting that
his father Anglicized the name but Louis changed it back.
L’Amour means love in French. This is pure deduction,
but this is why the man changed it back. Louis loved the world he saw around
him, the people, the places, and the times he lived in. He love the land and
its history. It was his own form of tribute, far more so than LaMoore, if we
think about it.
In that sense, he is
a kind of inspiration to us all.
As a very wise man
once said, love your customer.
And if you don't love something, you're going to hate everything, and that is no way to be, which is just plain miserable.
***
A bizarre anecdote.
My uncle Ed ordered a sign to go out in front of the family business. When the
sign arrived, it read E.S. Ambrose, Monuments. Authorized dealer for Rock of
Ages. (A brand-name of the time, from a big quarry up in Quebec. He sold
tombstones.) The correct spelling was Ambroise.
About as French as you can get, right. But Sarnia was an English speaking town
in Ontario. Ed being Ed, instead of boxing it up and sending it back, (at his
own expense no doubt), he decided to live with it, although he’d probably still
have the correct name on his driver’s license and stuff like that.
The women. Women are important to this story, for
surely man does not live by bread alone. Some of the women were fine,
upstanding, and innocent. Some others, not so innocent after all. Some of them
were just victims, in the end.
So, there was a group of guys and gals, virtually none
of us actually going together, ‘going steady’, which is a term not much heard
anymore.
One night, four or five of the guys, rather a few more
of the girls, all nice kids from the north end of town, the product of some
prosperity, some security, good homes, good families, nice houses…some of the
guys were more of the south-end types. We met them while hanging out at
Canatara Park, where all you had to do was to park your car, get out and start
throwing a Frisbee around.
Oh—you had to talk.
Somehow or other, a whole gang of us decided to go to
a pool hall—whose idea that was is now lost in the mists of time.
The pool hall did not serve liquor, but then we were
underage anyways. It was simple enough to rent a pool table, sit at another long
table, with a pop and a bag of chips, taking turns and quite frankly, not that
interested in winning, or competition, or making bets and taking money. It was
just for fun, and if there were a few raised eyebrows among the serious
regulars, we had enough healthy young males to discourage any kind of trouble.
No one even tried to hit on the females, but
presumably they were capable of taking care of that sort of thing on their own…it’s
not like they hadn’t seen it all before.
After a couple of hours of this, we had the idea of
grabbing a couple of pizzas. The whole bunch of us piled into three, four, five
cars, having met up at Barb’s place, and I distinctly recall that someone asked
if I didn’t mind picking up Geoff, and Doug, and Lisa, and Lori. This was
probably the first time I’d met some of them. I ended up going to the Formula One Grand Prix at Mosport with Geoff and Doug, so that was pretty cool too.
The girls, very attractive. This is before they get
married, get pregnant, have a few kids and begin that long, slow slide into
staid middle age, all sagging tits, buttocks, stretch marks and lines in the
face.
One on one, I was terribly shy with girls, but these
folks had gone to school together, and some minimal conversation wasn’t all
that hard.
So, with all those vehicles, and the pizzas, I had the
idea of heading for my place.
We opened up the garage, turned on the lights. There
was a picnic table, which was left inside, and as I recall, it was raining. We
had some little radio up on a shelf. So, we laughed and joked and ate our
pizza. All very well—
One of the girls gasped, and pointed out the door. My
1967 Dodge Fargo van was parked outside, it was customized. It was purple
metal-flake. It had shag carpeting. It had the walls paneled, it had a built-in
icebox, a fucking bar for crying out loud, and a quilted, fake leather bed in
the back end. You lifted up a centre section, stuck in a steel pipe and you had
a table. There were little tear-drop windows in the back, a sun roof, mag
wheels, there was an eight-track tape player bolted up on the dashboard. A
pretty cool vehicle…and it was rocking.
There was somebody in my van, ladies and gentlemen.
Naturally, I opened up the side door and had a look.
