ledded
Herder of monkies
We were like gods once... [John's story]
In the skies near St. Lo, France, at that moment:
Lt John Brighton, US Army Air Corps, is lost in his own thoughts. That often happened when he flew; the coolness of the clouds, the open sky, the steady drone of the plane’s engine, the feeling of freedom and speed that came with it.
Having joined the RAF before the US got into the big one, he fought in the Battle of Britain and took his fair share of kills in that time. When the Air Corps finally got themselves over, he re-joined his old unit, though at his previous rank. It didn’t matter to him though, his Kansas-farmer father always taught him to take pride in the work itself, not just in the fruits of it. Back in Kansas what mattered was the work a man did, not what he wore on his shoulder-boards…
…
7 Years ago, Kansas.
“It can’t be helped Mr. Brighton. Sammy says he can’t fly is this weather, not with a busted arm. Hell, he says he probably couldn’t even with two good arms”, the youth related to Marcus Brighton, owner of the triple-L farm in north Kansas.
“Thanks Bobby. You get you something hot to drink from the missus and stay here till this storm blows over”, came the tired reply.
The storm had blown in quick and unexpected. With howling straight-line winds and snow, the temperature dropping rapidly below even a normal Kansas winter. A storm that had stranded Marcus Brighton’s oldest son Michael and several of their farm hands somewhere out there without any way to protect themselves; they were 8 hours overdue as it was, and Marcus was deeply worried.
So was John, Marcus’s younger son. Having no interest in farming, he had been eagerly learning how to fly from Uncle Sammy when he could, and loved nothing more than taking that old biplane up. He loved hearing Grampa’s stories about The Great War and what it was like to fly back then; it was Grampa who got the old biplane to help out around the farm. Plus, he was good at flying it, and he knew it. John chafed at his father’s reluctance to let him help out; it rubbed him raw that he wasn’t even going to be on the next search party, due to mount up and leave any minute. Well damned if he was going to let his brother die; he knew he could find them with the old biplane, even if his father would never allow it.
“Pa, just lemme help somehow, I know I...”
“John, I’ve told ya before, it’s too dangerous. You stay here and keep an ear on the radio, and keep the fire stoked for when we get back with Michael. Do your job, boy, and I don’t want to hear any more guff about it”.
“Yessir, I’ll do my job”.
Though I’ll be the one deciding what job that is, old man, John added as an afterthought.
They were just out of earshot when John opened the barn and pulled the cover from their old biplane. Damn, he’s right, it’s colder than a witch’s teats in a brass bra out here, he thought to himself, and it’s only gonna get worse up there.
Normally John loved the cold; he would fly without a jacket or scarf because he loved the feel of the cold air whipping across his skin. His mother always worried, but he never got sick from it. This time, though, it was night, the winds were howling like the hounds at the gates of hell, and their breath was a wall of ice and snow that swirled and slashed like millions of tiny, glacial teeth. And it’s only gonna get worse, but Mike’s out there in it..
So he put on hat, goggles, scarf, and his Dad’s old leather car coat and fired up the old girl. John waved jauntily, grinning, at his mother and the farmhands as they ran from the house waving frantically at him as he moved down the lane and into the frigid, keening night. He just wished he felt as confident as he tried to look as the dark landscape all but disappeared and the plane took air, bucking and weaving under the punishing winds.
He saw his father’s party, on horses with lanterns glowing, and tipped the wings with another grin as much to let Pa know it was him as to rub his old scraggly face in it. I can too help out, and fly this ole girl better than half-drunk Sammy too.
45 minutes later:
The weather was worsening by the minute, everything was white snow or dark ground, and the horizon was a like a thing he had heard about once, maybe seen in a picture book, but could barely remember. The gauges were unreadable, and the stick fought him like a crazed weasel; it took both hands, all his skill, and every bit of his dwindling strength just to keep the groaning and straining old plane from tearing apart or tumbling like a leaf. Yeah, but leaves don’t burst into fireballs when they hit the ground, thought John as his breath came in ragged, icy gasps.
He could feel the control surfaces gaining ice in the storm; the sweat off of his nose was frozen in a stream against the side of his face though he couldn’t feel it much any longer. John swallowed his fear and brought the plane back in lower over the trails his brother should have taken on his way back, eyes straining for all their worth.
Just then, a sudden downdraft tore control away from him, and the plane spiraled out of control with an ominous tearing sound. He smashed his head against the side of the open cockpit and the bitter winds tore his hat and goggles away.
