Eighth Air Force Returns

Time to pack for the next day’s long flight home. I availed myself the opportunity to walk the perimeter path circling the runways for one last look. Strolling along this now quiet place, I conjured visions of the past: three cows curled in the lush meadow, their jaws slowly re-chewing last night’s grass, a horse staring blankly at the metal fence outlined faintly in the dawn’s dim light, a rooster’s raucous cry answered in the distance by another, a bird’s hesitant twitter — too early for a song.
Then the tranquility of the countryside shattered by the coughs, the belching smoke and violent roars as propellers, one by one, start to whirl, the whines turning to high pitched screams as engines accelerate, the black shapes appearing from behind their sand-bagged caves to join the slowly creeping lines on each side of the runways, brakes screeching as they pull into slight angles behind each other while flaps and rudders wiggle up and down, side to side, a green flare bursting into the clouds above, the first of the bombers already wheeled around lumbers into the air, each line in turn offers a plane to the sky, the red flash from the verry pistol triggered by the tail gunner warning the following fog-shrouded plane not to come too close, the sun sends a shaft of light down a stairway of clouds to turn a slab of cold silver into an inhospitable North Sea — an icy grave holding Stanley in its depths, the tethered anti-aircraft air-bags lining the Dutch waterways like children’s balloons at a circus, below a solitary P-38 Lightning spewing a highway of metallic ribbon, returning from the maw of death to locate his look-alike base, peeling off one by one to land and taxi quickly away to make room for another, trucks, and sometimes, ambulances scurrying from plane to plane to pick up surviving airmen.
The three cows are studiously pulling blades of grass from around a fence post, the horse is ecstatically rolling on a bare patch of dust, and the sparrow is busily collecting straw for a new nest — the reality and incongruity, life goes on. I walk back to the Flak Shak and pack my belongings, without the cockroaches.


Touching God While Hitchhiking

Hanging my jacket on a curled finger over my back, I slowly trudged up the ever steepening hot road, stopping a few times to wipe the sweat off my face — the soothing humming of the wind through the topmost branches contributed no breeze, no relief to the road below. Somewhere a bird chirped, and now and then chipmunks made a mad dash across the road, standing briefly on their hind legs to look at me, probably chattering, “You didn’t catch me” before vanishing.
A strange new sound, a muffled roaring came to my ears. I couldn’t identify its source, but as I climbed, it grew louder. A welcomed cool breeze doused my face and yet the red woods still surrounded the road. Where did it emanate? What was that sound? It was unsettling. Unexpectedly, the trees stopped their march behind me, my road vanished to appear again along a distant cliff, I was standing on the edge of a precipice; I was standing at the gates of heaven!
As far as the eye could see gentle pulsating ground swells were marching towards me to finish their journeys to shore in swirls of froth of ultramarine, deep blue and lavender with light blue fingers of spent water pushing parallel to the cliffs. The hills dropped down to meet the water so sharply that I could not see the beach directly below me – only those in distant coves.
The roar that I had heard was now apparent — of waves pounding resisting shores, of the very ocean resonating a response to the caressing winds against the cliffs. A phenomenon of nature? Perhaps. I believe that I had felt the presence of God before and perceived the grandeur of his works, and surely He was at my side when I asked for help in my torments, but never in such beauty that was living, moving, sounding — indescribable!
Now I was close to His heart, His majesty was in my soul, I knew it to be true. I let fall my jacket and duffle to drop down to my knees on the cliff, my arms outstretched to embrace Him, tears streaming down my face. In gratitude: “Thank you Oh Lord, you have given me a glimpse through the veil to your glory, to live it for a brief moment, but it is enough.” came out of my mouth drowned by the thunderous surf. Then a car crunched to a stop on the gravel. Embarrassed to explain my actions I hurriedly stood up as two Japanese, complicated-looking cameras hanging around their necks, came prattling over to my vantage point for a better shot of Big Sur.


Showing Dogs – Success And Heartaches.

With my emotions as raw as they were, I lost all desire to keep any more dogs, no matter how fine a puppy they may be; I just didn’t want to handle the ultimate decision that every master must make. One can’t really draw a parallel between God’s Will over his creatures and my choice – to kill or not kill – made when a dog’s quality of life is no longer sufferable. God may end, with no apparent reason, the lives of great individuals in their prime doing works of tremendous humanitarian or social import, or millions of others — deprived of media coverage, who are just as worthy of life but are slaughtered, die of disease and malnutrition or take their last breath in bed — yet we know nothing of them as individuals, doesn’t affect our own emotional stability nor can we understand why He would make those decisions. At least I knew why I must do it, while God’s Will can be so enigmatic. Oh well, another question I can’t fathom.
The ashes of my dogs are kept individually in urns, labeled with their names and bundled with their favorite toy or food-bowl, packed together in a single box awaiting the day when my wanderings come to an end and I can bury them in proper dignity under some majestic tree, or interred with me to remain for eternity — they deserve no less than my Elgin.