A cloud of blue pot smoke comes rolling out, a strong
smell of alcohol, there was a distinctive laugh.
Zoom.
Fucking Zoomer.
What the hell?
There was some light from the back door and I could
see he wasn’t alone in there. He’s got a girl, and I have to admit, I wasn’t
too pleased with all of this. Kind of hard to explain Zoom to nice girls, (or
even nice guys), that is for sure.
In a kind of disgust, I shut the door and left them at
it…at some point, our little party broke up and everyone went home. Finally,
Zoom and the girl clambered out of the back of the van and went their own way.
Only one big problem. Dee was about fourteen years
old. Zoom would have been about the same age as me, eighteen or maybe nineteen
years old in his case.
I think it’s safe to say that I was a little shocked,
but also, as a virgin, and as a kind of shy and lonely guy, one who sort of
thought he’d be alone for the rest of his miserable little life, I have to
admit I was kind of jealous.
Fuck, here’s Zoom, one of the most delinquent, most
disruptive, rude, abusive, loud-mouthed people ever, and yes, a born thief, and
for fuck’s sakes, the man’s at least getting laid.
The funny thing was, they were together for many
years. She was his partner in crime.
When she started that young, I reckon she fell right
in love with the guy. How in the hell would she know any better? With Zoom,
booze, drugs, money, sex, a kind of mental and moral independence, it was
probably quite the adventure…one big party, all the fucking way.
A built-in bar, an ice-box, and a bed in the back.
***
I got my first girlfriend as the result of a
high-speed chase. Sounds crazy but it’s true. It’s also kind of a cute story.
As mentioned, we hung out quite a bit at Canatara
Park, and people still do that, although the number of young people of a
certain age has gone down due to the aging of the population.
We were in Johnny’s car, a Plymouth Cricket, which was
a small, four-cylinder little sedan. We cruised the park, and didn’t see anyone
we really knew, or if we did, the acquaintance was so slight. You have to
wonder what they might have thought when we pulled up and joined the
gang…mostly males, which was also a factor.
We’re just pulling out of the parking lot, onto an
internal drive within the park, and here comes an Austin Mini, with three young
women in it. Johnny’s beeping the horn, sticking his head out the window,
waving at them, I’m yelling stupid shit like ‘I love you, Baby!!!’
The girl driving had thick, coppery tresses, blue
eyes, and from what I could see, pretty good bone structure…
Huh.
How in the hell we ever expected that sort of thing to
actually work, shows just how inept the pair of us actually were.
Johnny and I decided to follow them back into the
park—maybe they were going to stop and hang out for a while, right? Pulling
into a driveway and turning around, the girl in the back seat, looking out at
these two weird guys, realizes we’re on their tail. The girl driving puts the
hammer down and takes off through the park. The actual park road comes in off
of Christina Street, and winds through the park, and then you pop back out onto
Sandy Lane in what is Point Edward, a small municipal enclave surrounded on
three sides by good old Sarnia. It’s a twisty little bit of road, perfect for
the Mini and some female driving aggression, which is more common than you
might think.
And she was good, certainly better than poor old
Johnny. Fuck, when he got his beginner’s, I had my license and I took him out
for a few driving lessons. Johnny had a hard time telling left from right, it’s
like he suffered brain-lock when he didn’t know what to do. Me yelling
instructions and curses, clutching the dashboard in panic, probably didn’t
help, ladies and gentlemen.
We had them cornered—they’d taken the wrong turn,
ended up down at the end of a cul-de-sac at the end of Beverly Road. Johnny
blocked about half the road, and I got out, waving at the girls, basically we
just wanted to talk to them…we wanted girlfriends and that’s just the truth of
it. The redhead in the driver’s seat points the car right at me and she guns
it. Laughing, I dove out of the way, and got in the vehicle, with Johnny madly
trying to turn it around and to get on their tail again.
We followed them south, practically the full length of
Indian Road, and they got so far and nipped into the subdivisions again. They
made it through an intersection on the tail end of the yellow, Johnny being
Johnny decided to stop—arguably the right thing to do.
