A Gathering of Diamonds - an excerpt

Epilog

Louisiana Mental Hospital 1984

Ain’t nothing good gonna last forever. The words to the song played in my mind backdropped by the metallic drone of a medical device dripping mental comfort into a vein in my arm. It meant I didn’t have to think or face reality.

I’d lain on the same bed for more months than I cared to remember, my reality reduced to the metallic drip, which had become a mantra to my mental pain. Only one thing helped me maintain my sanity: the pretty nurse who I could never really see because my eyes wouldn’t entirely focus, never failed to check on me when she came on shift. This particular night, she whispered something in my ear.

“Open your eyes. I have something important to tell you.” I heard her, subliminally as much as anything. I didn’t want to think about what she had to say. “Please, open your eyes for me.”

I struggled to speak, and she gasped when I asked, “What’s your name?”

“Julia,” she said.

“Thanks for taking such good care of me, Julia.”

“You are alive,” she said. “The other nurses said you never speak.”

“I had nothing to say until now. What do you have to tell me that is so important?”

“A package arrived for you a while back. I think it’s from your brother,” Julia said.

“Why didn’t someone give it to me?” I asked.

“The other nurses think of you as a dead man.”

“I’m not dead,” I said. “Just a little drugged up.”

“They keep you that way instead of putting you in a padded cell. I turned off your psychotropic drug drip when I came on shift. Nothing is going into your veins right now except water.”

“You’re not afraid of me?” I asked.

“I don’t believe you’re dangerous. I brought the package with me. I opened it for you.”

“What’s in it?” As I struggled to focus my eyes, she placed something in my palm. “I can’t see it. Please tell me what it is.”

“I think it’s an uncut diamond. A black diamond,” she said. “There’s a note with it.”

“From my brother?”

“Yes,” she said.

“What does it say?”

“It says, ‘I need your help.’ Bill.”

I pulled the needle out of my vein and struggled to sit upright. “Why would my brother be in trouble?”

“There’s a letter in your file from the Fayetteville, Arkansas police department,” Julia said.

“Fayetteville?”

“The location of the University of Arkansas.”

“Please, open it and read it to me,” I said.

Julia extracted the letter and began to read. “Dear Mr. Logan, I’m sad to inform you that your brother Tim has gone missing in the Ouachita Mountains. The region covers many miles of wilderness in the Ouachita National Forest. Local police have given up on the search and believe there is a good chance your brother is dead.”

“My God!” I said.

“What do you want to do?” Julia asked.

“I’ve got to get the hell out of here,” I said. “Tim needs me.”

“You can’t just leave. It’ll take a week before the hospital will let you go.”

I rolled off the side of the bed, promptly falling on my face. Julia put her shoulder beneath my arm and leveraged me to my feet.

“That’ll be too late. Do I have clothes?” I asked.

“Your belongings are in storage,” she said.

“Here at the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“Can you get them for me?”

“I’ll lose my job,” Julia said.

Clasping her hand in mine, I stared into her big blue eyes. “I don’t want you to do that. Can we somehow make it look like I escaped?”

“They’ll know I helped you. Someone other than you would have to turn off your drip.”

“If the electricity goes off, how long will it take before someone from maintenance checks on it?” I asked.

“A backup generator comes on automatically,” Julia said. “It’s only happened a couple of times since I’ve worked here. It doesn’t take long before the place is swarming with electrical workers.”

“What if just the electricity in this room were to malfunction?” I asked.

“It sets off an alarm at the nurse’s desk. The nurse on duty would buzz me to check on it.”

“Then I have an idea,” I said. “Please get my clothes. I promise not to get you into trouble.”

I waited alone for ten long minutes in the dimly-lit room. Julia finally returned with a suitcase and a box of my personal belongings. My wallet was intact, complete with driver’s license, an unexpired credit card, and about a hundred dollars in cash.

“You won’t get far on foot,” she said. “Please don’t steal a car.”

“How far is the airport from here?” I asked.

“About ten miles.”

“Is there a phone I can use?”

Julia pointed to the phone by my bed. “I don’t think anyone has ever used it. Who are you going to call?”

“A taxi to take me to the airport. If this credit card still works, I’ll rent a car.”

“But then they’ll know where you’re going,” Julia said.