John gritted his teeth and through flashes of light that seemed to be all that was left of his vision, struggled to get the plane back under control. “Ok, maybe this… wasn’t… such a good… idea… after all”, he confided to no one in particular as the darkness in front of him grew larger and broader.
Darkness? The ground!!!, came the realization as he heaved back on the stick; he was rewarded with a tortured screeching and a loud, sparking crash as the plane’s nose came sharply up and the gear scraped the top of a small rise.
Another flash of light in his peripheral vision came to him just as he was smoothing out his ascent when he realized that this flash had no afterimage like the others; it wasn’t from the bump on his head this time. He turned the shaking, heaving plane that way and was awarded with another flash.
His mind was filled with jubilation; A Rifle! It’s Mike, it has to be! And he’s trying to signal me!
He circled as low as he dare and saw the shapes of several men huddled against lying horses, probably for warmth. John straightened up and tried to make a heading towards where his Pa should be; after a few moments he realized Pa’s party was heading in the wrong direction and had been all evening. Mike must have gotten turned around in the storm.
The plane made several more sounds of complaint, and the engines were revving up and down forcing him to constantly try to make throttle adjustments, but determination filled him now.
Soon the lanterns of the search party came dimly to view and he flew over them as low as he dare; several times he crossed over them, back and forth in the direction that his brother Michaels party lay, nearly losing control with every effort. After the third pass he was rewarded with the flash of several shots, a clear signal that they finally understood.
He turned off towards Micheal again. Suddenly, a cross-draft took him and the stick tore from his aching, frozen grasp with a terrible grinding sound of protest. The plane turned over and John fought, screaming, for control.
Finally, the plane righted, but as he tried to make a last correction he felt the stick give way and move freely in his hand, the plane unresponsive. Oh damn. That can’t be good, thought John. Then the engine, tortured beyond it’s endurance, sputtered to a cold death. Well, heck, doesn’t *that* just beat all.
It was almost surreal; his glide perfectly silent except for the wind whistling across the plane as it coasted off to who-knows-where. He tried to pop the latch on the belt, but it was frozen solid to his chest and he was having trouble getting his fingers to work. John sat back, defeated, and let the white-speckled wind wash over him as his last remaining strength fled; his fading mind took in the whistling, gliding spectacle as his tears left frozen tracks on his face.
This must be what birds feel like… so… beautiful…
…
John realized that he had been awake for some time, daydreaming. He opened one eye slowly, and felt the lashes painfully break off the ice rimmed over his eyelid.
The plane lay a short distance away, a mangled and torn wreck. He lay propped against a tree, and he was colder than he ever thought he could be. “C-c-c-colder th-than a w-w-welldigger’s b-b-butt”, he croaked out loud, shattering the early morning silence.
His cheeks and lips felt like they were cracking when he spoke, they were so cold. His body hurt badly in places, but in most places he could feel nothing. Nothing at all. I should be dead, he realized, weakly looking down at the frozen blood on his body and the ground. So cold… so damn cold…
He wanted so badly just to go back to sleep; he would warm up if he went to sleep. If he slept, all would be well. He could see Mike again, and have a big breakfast by the fire with his dad, who would be proud of him finally, if he just slept a little while longer. Sleep…
A shuffling sound brought his heavy eyes open again, then they flew wide at the sight before him.
A large white wolf, all pearly menace and staring eyes like ice, stood less than 10 feet from him in the snow.
She’s gonna eat me. Oh man, I don’t wanna be no overgrown dog’s Alpo, came his frenzied thought, although try as he might he couldn’t move any of his numb limbs enough to shoo it off.
But the wolf just stood there. Staring. John sat, heart hammering, staring back at the wolf’s eerily ice-blue eyes, for what felt like an eternity.
The wolf padded over silently in the snow and licked some of the blood off of John’s legs; not in a predatory sense, but as if she had noticed something in John, something that amounted to… kinship? John didn’t know what it was with this wolf, but he wasn’t questioning it as long as it didn’t include tearing off chunks of his flesh with needle sharp teeth. He even thought he started to feel some warmth flow back into his limbs, and then prickles of pain.
The wolf’s head suddenly jerked up. He heard it about that time too; his name, called over a long distance.
The wolf stepped back, brought her head up and HOWLED as long and loud as she could; to John it felt like he was brittle ice being hit with a hammer and he joined his tortured scream to hers. He kept screaming until he realized that her howl was long gone, and when he opened his eyes, she was too.