We’re watching tail-lights disappear into the
distance. The light changes and Johnny and I go racing off up Ontario Street,
which cuts through the city on an angle, which is handy sometimes.
And in a move straight out of The Italian Job, the girls in the Mini have turned a corner and
immediately pulled into the old H & S Sports Cars, the British Leyland
dealer right there at the corner of Russell and Ontario Streets. They shut down
the lights, turn off the motor, and duck down in the vehicle…she’s found a spot
in a line of new and used Minis, and the truth is, we drove right on past them,
searching in vain for what was hiding in plain sight. After a while, I suppose
we gave up.
***
I must have been out of work. Back then, if you were
laid off, you could get unemployment within about two weeks. If you quit, there
was a penalty, but your cheques would start in six weeks. Ah, but the
unemployment folks had ‘Manpower’ courses at Lambton College. Academic
Upgrading. Fuck, they even had employment counselors at the unemployment office
back then, and so this is how I ended up getting the ‘equivalent’ of Grade 12.
In my usual form, I did not have to take English, but I did the work and got
Grade 12 math, physics and chemistry. It also extended your benefits for one
additional year, after that you were on your own. I even got kicked out once or
twice, but I did finally finish and then at least I could get into the plants
in Chemical Valley. Sure beats working at K-Mart, right.
I was riding my bike to school one day, and I saw a
familiar little vehicle in the Sentry Department Store parking lot, at the
corner of London Road and Murphy Road…just across the parking lot from
McDonald’s, mentioned previously. I noted the car there more than once. With a
continuous intake set of courses, I was in school, but the high school kids
were out and I wondered if maybe one of them girls worked there in some sort of
summer job.
Four gears and four cylinders.
I mentioned this to Johnny, and one evening we went to
McDonald’s for a cheeseburger or whatever. This was even before they had a
drive-through. And on the way out, we took a little tour through the Sentry
Store parking lot. Sure enough, the Mini was sitting there in one of the rows.
What in the hell do we do now? Rummaging around, we
found a pen and a bit of paper. We left a note. It went something like this: Please
don’t run away next time. We’re friendly. Signed, two nice guys. Johnny, and
Louis, and we put our phone numbers on there, which is sort of naïve, in fact
unbelievable in the more modern world.
What is even more unbelievable, but true, is that I
was sitting at home one night when the phone rang. With an odd look on his
face, my old man said it was for me…
It was them—all of them, most likely listening in on
an extension and trying not to laugh.
Anyhow, we talked a bit and then I asked if maybe, uh,
like maybe if we could go out some time. I have often wondered if they drew
straws to see just who would go—but that’s cynical.
Much to my surprise, she said yes. Much to Johnny’s
surprise, he ended up going out with her older sister, the brunette. As for the
third one, the blonde in the back seat, she was a cousin and had a boyfriend up
in Quebec somewhere…she was just staying with them for a year or so, taking
Grade 13 or something like that. That one is a bit fuzzy on the details; but
her boyfriend’s name was Gilles, and one wonders if the parents were just
getting her out of town for a while.
When I went to write French noir detective novels
years later, Gilles was the coolest name I could think of on the spur of the
moment, hence the Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery Series.
Available from many fine online retailers.
As for the ladies, they will be back later in the
story.
After
a solid eight hours in the sack, I moseyed around, lazed in the shower, shaved
up as best I could, and futzed around in general. Being away from our normal
base, there were few routine chores. Basically we were just killing time.
Reluctantly,
I toyed with some food, but sooner or later I had to get back to work. I have
to admit to a kind of bone-weary fatigue, though.
About
six o’clock, the bunch of us rendezvoused in the empty hangar reserved for our
briefings. It was our office and command facility here at St. Omer aerodrome.
Minimalist,
to say the least.
“Have
a coffee, sir?” Jaeckl offered, reaching for the cups lined up by the urn.
I
nodded.