“I’m not a fugitive, or guilty of any crime I know of,” I said.

Julia watched the door as I changed out of my hospital gown into familiar clothes that no longer fit me. She was a handsome woman, six inches shorter than I was, with curly blond hair and a slightly crooked smile that went perfectly with her big blue eyes. A metallic pitcher of ice water sat on a wheeled tray near the bed.

“What’s the story on the pitcher of water?” I asked.

“Maintenance puts them in every room, even if there are no visitors.”

I used the phone to call a cab, then grabbed the pitcher of water. An electrical outlet sat beside the bed, six cords plugged into it.

“Give me twenty minutes, then pour water on this connection. It’ll short out the drip and all the other instruments. Toss the pitcher on the floor near the connection. It’ll look like I accidentally knocked it off the tray by the bed. By the time you report me missing, I’ll be on my way to the airport.”

“Oh, Tom, are you going to be okay?” Julia asked.

“I’ve never been okay a day in my life. Why start now?”

Julia put her arms around my shoulders, her hug the most reassuring mental stimulus I could remember feeling in many years.

“I’m going to pray for you, Tom,” she said.

Grabbing her shoulders, I kissed her forehead. “Thank you, Julia.

“Where will you go?”

“Though I’m not sure, for the first time in ten years, I’m excited to be on my way.”

Chapter 1

A white-tailed doe racing across the road roused me from a flashback and sent adrenaline buzzing through my brain. Slowing the red Mustang I’d rented at the airport, I clutched the wheel as pain behind my eye nudged me back to reality. Beyond the hood stretched the foothills of northern Arkansas. It was early autumn, the colors around me as bright as a fresh coat of paint.

I’d left Mandeville at dawn, stopping only once in Little Rock for gas and a cold drink. Though the last few miles were missing from my memory, the narrow highway forced me to concentrate on driving and forget the reason I’d come here in the first place.

Heat devils rose off the blistered blacktop. Early October sun warmed the skin on the back of my neck. After cresting the next hill, I saw a tall building topped off with a clock tower crowning the horizon. Its windows glimmered in the afternoon sun, and I didn’t have to check the map to know I’d reached Fayetteville.

The college town lay nestled in a bowl-like valley in an ancient range of rolling hills. It had weighed on my thoughts for the past thirty days as I pulled into a filling station to stretch my legs and top the gas tank.

A massive sandstone courthouse occupied one corner of the town square. Shops and stores rimmed its periphery, people in shorts and casual clothes browsing store windows and soaking up the late afternoon sun. A man clad in overalls and clutching an oily red rag interrupted my thoughts.

“Help you?” he asked, his hillbilly twang making his question sound foreign.

“Fill it up,” I said, leaning away from his black-toothed grin.

He used the oily rag to dab his sweaty neck, a rumpled welder’s cap crowning his bald head. I could smell his breath, stale from last night’s whiskey when he rested his hairy forearms on the door of my car. The dagger tattoo on his hand looked as if he’d put it there himself.

“Where you from?” he asked, likely as curious about my accent as I was of his.

“New Orleans.”

“Kid in school here?”

“Something like that. Which way is the college?”

“Down the road a piece,” he said, pointing his nicotine-stained finger.

“Is that the courthouse next door?”

“That and the police station.”

“I wouldn’t think you’d have much crime around here.”

“About the same as the hair on a mangy yellow dog,” he said.

I waited for him to smile. He didn’t. Instead, he stole a cockeyed glance at me to see if I had. When I obliged, he rubbed his chin and spat a glob of tobacco juice on the concrete.

“What’s the population?” I asked.

“Bout thirty thousand when school’s out. Twice as many counting college kids,” he said, wiping his mouth with an oily hand.

“Is there someplace nearby to get a sandwich and cold drink?”

“College strip around the corner,” he said. “Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” I said, saluting him as I drove out of the parking lot.

I cruised down the brick pavement. It didn’t take long to find the bustling square that reminded me of a similar area near the LSU campus in Baton Rouge. Fall semester had begun, scores of students in cars, on bicycles and more on foot, crowding the four-block quadrangle. After parking in a vacant alley between a tee shirt shop and barbecue joint, I went inside for a sandwich.