And he could just see his father’s search party in the distance, struggling horses puffing clouds of breath, frantically trying to pick up speed in the frosty snow.
…
“Well, Mr. Brighton, it seems that we have somewhat of a miracle. It seems like his legs had some, er, minor breaks, but they are starting to heal up quite nicely. Really strange. And he didn’t lose any fingers or toes either, what with the frostbite and all. As far as his story about seeing things after the crash, well that was a pretty hard bump he took to the head so it’s to be expected, especially since you found no signs of anything.”
The old doctor stopped to take a drink of his coffee, looking at Mr. and Mrs. Brighton’s worried faces. Mr. Brighton spoke next.
“But what about his unnatural pallor, doc, it’s like the storm took all the color from him.”
The doctor looked up towards the ceiling, as if in memory, and replied “well, I haven’t seen it before m’self, but I guess that kind of cold could stick with a man. I do know his skin is healthy and undamaged, if a bit pale, given what he’s been through”.
“But what about his *eyes* doc, what do you think about those?” Mrs. Brighton blurted out frantically, worry evident in every fiber of her body.
“His eyes work just fine. He can see just like anybody, heck, better than most…”
“But the COLOR doc…” Mrs. Brighton interrupted.
“Yes. Well. Very odd. Such a pale, icy blue… for a man. Almost like, er… well, ah… a wolf’s…” the last finished in a soft whisper.
The three, lost in their own thoughts, continued to drink their coffee in silence.
…….
In the skies near St. Lo, France, late June 1944, 9:58 am
“…got us har a gol-durned heckuva knock-down drag-out comin’ up right-quick-like”, the chattering Texas drawl burst over Lt John Brighton’s radio in his P-51, and shook him out of his reverie.
“Gerald, I’ve got the ground-pounder’s we’re looking for on the horn, watch our six while I figure out where the hell they are”, he spoke into his radio.
“Kshshsh, check Johnny boy, I got your back. Let’s light up some Jerry’s and get out of here, I’ve got a bacon sandwich and a nice little French mademoiselle waiting for me back at base”, came the reply from his wingman.
“Copy, let’s just do our jobs and we’ll worry about the fun stuff later. You have the wing.”
In the skies near St. Lo, France, at that moment:
Lt John Brighton, US Army Air Corps, is lost in his own thoughts. That often happened when he flew; the coolness of the clouds, the open sky, the steady drone of the plane’s engine, the feeling of freedom and speed that came with it.
Having joined the RAF before the US got into the big one, he fought in the Battle of Britain and took his fair share of kills in that time. When the Air Corps finally got themselves over, he re-joined his old unit, though at his previous rank. It didn’t matter to him though, his Kansas-farmer father always taught him to take pride in the work itself, not just in the fruits of it. Back in Kansas what mattered was the work a man did, not what he wore on his shoulder-boards…
…
7 Years ago, Kansas.
“It can’t be helped Mr. Brighton. Sammy says he can’t fly is this weather, not with a busted arm. Hell, he says he probably couldn’t even with two good arms”, the youth related to Marcus Brighton, owner of the triple-L farm in north Kansas.
“Thanks Bobby. You get you something hot to drink from the missus and stay here till this storm blows over”, came the tired reply.
The storm had blown in quick and unexpected. With howling straight-line winds and snow, the temperature dropping rapidly below even a normal Kansas winter. A storm that had stranded Marcus Brighton’s oldest son Michael and several of their farm hands somewhere out there without any way to protect themselves; they were 8 hours overdue as it was, and Marcus was deeply worried.
So was John, Marcus’s younger son. Having no interest in farming, he had been eagerly learning how to fly from Uncle Sammy when he could, and loved nothing more than taking that old biplane up. He loved hearing Grampa’s stories about The Great War and what it was like to fly back then; it was Grampa who got the old biplane to help out around the farm. Plus, he was good at flying it, and he knew it. John chafed at his father’s reluctance to let him help out; it rubbed him raw that he wasn’t even going to be on the next search party, due to mount up and leave any minute. Well damned if he was going to let his brother die; he knew he could find them with the old biplane, even if his father would never allow it.
“Pa, just lemme help somehow, I know I...”
“John, I’ve told ya before, it’s too dangerous. You stay here and keep an ear on the radio, and keep the fire stoked for when we get back with Michael. Do your job, boy, and I don’t want to hear any more guff about it”.