“Major
Dawley, bring us up to speed, please?” I asked.
The
assembly quieted down a little, although they were pretty subdued to begin
with.
Everyone
was dead tired by this time, after working on the AEG’s all night long.
Poor
guys could barely think straight.
“All
righty, then. Gentlemen, listen up please.” He began, standing by the
blackboard.
“So
far, the two Handley-Pages are in running condition, and Pete is working on the
AEG’s.”
“So.
Last night was a bit of a non-starter, but Lieutenant-Colonel Tucker decided to
drop his bomb over the North Sea, rather than try to land with it. But that’s
good, actually, as we have now confirmed that the dropping mechanism works just
fine, if nothing else.”
“We
enjoyed the flight, burned off fuel, and just cruised around in general.” I
reported, and the boys all nodded and smiled.
“We
had a blast.” Bernie, eyes all bloodshot.
He
looked kind of hung-over.
“Pete
thinks he has the problem cured, and assures us the Handley-Page airplanes are
top-notch.” The Major continued. “Referring to the AEG’s, we just don’t know
yet. But it is still early. The basic plan is to try again. We take off at the
same time, and proceed to the target with as many planes as we have. The
weather is good for tonight, as far as we can safely predict.”
Down
south, there was a chance of thundershowers.
‘If
possible these should be avoided.’
Agents
were again waiting at our jump point in Switzerland. The men checked their
notes from the previous day and made new ones. I prayed that something would go
wrong. I was hoping to get caught, but so far no one had even inquired as to
our business here at St. Omer.
“When
you take off, circle for height, but no more than half an hour. Then steer an
initial course of one-hundred-eighty degrees for one hour, then turn to
one-hundred-twenty degrees and look for the markers. Keep your route
description handy. Land at field ‘B’ and refuel. This is a long trip. At Nancy,
turn to approximately eighty-seven degrees, fly to the town of Strasbourg. From
there, a course of approximately forty-three degrees takes you more or less to
Baden-Baden.”
“The
sketches you have are fairly good. In the final analysis, use your own
judgment. If necessary, jettison the bomb over enemy territory, and return to
field, ‘B.’”
Details,
details, so many details, but it allowed time to think and study the map.
The
beauty lies in the details.
We
heard engines fire up outside, and a ragged cheer.
Rumble,
rumble, rumble…they kept going. One of the AEG’s. Two foreign engines were
running.
We
looked at each other, many with eyebrows raised.
Someone
knocked eagerly at the door. It opened with a thud as Taffy lurched in, wearing
an expectant and happy grin.
He
was just about to speak, when the engine notes went flat, first one, then the
other.
He
stood there shaking his head.
Finally,
he came out with it.
“Whale…oil…beef…hooked.”
He said, or something like that, then turned and in a dejected fashion began to
shuffle off to the door.
“Aw,
Pete.” He muttered as the door slammed behind him.
A
few grimaces, a few grins.
“Sounds
like he’s getting closer.” Said Major Dawley, a little tongue in cheek jab at
yours truly.
Jaeckl
wouldn’t let it get out of hand. He was just screwing with us.
The
teletype machine clattered. Dawley and Hastings, who was also there to help
out, consulted. They muttered between themselves while we waited.
“Doesn’t
look good.” Hastings said, beckoning me over.
And
there you have it. We had to stand them down again. The effing weather had
socked in the southern end of our course for a day at least. More like three or
four, judging by the maps and the data provided. Privately, I was relieved.
Those AEG’s flew in here. Those motors just had to run, sooner or later. Good
old Howard-Smythe had sent my coded telegram right on schedule. And he had been
bribed to forget well.
“Why
not do a big beer run?” I suggested. “It might be good navigation practice.”
“The
weather down south looks bad for three for four days.” Put in Dawley.
The
boys sat around scratching their heads.
“All
right, take the damned bombs off the Handley-Pages.” I ordered to a few muffled
groans and gripes.