Boisterous students were still pouring into the café when I exited a half hour later. Though late afternoon heat remained, the sky had begun turning the color of turquoise, the humidity so high it almost felt like a kick in the groin when I took a deep breath. I had only a moment to think about it as I noticed a uniformed woman gazing into my car, frowning as she scribbled something on a notepad.

“Problem, officer?”

“Your vehicle’s in a no parking zone.”

She had a pleasant voice and spoke in neutral Midwestern tones instead of the pervasive twang of the man at the filling station.

“I didn’t see a no-parking sign,” I said.

“Because there isn’t one. You’re blocking an alley,” she said. “I could have had you towed.”

“Sorry. I’m from out of town.”

The young cop stared at me and shook her head. “You know what they say about ignorance of the law?”

Glancing away from her cool stare, I read the tag on her uniform that said her name was Armstrong. Officer Armstrong was no taller than five-three, her short hair sun bleached almost white. She had expressive eyes the same hue as the darkening sky. I marveled at how every straight seam of the young woman’s uniform defied the heat and humidity.

“Uncle,” I said.

 Officer Armstrong didn’t smile. “Can I see your driver’s license?” I fished it out of my wallet and handed it to her, waiting as she made a notation on her pad. “Is this your car, Mr. Logan?”

“I’m renting it.”

She returned the license to me, along with a traffic ticket.

“The courthouse is closed for the day. You can pay this tomorrow when it reopens.”

“Thanks, Officer Armstrong,” I said.

She didn’t react when I used her name. Ignoring my eye contact, she said, “Next time watch where you’re parking.”

I watched as she strolled to a tan and white police cruiser, her tires spinning in loose gravel as she hurried away and disappeared over the hill. Raising my car’s canvas top, I switched on the air conditioning full blast.

It was late when I reached the hillside college, shades of crimson and pink already draping the surrounding hills. Though the person I was looking for had likely left for the day, I decided to give the place a look. As I parked and walked toward the largest of several stone buildings, hazy clouds began masking the sky and a sudden chill permeated the air.

Overhead, a hawk floated in a thermal updraft as cyclists, laboring up the steep grade, passed on the street. A jogger brushed past on the sidewalk, almost knocking me down. It wouldn’t have taken much. After thirty days flat on my back in a hospital bed, my muscles labored from the strain of the hilly campus. Finding the front entrance locked, I found an open door in the back.

Down a darkened hallway, someone hummed as he pushed a broom across the floor. The tune echoed inside the empty building, reminding me of the interior of a cave. For a moment, it threatened to overload my fragile mental state.

The cleaning person could have been on the third floor or ten feet away. It didn’t matter. The drifting sound caused a predictable reaction. I began to feel the madness starting to return. Against my will, my thoughts started racing back to distant murky memories. This time, it didn’t happen.

The red glow of a nearby fire alarm returned me to reality, though it left me with a throbbing head. I was looking for a water fountain when a light radiating from an open door revealed a name on the glass that read Dr. Theodore Fridel. I rapped on the window to get the attention of the man sitting behind a desk.

“Help you?” he said, opening the door.

Dr. Fridel looked nothing like I had imagined. Instead of old and gray, he was probably on the front side of thirty. Didn’t matter because he seemed older as he gazed at me with myopic eyes trapped behind thick-framed glasses. His hair and mustache were coal black, the same color as his eyes. They clashed with his peach-colored sports jacket and zigzag tie he’d probably bought at a garage sale.

“I’m Tom Logan,” I said. “You were my brother’s thesis adviser.”

Understanding replaced Fridel’s initial disbelief as he pointed to a chair in front of his desk.

“Your brother?”

“Half brother. Much younger.”

“I see,” he said. From the way he blinked his eyes and frowned, I could tell he didn’t. “How can I help you?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to Bill.”

“I’m sure you read the police report. . .”

I held up a hand to stop him. “I was hoping you could add something. Explain why my brother seems to have vanished without a trace.”

“Regrettably, it’s as much a mystery to me as it is to you. Though I was Bill’s thesis adviser, we were never close. Your brother was quite secretive.”

Our father and both our mothers were young when they’d died. Old enough to be Bill’s father, I was present during most of his formative years. Secrecy was only one of his unusual traits of which I was well aware.

“Maybe you can tell me something about this,” I said.

Reaching into my shirt pocket, I pulled out a small leather pouch. Professor Fridel’s mouth opened when its sparkling contents rolled across the desk.