“Yessir, I’ll do my job”.
Though I’ll be the one deciding what job that is, old man, John added as an afterthought.
They were just out of earshot when John opened the barn and pulled the cover from their old biplane. Damn, he’s right, it’s colder than a witch’s teats in a brass bra out here, he thought to himself, and it’s only gonna get worse up there.
Normally John loved the cold; he would fly without a jacket or scarf because he loved the feel of the cold air whipping across his skin. His mother always worried, but he never got sick from it. This time, though, it was night, the winds were howling like the hounds at the gates of hell, and their breath was a wall of ice and snow that swirled and slashed like millions of tiny, glacial teeth. And it’s only gonna get worse, but Mike’s out there in it..
So he put on hat, goggles, scarf, and his Dad’s old leather car coat and fired up the old girl. John waved jauntily, grinning, at his mother and the farmhands as they ran from the house waving frantically at him as he moved down the lane and into the frigid, keening night. He just wished he felt as confident as he tried to look as the dark landscape all but disappeared and the plane took air, bucking and weaving under the punishing winds.
He saw his father’s party, on horses with lanterns glowing, and tipped the wings with another grin as much to let Pa know it was him as to rub his old scraggly face in it. I can too help out, and fly this ole girl better than half-drunk Sammy too.
45 minutes later:
The weather was worsening by the minute, everything was white snow or dark ground, and the horizon was a like a thing he had heard about once, maybe seen in a picture book, but could barely remember. The gauges were unreadable, and the stick fought him like a crazed weasel; it took both hands, all his skill, and every bit of his dwindling strength just to keep the groaning and straining old plane from tearing apart or tumbling like a leaf. Yeah, but leaves don’t burst into fireballs when they hit the ground, thought John as his breath came in ragged, icy gasps.
He could feel the control surfaces gaining ice in the storm; the sweat off of his nose was frozen in a stream against the side of his face though he couldn’t feel it much any longer. John swallowed his fear and brought the plane back in lower over the trails his brother should have taken on his way back, eyes straining for all their worth.
Just then, a sudden downdraft tore control away from him, and the plane spiraled out of control with an ominous tearing sound. He smashed his head against the side of the open cockpit and the bitter winds tore his hat and goggles away.
John gritted his teeth and through flashes of light that seemed to be all that was left of his vision, struggled to get the plane back under control. “Ok, maybe this… wasn’t… such a good… idea… after all”, he confided to no one in particular as the darkness in front of him grew larger and broader.
Darkness? The ground!!!, came the realization as he heaved back on the stick; he was rewarded with a tortured screeching and a loud, sparking crash as the plane’s nose came sharply up and the gear scraped the top of a small rise.
Another flash of light in his peripheral vision came to him just as he was smoothing out his ascent when he realized that this flash had no afterimage like the others; it wasn’t from the bump on his head this time. He turned the shaking, heaving plane that way and was awarded with another flash.
His mind was filled with jubilation; A Rifle! It’s Mike, it has to be! And he’s trying to signal me!
He circled as low as he dare and saw the shapes of several men huddled against lying horses, probably for warmth. John straightened up and tried to make a heading towards where his Pa should be; after a few moments he realized Pa’s party was heading in the wrong direction and had been all evening. Mike must have gotten turned around in the storm.
The plane made several more sounds of complaint, and the engines were revving up and down forcing him to constantly try to make throttle adjustments, but determination filled him now.
Soon the lanterns of the search party came dimly to view and he flew over them as low as he dare; several times he crossed over them, back and forth in the direction that his brother Michaels party lay, nearly losing control with every effort. After the third pass he was rewarded with the flash of several shots, a clear signal that they finally understood.
He turned off towards Micheal again. Suddenly, a cross-draft took him and the stick tore from his aching, frozen grasp with a terrible grinding sound of protest. The plane turned over and John fought, screaming, for control.
Finally, the plane righted, but as he tried to make a last correction he felt the stick give way and move freely in his hand, the plane unresponsive. Oh damn. That can’t be good, thought John. Then the engine, tortured beyond it’s endurance, sputtered to a cold death. Well, heck, doesn’t *that* just beat all.
It was almost surreal; his glide perfectly silent except for the wind whistling across the plane as it coasted off to who-knows-where. He tried to pop the latch on the belt, but it was frozen solid to his chest and he was having trouble getting his fingers to work. John sat back, defeated, and let the white-speckled wind wash over him as his last remaining strength fled; his fading mind took in the whistling, gliding spectacle as his tears left frozen tracks on his face.