It
would be a dry run to Farnborough, perhaps even with two AEG’s…as we heard them
up and roar again…maybe Pete was learning his trade, finally, and the two
bombers of Trenchard’s.
“Why
don’t we just lock up here and take the whole damned crew?” Queried Hastings.
“You
could send half of them on a pass, for a day or two.”
I
told you Hastings was smart. We made our way across the pavement to the line-up
of aircraft, all four with little clumps of men working on them.
“Good
idea. But first we have to get there.” I acknowledged. “Let’s have a look at
these ruddy Hun bombers.”
Tipping
the wink to Jaeckl, he went to the rear of the cockpit and sat there looking
innocent.
“Try
her out.” I suggested to poor old Pete, and gave it a big whack on the cowling
beside the firewall with the flat of my hand.
Pete
stood there, looking apprehensive, but the plane’s twin engines fired right up
this time. Pete looked fit to be tied. He was one stressed-out individual.
He
just about died when I made the other plane start up, too. Poor Pete. I’ll
never forget it. He was groaning, and cursing, and pulling clumps of his
thinning blonde hair right out of his head.
“Well,
that makes two AEGS and two H-P’s.” Jaeckl joked. “For now, anyways.”
“Put
a bomb on mine.” I noted for Jaeckl’s benefit, as he moved away. “I want to try
something.”
His
eyebrows rose, but he just saluted.
“I
want to find out if we can land safely with a bomb on, at night. Those things
are expensive, and the Ministry wants to know.”
It was
our excuse for being experimental, after all.
This AEG bomber is now in a museum in Canada.
“Who
will I be riding with?” He asked over his shoulder. “Someone else, hopefully?”
So
Bert Hall flew one AEG, Owens flew another. Dexter flew the other Handley-Page,
and mine was the second, number, ‘oh-twenty-one.’ Soon we were over the
channel.
Because
of the relative lack of experience we all had, except Bert, the officers were
scattered amongst four planes, and the ground crew was divided into two groups.
Some were going on leave in Paris, no hardship for them, and the rest were
flying with us.
My
plane had a somewhat smaller crew because of the big bomb in the belly. I must
say, it was an impressive sight, with the two Fritzie planes up front and down
below, with Dexter in, ‘oh-nineteen,’ and myself in, ‘oh-twenty-one,’ up top.
At
this time of night, it was safer to fly southwest down the Channel, then
approach from the south. Bert’s navigation was impeccable. He might have done
this sort of thing before. A smuggler’s route.
We
landed at Farnborough in the middle of the night, but a quick radio call ahead
by Dawley made certain of our welcome. They even used the beer trucks to help
light up the fricking runway. That Dawley, he was always coming up with a new
twist.
I
guess it goes without saying that I didn’t pooch the landing.
And
then, a batch of mechanics were sent on leave, to take effect the minute our
wheels cleared ground. We left the AEG’s in England, so I sent Owens and Dexter
on leave as well.
We
kept exactly two mechanics, (not Pete,) and landed back at St. Omer about nine
o’clock in the morning. All we had to do was unload, and have a nap, and think
up our next stunt.
It’s
too bad, really. I wouldn’t have minded a crack at old Kaiser Willy, and no
doubt Bert would have bombed the War Office, Winnie’s place, or even Windsor
Castle.
‘If
the price was right.’
We
had the motive, we had the intent, we had the means. We simply didn’t get the
opportunity. Timing is everything, eh?
It
might have done some good, to let the gentry know they can be held accountable.
***
She said yes.
While
home in London, Jennifer had agreed to marry me. But I don’t want to get into
the mushy stuff too deeply, for this is my future wife after all. For that
reason, I have deliberately not fantasized, nor mentally soliloquized about
her.
Sitting
there, back inside our old command tent, flushed with the vacation, I spent
some time reading all the reports of the last week’s activities. The boys were
doing very well, with only two minor casualties.
The
Rittmeester Gunter von Fluebl, and Oberstleutnant Heinz Smiltz, ‘bit the dust.’