When he regained his senses, he said, “Is this a diamond?”

  

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Love in a Time of Angst

Most colleges and universities require that geology students complete a summer course in the elements of field geology, i.e. surface mapping, plane table and alidade, and use of Brunton Compass.

I was a sophomore when I took my field course at Northeast Louisiana’s camp near Batesville, Arkansas. For you NASCAR fans, Batesville is the hometown of racer Mark Martin.

I’ve already chronicled many of the adventures – or more likely misadventures – that happened during my time at field camp. This story is neither, more like a sad tale of one of those lifetime opportunities that you somehow let slip through your fingers and have regretted it ever since.

My mapping partner, Russell B. and I were working a quadrangle twenty or so miles out of Batesville. The field camp lay square atop the Ozark Uplift, a wonderfully scenic cluster of gently rolling hills topped with stunning sea green vegetation. The terrain reminded me of the Austrian Alps in the movie, Sound of Music. The setting affected Russell one particular afternoon.

We were finished with our mapping for the day and heading down the road to where Professor D and his field assistant awaited with the vehicles. My partner threw down his mapping board, extended his arms in a Shirley Andrews imitation and began singing the hills are alive with the sound of music, his voice raised in his best basso rendition.

“Russell, you are a scream,” I said, realizing his spontaneous outburst provided us both with a momentary release from the heat, humidity and mosquitoes.

“We’ll both be screaming if we don’t make it back to the cars by three.”

“Dr. D’s never left anyone up here.”

“Not yet,” he said.

He was right. Both of us had already had an encounter with Dr. D, suffering the lecturing attack of his sharp tongue, and threat of an impending zero on this particular portion of field camp. Neither of us wanting to suffer Dr. D’s wrath again, we double-timed our way to the County blacktop – just as a green Ford pickup came tooling down the road. Rather than flying past, the truck braked to a stop in front of us.

It was in the days before serial killers and mass murderers and we’d seen the truck and its driver several times before as it passed us on the blacktop. Russell and I sprinted forward in anticipation of a ride down the road to where Dr. D and the other students awaited, and meeting the driver that had also seen us a time or two as we worked our way down the road.

The driver was a gorgeous young lady, her smile as broad and friendly as she was double gorgeous. “You boys need a ride?” she asked, her words as twangy as a Dobro played with a slide formed from the neck of a Budweiser bottle.

“You bet we do,” I said, tossing my map board in the truck bed and sliding in next to her before Russell had a chance to beat me to it.

Russell followed, his miffed expression telling me how unhappy he was about me beating him out for the front seat. I had no time to worry about his appearance of utter hurt as I was too busy ogling the young woman sitting so close to me that I could feel the warmth of her legs.

Did I already mention that she was gorgeous? She was, with flawless skin wonderfully tanned by a friendly Arkansas sun, big flashing eyes the color of an Irish vale in springtime, and teeth that reminded me of a perfect strand of pearls.

And what a bod! A shapely pair of tanned legs protruded from cutoff blue jeans whose frayed hemline provided little more cover than a bikini bottom, and twice as sexy. My vivid imagination informed me that she was also panty-less. Maybe, but I didn’t care. Her blouse was one of those low-cut, braless strap-arounds so popular at the time. I must have been staring – I know that I was drooling – because Russell elbowed me sharply in the ribs.

“I’m Susan Love,” she said, her coy smile indicating that she hoped I was getting an eyeful. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Russ and this is Eric,” Russell said, reaching across my chest to shake Susan’s hand.

“I’ve seen you two up on the mountain. You’re college boys, aren’t you?”

We both smiled and nodded, Susan’s nuance indicating that she thought our studenthood a good thing.

“There’s an old quarry filled with water up in the hills. I’m going swimming there with some of my girlfriends. You boys want to come along?”

I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter of three. Realizing the consequences of failing to return to the cars by departure time was tantamount to failing the course and I said, “We have to get back to the camp but we’ll be back here tomorrow. Can we go then?”

Susan just shook her pretty head. “Sometimes we go skinny-dipping. Sure you boys can’t make it today?”

By this time, Russell and I were both blubbering. Susan’s smile told us she knew it and fully understood her physical control over us. There were parts of me that craved to go with her. Well, at least one part, but I couldn’t and I knew that Russell felt the same. We had obligations to fulfill, parents to appease.