This must be what birds feel like… so… beautiful…
…
John realized that he had been awake for some time, daydreaming. He opened one eye slowly, and felt the lashes painfully break off the ice rimmed over his eyelid.
The plane lay a short distance away, a mangled and torn wreck. He lay propped against a tree, and he was colder than he ever thought he could be. “C-c-c-colder th-than a w-w-welldigger’s b-b-butt”, he croaked out loud, shattering the early morning silence.
His cheeks and lips felt like they were cracking when he spoke, they were so cold. His body hurt badly in places, but in most places he could feel nothing. Nothing at all. I should be dead, he realized, weakly looking down at the frozen blood on his body and the ground. So cold… so damn cold…
He wanted so badly just to go back to sleep; he would warm up if he went to sleep. If he slept, all would be well. He could see Mike again, and have a big breakfast by the fire with his dad, who would be proud of him finally, if he just slept a little while longer. Sleep…
A shuffling sound brought his heavy eyes open again, then they flew wide at the sight before him.
A large white wolf, all pearly menace and staring eyes like ice, stood less than 10 feet from him in the snow.
She’s gonna eat me. Oh man, I don’t wanna be no overgrown dog’s Alpo, came his frenzied thought, although try as he might he couldn’t move any of his numb limbs enough to shoo it off.
But the wolf just stood there. Staring. John sat, heart hammering, staring back at the wolf’s eerily ice-blue eyes, for what felt like an eternity.
The wolf padded over silently in the snow and licked some of the blood off of John’s legs; not in a predatory sense, but as if she had noticed something in John, something that amounted to… kinship? John didn’t know what it was with this wolf, but he wasn’t questioning it as long as it didn’t include tearing off chunks of his flesh with needle sharp teeth. He even thought he started to feel some warmth flow back into his limbs, and then prickles of pain.
The wolf’s head suddenly jerked up. He heard it about that time too; his name, called over a long distance.
The wolf stepped back, brought her head up and HOWLED as long and loud as she could; to John it felt like he was brittle ice being hit with a hammer and he joined his tortured scream to hers. He kept screaming until he realized that her howl was long gone, and when he opened his eyes, she was too.
And he could just see his father’s search party in the distance, struggling horses puffing clouds of breath, frantically trying to pick up speed in the frosty snow.
…
“Well, Mr. Brighton, it seems that we have somewhat of a miracle. It seems like his legs had some, er, minor breaks, but they are starting to heal up quite nicely. Really strange. And he didn’t lose any fingers or toes either, what with the frostbite and all. As far as his story about seeing things after the crash, well that was a pretty hard bump he took to the head so it’s to be expected, especially since you found no signs of anything.”
The old doctor stopped to take a drink of his coffee, looking at Mr. and Mrs. Brighton’s worried faces. Mr. Brighton spoke next.
“But what about his unnatural pallor, doc, it’s like the storm took all the color from him.”
The doctor looked up towards the ceiling, as if in memory, and replied “well, I haven’t seen it before m’self, but I guess that kind of cold could stick with a man. I do know his skin is healthy and undamaged, if a bit pale, given what he’s been through”.
“But what about his *eyes* doc, what do you think about those?” Mrs. Brighton blurted out frantically, worry evident in every fiber of her body.
“His eyes work just fine. He can see just like anybody, heck, better than most…”
“But the COLOR doc…” Mrs. Brighton interrupted.
“Yes. Well. Very odd. Such a pale, icy blue… for a man. Almost like, er… well, ah… a wolf’s…” the last finished in a soft whisper.
The three, lost in their own thoughts, continued to drink their coffee in silence.
…….
In the skies near St. Lo, France, late June 1944, 9:58 am
“…got us har a gol-durned heckuva knock-down drag-out comin’ up right-quick-like”, the chattering Texas drawl burst over Lt John Brighton’s radio in his P-51, and shook him out of his reverie.
“Gerald, I’ve got the ground-pounder’s we’re looking for on the horn, watch our six while I figure out where the hell they are”, he spoke into his radio.
“Kshshsh, check Johnny boy, I got your back. Let’s light up some Jerry’s and get out of here, I’ve got a bacon sandwich and a nice little French mademoiselle waiting for me back at base”, came the reply from his wingman.
“Copy, let’s just do our jobs and we’ll worry about the fun stuff later. You have the wing.”
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