29.
A LETTER FROM AL GRAINGER WAS THE ONLY MAIL IN THE BOX. Marshall was relieved to hear from him finally. Grainger, always the straggler.
Dear Marshall,
I was on vacation in Branson when your letter came. I was bowled over. Long time no see! 1963, was it? I’m sorry to hear about Loretta. She was the life of the party, I remember! Always saying something cute. Well, that’s a heartbreaker, and now you’re retired. Two big things at once, I guess you’re thinking. But I know you, Marshall. You’ll grin and bear it, keep a stiff upper lip. God never gives us more than we can bear. We know that from experience, don’t we?
Whew. The account of your trip back to the final resting place of our old machine filled me up. Not to mention the resting place of our pilot. And I keep thinking about Hootie. That Hootie was a stitch. That was about the worst thing I took with me into captivity—the sight of that funny, twisted kid laying on the ground. He looked so peaceful! I was sure he was dead. And I tell you I was scared seeing him like that, with all those people rushing at us. They got me off to somebody’s house, and there was a doctor, but my shoulder was so bad they had to take me to the hospital, and that’s when the Germans started to watch over me till I got better, and then they hauled me off to their fine country where the scenery—thanks to our guys!—was a lot of wreckage, things blown up, piles of stones and rubble. I kept giving thanks to the Lord that I was alive and that our bombers were just tearing them up. I knew the Jerries couldn’t last, so that gave me hope.
While I was in Stalag Luft I, I found my strength in the Lord, and He helped me through the worst days. I’d say prayers every time we had a pinch of something to eat in that hellhole, or whenever we got mail and Red Cross packages. I think the others I bunked with—I was in with Campanello, you know—got tired of me making a fuss over Jesus. I’d say we had to share our rations with Jesus, and all sorts of stuff that must have sounded like claptrap, but I swear it got us through. Oh, we didn’t dig any escape tunnels, but we figured how to defeat our enemies by giving all the credit to Jesus. Man, that was a time.
After we got out, I was sent back to Missouri, and my shoulder had healed a little funny, so I had several operations at St. Louis. I think it turned out OK, just aches a little when it’s real wet. Life has been pretty good since. I got established with my business out in California, but I get back to Missouri, even though my parents died long ago. I’ve got so many relatives. My two sons live there, and my daughter’s in California. They’re all busy producing babies and they’re all doing well. This was the American dream, huh, Marshall? I can’t complain. We did good.
It’s sad to learn about the man who lost his life helping our crew, but it pleases me to hear how fondly the Belgian people remember us. I hadn’t given a whole lot of thought to them over the years, but now I see that they have been thinking of us ever since. It would be good to see you again, Marshall, and see the old crew, what’s left of it. Remember, the eyes of the Lord run to and fro.
Yours in Christ,
Al
Marshall lay sleepless in the heat, tossing on his new sheets, which were still stiff, even though he had had them laundered. They wouldn’t stay tucked, and he found himself wallowing on the bare mattress. Evidently he had bought two top sheets. Grainger’s letter preoccupied him. Al had dropped those bombs on their targets so gleefully. Hitler’s Focke-Wulf works was his favorite. Marshall had been surprised when Al became a lay pastor. Al, the evangelist bombardier.
The sheets were damp and twisted around his legs. He wondered whether Gordon Webb had ever panicked in an F-101. His father had panicked and Marshall had taken over. Only Chick Cochran obeyed the order to bail out. Marshall was glad Gordon hadn’t been very curious about his father. Marshall had seized control of the plane in a mutiny that lasted about twenty seconds—until he saw that Webb had been wounded. Marshall saved the crew. He was proud of that. But any good pilot could have belly-landed the thing. Webb was dead.
Marshall saw lightning flash, followed on the count of ten by muffled thunder. He imagined sitting in a cockpit, waiting for takeoff, watching the storm, waiting for clearance. Lightning hit his plane once, but it didn’t hit the fuel tanks. He remembered Saint Elmo’s fire dancing on his wings a few times. He liked spotting a glory in the clouds below—a rainbow ring with the plane’s shadow in the center. He heard himself as pilot, the instructor, telling the passengers, “Folks, on the left side of the aircraft you will see a magic rainbow.” It was a circle, seen from above. Telling Loretta. Her boundless enthusiasm.
The advantages he had had in his life as a flyer were still a marvel to him, but now he had no schedule. He had no flights, no logbooks, no maps to study, no uniform to keep in pristine condition. He didn’t know what to wear. He was trying new things—a load of langoustines. Caroline bothered him. Her pop-out breasts. And the fact that he was still thinking about her slim, seductive hips in those deplorable blue-jeans.
He turned the light on and sat up against the wall. The rain had stopped. His watch said 4:11.
Who was Robert? Surely not a man who was mean to his children. Marshall was getting nowhere. In the turmoil of his nighttime thoughts, his wakeful dreaming, he thought he had been trying to find the young man he wished he had been. As a time traveler, he could jiggle the outcome. He could be a hero after all.
“You jerk,” he said aloud.