Russell was begging when he said, “There’s nothing in the world we’d rather do than go swimming with you and your girlfriends but we’ll flunk if we do. Can’t we meet you tomorrow?”

Wielding her power, Susan just grinned and shook her head. “Maybe I’ll see you boys on the road again, or in town at the ice cream place.”

Lovely Susan let us off at the geology cars, our only consolation the envious looks of the other students as we climbed out of the truck. We visited the ice cream place in Batesville several times that summer but we never saw Susan again, either there or on the road.

Years have passed since that summer in Arkansas but I can still feel the palpable warmth of Susan’s thighs next to mine and still remember the unfulfilled promise in her sexy smile. But hey, at least I made a C in field geology.

Fiction South

Changing Spots

I got an email from Dr. K, my graduate school adviser. I had emailed him after seeing his address in a University of Arkansas geoscience newsletter. He mentioned that the geology department had merged with the geography department and that it was much larger than when I was there. He bemoaned the fact that the department was leaning more and more toward geography and less and less to geology.

“When the last three of us geology professors retire, most of the students won’t even be able to spell geology, much less practice it.”

He also bemoaned the fact that I never became the “King of Antimony,” a title he had bestowed on me because of my thesis about stibnite, the ore mineral from which antimony is derived.

While at the U of A, Dr. K had me rewrite my thesis at least seven times, no mean task in the days before Wite-Out, and on a manual typewriter.

“It’s the academic process,” Dr. K told me. “The only way to really learn something.”

I disagreed vehemently at the time but now I’m not so sure. The first draft of a novel may take a year to write, but that is only the beginning of the work. Strangely, most books require about seven edits, and even then, there are probably mistakes lurking that subsequent readers will find. With the advent of the word processor, this process is easier, though no less time consuming.

“Didn’t know you were such a well known author,” Dr. K said in his email. “I will have to look some of your books over and make sure the sentence structure is correct.” Well it doesn’t seem to me that Dr. K will ever retire because, no matter the passage of time, a leopard never really changes its spots, and I’m not sure I could survive his “academic process” on nine books.

Fiction South

Prairie Sunset Excerpt

The weather in central Oklahoma has been gorgeous lately. Tonight is a near full moon, and yesterday I witnessed one of the most gorgeous sunsets that I have ever seen. When atmospheric conditions are right, no place on earth has sunsets any more gorgeous. One such sunset was part of the inspiration for my novel Prairie Sunset.