Thirteen
enemy planes shot down. And two minor aces. Simply awesome.
About
then the witch doctor, the head-shrinker, Doctor Scolz came in. It was his last
day with us. He appeared to be very drunk. Not a happy drunk, either. The surly
kind.
“So,
I’ll say goodbye then.” I murmured, still reading.
He
stood in front of the desk. He saluted, and clicked his heels. Very formal. He
rocked back and forth ever so slightly. A veritable stew of breath came out of
him, and wafted its way across. The doctor had been drinking heavily for some
days now.
Over
the last two or three weeks, the poor fellow had taken to talking to himself.
Beginning to lose the personal grooming. Perhaps we’d been a too little hard on
him.
“Incidentally,
I have just turned in all your psychological assessments.” He said with a
certain relish.
He
seemed to expect some kind of response.
“That’s
okay Doc. We all have our little role to play. By any chance do I fit the
profile of an asshole?” And I just kept on reading.
Poor
guy didn’t laugh. He just turned and headed for the door. Don’t go away mad,
Doc…just go away. I didn’t laugh either. But that was about as close to an
apology as he was ever going to get.
As
the flap of the tent swished closed behind his sorry ass, Howard-Smythe turned
aside from the tele-printer machine.
“You
would have to be some kind of anal retentive to want his job.” He allowed.
In
some way this put the final polish on what had been, from the onset, a pretty
bad scene.
***
One
fine day it was all over. We stood there, unable to comprehend, or to believe.
We muttered, and loitered. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day. An armistice.
It
was unbelievable.
Why?
I
mean, why stop now?
Yet
it is in writing. We have it in writing. It’s an order. Hard to believe.
Accepting it is difficult. The sense of relief…overwhelming…a curiously subdued
bunch of guys.
It
was surreal.
The
land is oddly silent. The air is strangely clear. The sound of the guns peter
away, down to nothing.
“Well,
I’ll be damned.” Said Andrew, who only yesterday was totally flushed with the
pride of a double victory.
“I
honestly didn’t think I would live to see it.” I admonished the boys nearest.
“I just stopped thinking about it.”
Now
my knees, my whole body went slack. All I wanted to do was to sit down. Those
guys broke out a bottle, and music began to play.
My
thoughts were haunted with a vision of Jennifer, pale and ghostly, hanging in
the sky. All I had to do was to go home…it was over. It was all over with—and I
lived.
I
lived. I lived.
Holy,
Jesus Fucking Christ…I lived.
***
He let him live...
For
some reason, I wanted one last flight. Just one. It didn’t seem fair, to have
such a beautiful plane. I had spent weeks tuning it. Many hours of hard work
went into all the little tweaks, and for what? It was all so useless.
I
experienced a moment of real anger, a kind of narcissistic rage, thinking about
that.
Our
orders were to stand down and preserve our machines for later analysis.
It
was time to get ready for the next war.
So I
took off alone, and headed for the Western Front. It was about ten-thirty or
twenty to eleven or so. I took it up sunwards, climbing through 10,500 feet,
and then opened up the throttle. Just to see what she could do. My SE was
holding at about a hundred and sixty-five at 10,500 feet…beautiful. Just
beautiful. Just think of what we could have done, given a little more time.
That’s
when I saw him, off to the south and about 2,000 feet higher.
The
black nose, the familiar wings. A Fokker D-VII. They don’t give those out to
just anybody. He saw me. I could tell because he re-aligned the plane.
My
guns were already cocked.
The
clock said, ‘five to eleven,’ and I grinned in ferocious, blood-thirsty mirth.
“I’ll
be fucking damned.” I oathed in fury. “I know thee, sir…”
For
the rest of the quote the reader will have to consult Shakespeare’s, ‘King
Lear.’
It’s
pretty offensive.
I
must say I was impressed.
Something
about a, ‘son of a mongrel bitch,’ as I recall, but he was diving onto me and
all there was to do was line up the sights, a little in front of old Herman,
and let him have a burst right in the kisser.
