More abstracts from A Tale of Love & War
Copyright © 1991, 2001 Richard R. Kennedy All rights reserved. Revised:, 2002 ,2012 .
The Aristocrat
When Sally did not receive her usual expensive birthday gift from her father, she began to wonder if she were responsible for the tension in the air that she long ago had sensed without ever really knowing why. Her fears were allayed, however; for on Christmas morning a handsome bicycle, for which she had been pestering her parents, was rolled in by her father into their heated, enclosed porch where stood a seven foot Christmas tree. The bike had cost Carl Byron a small fortune and since her birthday was so close to the holiday, he yielded to Dolores to furnish an appropriate, modest birthday gift.
Sally beeped the horn in the Cory driveway so it would resound more impressively. Johnny excitedly threw open the cellar-kitchen side door to inspect it. He could not believe his eyes when he saw her on the twenty-six-inch. She could not reach the pedals from the seat even though it was adjusted all the way to the frame by her father, who had been furious that she kept insisting on a boy’s bike. Johnny had never heard an electric beep from a bike before. There wrapped round the handlebar fo’c’sle gleamed Aristocrat—blazoning this red, white and blue beauty, complete with carrier, spotlight, basket, whitewall balloons, chrome rims and spokes, and of all things a speed-o-meter! He scratched his head in disbelief, “But why a boy’s bike?—you’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“How would you know that?” she questioned with indignation.
A Winter’s Day
One Saturday in the winter of ’40 when heavy snow still covered most of the golf course and he heard Janie was maturing emotionally: aside from her discerning that he was still brooding over his father, she sensed that his determination to be involved with boy-matters was his subtle but intriguing disquiet in being with girls. He sold all his magazines early, Johnny went over to Janie’s house, hoping she would be home. He was disappointed when Mrs. MacDowell reported that Janie was not home. But then she informed him, “That silly lass is at the park running herself to the bone .” She invited him in for hot chocolate. But he declined the offer, while freely admitting that he would go there and look for her. “Bonny Johnny,” she said, “maybe you can end this foolishness of hers.”
He walked for several blocks. Then for the rest of the dozen blocks he ran all the way, oblivious to all but a kaleidoscope of years past pertaining to Janie with occasional pop ups of Becky in the Tom Sawyer movie he had recently seen. He never broke his pace as he turned into the park gate and onto the track, scraped off snow, as he saw her, heavily clad, rounding the far turn. He easily compressed the space between them as she was barely slow-trotting. Ten feet behind her, he could hear her heavy breathing. When he was right behind her he tugged lightly at her bouncing hair. She turned abruptly with a frightened expression until she saw who it was and spread a big smile. “Oh, Johnny, you scared me!” She stopped and bent over, gasping for breath and holding her sides. She stepped off the track and plopped on a bench, leaned back and stretched her legs bulky with sweat pants. He sat next to her. They were both panting. “Why I was startled, Johnny,” venting a sigh then explaining breathlessly, “is that I really shouldn’t be here when the park is so empty.
“Good, maybe you won’t come here anymore,” he grumbled as he angled his head upward in leaning back to stretch his legs a good five inches beyond hers. “Beware the Banshee, my mom would say.”
She took a few more deep breaths. “Why anymore...why such gloom? I just meant in cold weather there are so few people around.” She glanced over; his Adam’s apple was barely visible while panting; she felt hers; she didn’t seem to have one either. “But most of the time,” she paused and wondered if she should really bring it up, then went ahead anyway, “Steven is usually here playing handball with his friends. He watches over me.”
“You’re kidding me!...You actually see that no good...”
“Well, he did come over and apologize to me at least.”
“Only because your father raised the devil with his father!”
“Still, he’s been a perfect gentleman since,” she sighed with emphasis and deliberately flashed dreamy eyes for him to catch.
He hissed, “Don’t tell me that’s why you come to the park because of him!”
“I told you why I come here to let the baby flab sweat off me. What difference does it make to you? You can’t watch over me all the time. You’re always occupied with Sally.”
“Cheez, I hardly ever see her!”
“I meant mentally. You can’t fool me, Johnny Patty.”
He jogged his head. “Anyhow, I just don’t think it’s right. Cheez, you hardly know that Stanton! How do you know you can trust him after what he did to us?”
“Trust him for what?”
“To watch over you.”
“Goodness, I hope there’s more reason to be with me than to guard me. I mean, it’s not like I’m a celebrity and need a bodyguard.”
“But you’re fragile.” He gently squeezed her shoulders.
“I’m not glass. But even if I were, at least Steven will be around to pick up the pieces.”
Bougainville
“Well, at least I found some open visibility in this damned jungle,” Johnny joked as he took his bayonet and scraped the bog from his fatigues and raider boots. He tore off a huge leaf and wiped the stock of his rifle. Then he explained, “Just above that mound in the middle of the swamp there’s a small ridge out there—probably where the Nambu’s coming from.”
Chic smirked. “Well, it can stay there for my money. We’ll have to wait till the first platoon gives us some flanking action way over on the opposite fringe.” They burrowed under the vines when snipers ranged in again. The Nambu followed with a relentless volley tearing the foliage and cracking the vines over their heads as each man pressed his face into the soggy earth.
Gunny crawled up to the squad and announced grimly, “Sorry, mates, but the lieutenant just gave the word that he’s in command of marines not a pack of moles....Gotta move your butts outta here.”
Skid yawped indignantly, “Moles?...Well, we ain’t water rats either.”
“Jumpin’ Jehovah, Gunny!” Chic squeaked, “Crawling under Nambu fire is bad enough, but we can’t run or crawl in that stuff.”
“I know, maties, but orders is orders. You know how these Annapolis guys are—we seem to attract them—they hate to have another platoon bail them out—especially if led by a Ninety-Day-Wonder. So anchors aweigh, my stout hearties.”
Johnny, amidst the squad’s grumbling, took the point and eased himself back into the quagmire. Chic broke off a long bamboo stem and slipped into the muck and started poking the pole out in front of him, looking for higher footage.
Day One
Kamikazes let up awhile—probably the next volley of suicidal pilots was not sufficiently tanked up with saki. Johnny had just finished “walloping“ the last of the pots and pans from the D-day breakfast of overcooked steak and leathery eggs and was going from buddy to buddy in his squad hoping one would be charitable enough to lend him a pair of fatigue pants. A new pair in his transport pack for the landing was missing. The ones he had on were old and salted. Wartime camaraderie turned deaf ear when it came to treasured necessities. Now the twenty-year old marine—feeling ancient after four campaigns and embarking on a fifth—would have to clumsily stitch them to close up the tears at his knees. One kind guardsman offered him his white ducks. Johnny laughed, thanked him but refused, knowing he would indeed be a sitting duck on what eventually would be marked on the calendar of 1945 this Easter day as the final beachhead of the war.
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