John and Attie are two improbable, moonstruck lovers. Near the end of the story, at Artist’s Point outside of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, they stop their RV to watch the sunset. Here is a short excerpt of that scene from the novel Prairie Sunset:
* * *
Laboring up steep Highway 71, Attie managed to pass several slower moving, sight-seeing vehicles. When they reached the highest point, south of Canada, on the old highway, Attie pointed into the distance.
"Eureka's just beyond the horizon. Seventy miles as the crow flies."
"Look there, Attie. A rainbow on the horizon. Must be where our pot of gold lies."
"Don't see it."
"In the distance," he said. "Where you pointed."
"Road's too steep. I'll take your word for it."
Passing through Fayetteville, Springdale and Rogers they neared the final stretch of highway before reaching Eureka Springs. A road sign said 'next fourteen miles steep and winding'. It was. Spiraling ever upward the narrow road flattened only briefly, forming a river valley. Having gouged its course between two rounded peaks, the river meandered lazily into the distance, creating a lovely mountain vale in its wake.
Crossing the river, Attie pointed 'Ol Betsy up the steepest mountain they had yet encountered. Ascending the incline, the engine coughed and labored. Overlooking the river below, their view became even more dramatic as they climbed ever higher. Near the mountain's crest the winding roadway took a wide loop, affording a spectacular view of the meandering river, far below.
"Pull over Attie," John said.
Responding to urgency in his voice, Attie wheeled the RV to a scenic turnout by the side of the road. "You all right?" she said.
"We're not going to make it to your house before dark. Let's stop here and watch the sunset."
In the western sky, the golden orb had already begun its descent. Attie parked and waited until John opened the door and fresh air, damp with impending rain, flooded the vehicle. Stepping to the ground, he smiled and stretched his arms.
"Attie, I feel as if I've finally come home."
"You have, John," she said, taking his hand. "We both have."
Together they walked to the cliff's edge and sat on a large limestone boulder overlooking the valley. Purple martins, leaving daytime roosts in search of insects, swirled high overhead and in the distance a chorus of tree frogs began their nocturnal serenade. Damp breeze whistling through the pines joined the melody, harmonizing with a company of crickets lilting like a thousand violins.
Tightly squeezing Attie's hand, John said, "It's beautiful."
"Yes it is," Attie said, gazing at the red radiating sphere burning a luminous swath in fading sky as it descended toward the valley floor.
"Once," he said. "On a spring night in western Oklahoma I saw a sunset almost as beautiful. Particles of dust from some volcanic eruption in the Pacific filled the sky. Invisible during the day, dispersed particles became fiery streaks of crimson incandescence at dusk."
"A beautiful sunset is something to remember."
"Attie, you remember the horse races?"
"Course I do."
"Remember when I told you which horse I was betting on? You said he was the biggest nag on the track - had never won a race."
"And you were too stubborn to listen."
"I bet on his name, Prairie Sunset, because until I met you that sunset in western Oklahoma was the loveliest vision I'd ever seen."
"You're incurable," she said, nudging his ribs and moving closer. Putting her arm around his waist, Attie felt a tremble beneath her touch, like a bridge abutment, stressed with age, beginning to tire and collapse.
"John, need a heart pill?"
"Already took two," he said, his breathing suddenly coming faster and then in short gasps.
"John!" Not answering, John closed his eyes and shrank back against the boulder. "Get up John. We're just outside town. There's a hospital there."
Neither speaking, nor opening his eyes, John grasped Attie's hand. Squeezing it tightly, his lips began to quiver and he fought to open his eyes.
"Attie," he said in a whisper. "Help me up."
"No!" she said, tears welling up in her red-rimmed eyes."
"Help me Attie," he said, his voice low and becoming increasingly hard to hear.
She encircled his waist, struggling to lift him. Managing somehow to boost him into a sitting posture, she positioned herself behind him, bracing his frail weight between her legs, against her body, embracing him as death's head danced ever-narrowing circles above them. Finally, it kissed his cheek.
"This can't be happening. Not now. Not so close to home. Let me help you to a doctor."
Holding her hand, John shook his head and said, "Don't cry Attie. This has been the happiest week of my life. I never met a kinder, sweeter person than you." His voice was barely a whisper when he squeezed her hand, one last time, and said, "I love you, Attie. You kept your promise and took me to the Magic Fountain. Before I go I want you to make one more promise."
Clutching his hand in a desperate clasp, Attie nodded sadly, as tears streamed down her red and puffy face.
"Bury me on an Arkansas hillside, facing west. I'm home now and I never want to leave again."
Attie promised. Then, until the sun had long disappeared below the western horizon, and distant thunder heralded gentle rain, she clutched him to her breast, crying silent tears as she rocked him in her arms.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Truth and Lies

My Dad has Alzheimer’s and lives in a rest home in Oklahoma City. His short term memory has virtually vanished, but he still remembers my brother Jack and me, and at eighty-nine he remains in very good physical condition.

While Dad’s long-term memory comes and goes, he almost always remembers about his tour of duty during World War II. This is an excerpt from The Fighting Men of Louisiana:

He served as a code clerk in the message center in Ireland, France, Luxembourg and Germany. He took part in the campaigns of Normandy, Dinard, Brest, the Crozon Peninsula, and Luxembourg. In Germany he saw action at Haertgen, from the Roer to the Rhine, and in the Ruhr Pocket, and was in the Elbe River area on V.E. Day. He has the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, the Good Conduct Medal and the European Theatre of Operations Ribbon with four battle stars.

Dad was always reluctant to talk about his experiences in the War but he retold one particular story enough times that it remains ingrained in my mind. I told the story in my novel Prairie Sunset in the words of eighty-year old John Warren.

John and Attie have met a young married couple, Hulk and Lillie Mae at a campground in a remote valley deep in the Ouachita Mountains. All four people suffer from their own personal demons and during a particularly magical night, their inhibitions lessened by a magical dip in a mountainous pool heated by hydrothermal energy, John is encouraged to tell a story about the War. John’s story is my Dad’s story, exactly as he told me so many times.