Hah.
Gotcha, you motherfucker.
He
flew right into that one.
“Who
the hell do you fucking think you’re dealing with here?” I bellowed as he went
by.
He
pulled right, and I pulled right, and we entered the good old, ‘kurvenkampf,’ as taught by von
Richtofen, and Boelcke, and a hundred dead men before and since.
Herman
Goering shot down Duzek, Elmer Duzek, only three weeks before. Did Elmer want
to be the last man to die? One of the last? Only another three weeks, and he
would have made it. He had a mother and a sister.
The
red and black D-VII suddenly reversed his turn, but of course I anticipated
this move, having seen it before. Pulled the throttle back to about half.
Patience is a virtue, and I knew he would dive below me…sure enough, and I
flipped over, following him down to the clouds…the clouds were about 8,000 feet
and I figured he’d go east. No, he’ll go south, sunwards, and sure enough there
he was.
Pulling
out now, he pulls up and over, and now I turned and fishtailed to keep him in
front of my guns…and still he was out of range. His loop did him no good. But
he’s out of range.
He
must recognize me as well. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the
eleventh month.
Eleven
o’clock, and yet neither one of us can break off safely. Who knows what his
intentions are now? I wasn’t too sure what mine were. But I was open to
suggestion.
We
made a head-on pass. A little burst of smoke from his guns was enough to
confirm his intentions, as my own finger gently squeezed the trigger. Through
the smoke and vibration, I’m sure I got hits…and got hit…something thwacked
through some part of my airframe.
He
made a couple of strange moves, and I just watched him.
I
had all day.
The
sun behind me, lots of fuel.
We’re
all alone up here, buddy…and it suddenly clicked in.
He
was no longer trying to shoot me down, but only trying to avoid my guns.
Now
I get it. This calls for…a snap roll.
Fuck.
Sure enough, he does a snap roll too.
And
then he looks over, as if to say, ‘Big deal.’
Suddenly
he was edging up beside my plane. Waving, both hands in the air, he points and
shrugs.
Face
impassive, it is the bland-looking, fat-faced man. Not wearing a face mask, he
gave me a big, happy smile. All I could do was to show him the big thumbs-up.
He
saluted, and bowed his head.
His
guns were jammed. I fired a short burst, because mine weren’t.
And
again, he shrugged. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, he began to turn off to the
east.
I
watched the tail end of that plane, for a long, long time, let me tell you.
I
don’t know why. There is no rhyme or reason for it.
Decided
to let the cocksucker live.
It
was eleven minutes and eleven seconds past eleven, and I don’t get paid for
this.
So I
turned it for home.
I
let him live.
My
thought was, “Enough, already, Herman.”
What
do I care if the man’s a transvestite? Lord knows, we shot down enough of his
goofy little buddies.
Epilogue
A Splendid Wedding
Standing
there blinking in the sun, on the steps of the church. People took pictures and
threw rice. A gaggle of Jennifer’s girlfriends waved and cried, and carried on
something awful.
Her
mom cried.
Her
dad beamed and called me, ‘son.’
He
slipped me an envelope absolutely jammed with cash, when no one was looking.
Jolly
nice of him.
We
got in the back of a big car and someone drove us away, a young male relative
of my wife’s.
Jennifer’s
folks, Mr. and Mrs. Bolteman, threw us an absolutely splendid wedding.
After
demobilization things flashed by in a blur.
I
was in a profound state of shock for a long time, but I remember little
snatches of it.
We
found ourselves on the fantail of a ship.
Standing
there, with my wife, my love and my life, we watched the green hills of England
receding over the horizon.
I
was afraid my legs would begin shaking.
Entwined
with each other, we kissed long and deep. I squeezed her. I didn’t want to let
go.
“Well,
old girl.” I murmured, face buried in her hair. “What do you think?”
“It
will be fine.” She told me dreamily. “As long as we have each other.”
I
just kept my face in her hair and bawled my eyes out.
