On Memorial Day, we still see a few WWII veterans at ceremonies commemorating those who served. My husband and I were were both children of that era, and our lives were forever changed. We remember rationing, air raid drills, and uncles who went to war, some of whom did not return. Several years ago, my husband published his memoir, A Preacher Called Sinn, and devoted several chapters to that historic period. One of his most vivid memories centers around the Bruning Air Force base that sprang up near his family farm in Nebraska. As a result, It changed the local economy, and brought the war close to home. Especially on the day when he found a young man who had parachuted to his death. In honor of the missing pilot who lost his life , I’m sharing chapter 6 from my husband’s memoir:
THE MISSING PILOT
Less than a week after the Bruning Air Base was finished, the Army Air Corps moved in and began their maneuvers. Our chimney was a turning point for B-19 liberators on their sorties. The roar of airplane engines hammered the once quiet skies, swooping down to frighten the chickens and spook the cattle. When Grandpa and I went into town so he could play cards, the men talked incessantly about the war effort. I didn’t want to say it out loud, but it seemed to me that the evils of Mussolini and Hitler had actually made things better for the folks in Thayer County. The stores around the courthouse square, once struggling for survival, were crowded with customers. New shops and restaurants opened up, and they added an extra shift at the bakery.
One warm afternoon in September, I looked up North across the pasture and saw my cousins on two small ponies galloping toward our house. Having finished my chores, I ran out to greet Herb and Irvin. They were short robust boys whose pink cheeks glowed with innocence and good health
. “What shall we do today?” I asked, hoping each of them would offer me a turn to ride, as they usually did
. “We’re collecting milkweed pods,” Irvin announced. “You want to help?” The boys jumped to the ground, tied up the ponies, and produced a burlap onion bag. I looked at the dirty bag, feeling a rush of disappointment.
“What do we care about some old weeds?”
Irvin shot me a look. “Not weeds. Pods. It’s for the war. They use the silk inside the pods to make flotation devices. We might save a pilot’s life if we do this.”
Reluctantly, I trailed after them. The wind across the prairie scratched our eyes, and the prickly pods stung my fingers. I collected more pods than the two of them together. As we searched the brush and weeds alongside the road, I remembered the time when all we could hear on a Sunday afternoon was the mooing of cows and the honking of geese. Now, aircraft droned overhead, and the roads were clogged with convoy trucks.
An approaching jeep rumbled along the road in a cloud of dust and jerked to a stop. “What you boys up to?” asked one of the men.
“Collecting pods,” I replied.
The soldier in the driver’s seat tapped me on the shoulder. “We need your help. It’s urgent.”
I felt a stir of inner excitement. ‘Sure, what do you want us to do?”
“We’re looking for some wounded men.”
“They’re missing?” My pulse quickened. Had the war come right here to Thayer County? There had been worry we might be invaded when the government built the air base.
The soldier nodded. “Yes, one of our B-19’s lost an engine and the men bailed out. They could be hurt. You three boys spread out and see if you can find them, and have your folks call the base if you do.”
I took charge. “You go thataway,” I told Irvin, pointing to the tree row at the edge of their farm. “And you, Herb, go down toward the river. I’ll head for the pasture behind Grandpa’s house.”
Search planes thundered overhead, casting huge terrifying shadows across the land. At first, I ran so fast my lungs were on fire. But soon, I slowed down to catch my breath as I approached a field where stalks of wheat stood brown and ripe in the blazing sun. I imaged myself actively engaged in a military operation, feeling important and yet afraid of what I might find.
I saw it then: a flash of white blowing in the wind, the parachute billowing out like a tablecloth. My heart sped up as I saw the familiar drab green fatigues on the twisted body of a man lying on his side next to the fencepost.
My hands trembled. The guy must be in terrible pain. I had witnessed gory farm accidents and seen cows in agony during childbirth, and hated that gut wrenching feeling of helplessness in the face of suffering.
My knees went weak as I sank to the ground. The airman’s cap had come undone; his coppery hair gleamed like a new penny against the crusted earth. Upon the ghostly pallor of his face, his lips were dark as blueberries. His half opened eyes looked toward heaven. When I gasped his long thin fingers, they felt clammy as a Blue River Catfish.
They told us later he had broken his neck when he hit the fencepost.
That evening, there was leftover fried chicken for Sunday supper, but no one was hungry. I picked at my food as we sat around the big oak kitchen table. I wondered if the pilot had brothers and sisters, and thought of how terrible his parents would feel when they heard about their son’s fatal accident. I knew that someday I might have to go in the service, and hoped I would have the courage to face death in a place far from home
As if reading my thoughts, Mom touched my hand. “Don’t you worry, Son,” she said. “We’re going to win this war real soon, and after that, we’ll all live in peace. There won’t be any more wars in your lifetime.”
A PREACHER CALLED SINN is available on AMAZON @ http://bit.ly/1HOFqpG