John’s (and Dad’s) story from Prairie Sunset

Comforting darkness, piquant chili and pacifying effect of strong beer combined to loosen their tongues. Coaxed by Attie, Lillie Mae and especially Hulk, John told several amusing vignettes from his youth.

Hulk finally said, "Were you in the war, John?"

After hesitating a moment, he said, "Yes, I was."

"Well tell us a war story," Hulk goaded.

Poignant memories flooded John's mind and he smiled sadly, unconsciously grinding his toe against an empty cardboard carton in front of him.

Hulk prompted, "We're you in the Battle of the Bulge?"

Waves of nostalgia crested John's mental bow and he said, "Wasn't supposed to be, but I was."

"Please, John," Lillie Mae said. "Tell us."

John did, beginning slowly, and then warming to the tale. "The Bulge was Hitler's last attempt to turn back the advancing Allies," he said. "For a month and a half the Battle lasted, called the 'Bulge' because Germans failed to break through the line, only succeeding in bending it. I was a radioman in the signal corps, too young to serve but I had lied about my age and joined anyway. One night an old colonel appeared at the communications tent, needing to relay a message to Patton. Since we were out of direct radio communication with the main force he decided to deliver it in person. He conscripted me to drive the jeep for him.

"The night turned bitterly cold. Snow had fallen for days, piled high on both sides of the road. Continuing night and day, the line of battle had spread out many miles, constantly moving like an angry sidewinder. When sun came up the following morning, we realized we had somehow crossed the enemy line.

"Germans, besides many other things, were excellent soldiers. We found ourselves caught, along with an advancing column of American infantrymen, in a crossfire ambush. Fresh from the States, our boys were young, mostly teenagers, barely out of diapers, and none had ever seen a German, much less been under fire.

"Finding yourself caught in the middle of a fire fight is like walking a railroad track at night. Hearing the loud blast of a whistle behind you, you turn and stare into the lights of the monstrosity, twenty feet away, and bearing down on you - the remains of your best friend already chewed up beneath its wheels.

"When the attack began, the noise was frightening and extreme - beyond imagination for the uninitiated. Along with gunfire and violent explosions, steel, dirt and stone whistled randomly around our heads. When our inexperienced boys dropped their rifles and ran for cover, German marksmen began dropping them in their tracks. Blood was running in the ditches, staining the snow crimson, when we reached the center of the column. Unarmed, the old colonel jumped from the jeep and ran directly into the path of the retreating GI's.

"Thrusting rifle after rifle back into the hands of those child soldiers, he admonished them to hold their ground. Around us, the battlefield was alive with explosions, hot lead and the mortally wounded screaming for help. A mortar round exploded near the jeep, spraying me with dirt and shrapnel. When I wiped my face, the blood on my hand was not my own.

"Any one of a hundred Hun marksmen could have dropped the colonel. None did. Maybe they were awed by his bravery and coolness under fire. Maybe a higher force was protecting him. With confused soldiers dying all around him, he coursed the length of that bloody road, exhorting them to turn and fight. One-by-one their youth dissolved in a mire of smoke and torn flesh, and they became men in the hot cauldron of battle. They did turn and fight, hanging on until reinforcements arrived."

John grew silent and Attie squeezed his hand, feeling the intensity of his pain. Finally he chuckled and it drew into a hoarse laugh.

"Know what's funny?" John's rapt audience shook their head without answering. "I remember the Colonel as old, but he was probably no more than forty. Years younger than I am now and I still think of him as an old man. I can't remember his name and I don't suppose you'll ever read about him in any history book, but he did as much as anyone to defeat the Nazis."

Suddenly aware of frogs, crickets and distant owls, John realized no on had spoken for an interminable period. When she saw he had finished the story, Lillie Mae put her arms around his shoulder like a mother comforting a child. Hulk remained silent, torn by his own conflicting emotions.

Having nothing else to say, Hulk and Lillie Mae said goodnight, leaving John and Attie alone beneath a yellow moon and sparkling stars. John hugged Attie, drawing for a moment on her strength before speaking.

"In more than sixty years, I've never told that story to another soul."

Attie patted his shoulder and said, "Some of us hold painful memories inside us until the day we die. Its time you let this one go."

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