Under The Infernal Sky- A Halloween Tale

   The unexpected sound of the doorbell snapped the middle aged man back from his intense focus on packing. Large cardboard boxes, many of them partially packed, already filled many of the rooms of the house with their towering stacks. The moving trucks planned to arrive tomorrow and, as always, there seemed to remain more tasks yet to do than remained time to accomplish them. 

   Dropping the packing tape roll onto the floor, he rose from his kneeling position and weaved his way through the narrow passages between the boxes, passing the empty rooms of his children as he made his way to the front door. Without fail, passing those empty bedrooms always brought back pleasant memories of countless mornings of love, laughter and smiles. And yet, those mornings were not countless at all, for they came to an end and time subsequently swept his children away to school and left the empty shells of their rooms in its wake. He had done all that he could for his family, and yet he could not deny the nagging suspicion that he had missed passing on something of great importance, although he was at a loss to know what it was. 

   The doorknob turned in his hand and as the door swung open he saw Susan, his 14 year old neighbor standing on his front porch holding a stack of books. 

    “Here’s the books your wife loaned us,” Susan stated with a broad grin. “My little cousin loved them when he came for a visit. I read a bunch of them over and over to him.”

   “Well, thank you for returning them, Susan. Our kids loved them when they were little, too. Did your cousin have a favorite?”

   “Definitely Miss Suzy.”

   “Yep, definitely a favorite of ours too. Who could resist a story about toy soldiers rescuing a kind-hearted squirrel’s home from a bunch of unruly delinquents?”

   Susan giggled at the man’s attempt at an English accent when pronouncing the phrase “unruly delinquents.”

   “It was one of my brother’s favorites as well,” he replied in a more somber tone. 

   Susan shifted her weight uneasily.

   “I’m really sorry.”

   “Oh, it’s ok, Susan. It’s been almost a year now and I really didn’t mean to mention it. It just kind of slipped out. Listen, thanks again for returning the books and tell your folks that I said ‘Hello.’”

   Susan assured him that she would as she smiled and headed across the lawn to her house next door. Then, easily carrying the light stack of books back into the house, he closed the front door behind him before stacking the books temporarily on the kitchen table. As he did, the stack became unbalanced and tipped over spreading the books across the table. As he began to reform the pile, one book seemed out of place among the familiar children’s titles. It was bound in soft, black leather and was much thicker than the others. Picking it up and staring at its front cover, his mouth turned downward slightly in a indication of disdain. 

   “Holy Bible,” he read the large silver print aloud. “Well, giving that to me was certainly a mistake. I’ve never needed one and certainly don’t now. I’ll return that in just a bit.” 

   He then tossed the book across the table where it landed with a thud. No sooner had he done so when a strange smell entered his nostrils. The scent was akin to that of smoke, but not a pleasant scent as that from a campfire or fireplace. It was distinctly unpleasant, almost like that of burning hair. It lasted only momentarily but caused him to look back for any possible source. Only a slight fluttering of the curtains met his gaze. He thoroughly investigated the downstairs and upstairs for a source but there was no indication of fire. However, upon entering the master bedroom, he was confronted by the same unpleasant smell once again, only this time stronger and fouler, mixed with the rottenness of sulfur. Turning once again, he saw a wisp of black smoke coming from the master bath in the direction of the walk-in closet. The smoke clung tenaciously to the air until it was whisked away by the overhead air vent. Rustling and stumbling sounds emanated from the same direction but quickly fell silent. The man could perceive a distinct increase in his pulse rate as he was the only person home, and yet these strange findings could not be ignored. He cautiously moved forward and peered around the door of the master bath to see that the opening to the walk-in closet was ajar but was still swinging slightly on its hinges. His pulse increased another notch as he remembered clearly that he had closed the door earlier. 

   “Who’s there?” he called out his challenge. There was nothing but silence. The smell, however, intensified and another puff of black smoke wafted through the open door.

   “If this is some king of joke, then let me warn you I’m calling the police!”

   He inched forward until he could see fully inside the walk-in closet. Nothing appeared amiss. Placing his head cautiously inside the closet, he turned on the light and gazed around the space. Moving in further inch by inch, he still saw nothing out of place until suddenly he was almost blinded by a thick puff of black, foul smoke whose appearance was accompanied by the sudden slamming of the closet door behind him and extinguishing of the overhead light. Immediately, there followed a scream of agony from directly behind him. In sheer terror, he lunged forward and came to rest under the lower rack of clothes, pushing them desperately aside as he turned to see the source of the hideous scream. He peered ahead in complete astonishment, the clothes about him still swinging on their hangers. 

   Standing before him and completely blocking his way to the closet door was what appeared to have been, at one time, a human male. The dark, hopeless eyes were deeply sunken into their sockets and the barest threads of clothing hung from his emaciated form. He trembled from head to toe as if in constant fear and the dark, foul smoke rose from his shoulders and head, filling the closet with its nauseating stench. 

   “Who are you?” the question boomed in panic from underneath the lower rack of clothes. “Get out of my house!”

   The pitiful form slowly opened its trembling mouth before responding with a gravelly voice that resembled one exposed to chronic heat and smoke inhalation.

   “I am not leaving until I have said what I came to say…”

   The voice only served to increase the man’s terror.

  “Shouldn’t you be saying ‘Fear Not’ or something like that?”

   The attempt at humor was ignored.

  “That is the last thing I would say to you…”

  “Then where are you from?”

   The pitiful form slowly turned its face to the ceiling and made an awful gurgling sound mixed with a noise that resembled sobbing.

  “From under the infernal sky.”

    The visitor’s entire form shook violently as it cried with a screech-like voice.

  “And, oh, He’s not there!! He’s not there!!”

  “Who, who’s not there?”

   “The only One that matters!!”

   A hideous scream followed.

   “He’s not there!!”

   The man hiding under the clothes rack covered his ears to block the screams but they filtered through his fingers nonetheless. 

   “I don’t understand!” the man screamed back in hopes of finding some clarity. The screaming ceased momentarily as the focus of the visitor shifted from the ceiling to the man  partially concealed by clothing. Resembling the opening of a casket, the right arm slowly rose to point a gaunt finger at the hiding man. As the visitor slowly sank to his knees he began to speak.

  “Step by step and day by day you strive to join me under the infernal sky where the fires never cease.”

   “What do you mean? What have I done to deserve your torment?”

  “Everything…”

  “Impossible.”

  “So I also thought. Until I stood under judgement before Perfection.”

   The awful gurgling sound returned as the visitor’s face twitched in agony and his joints cracked as if under pressure. 

  “Your life mirrors mine. The same fate awaits.”

  The concealed man fought the terror rising within. This was not real. This was a lie. His life could not be deserving of this. Yet, there was no denying that, as the visitor spoke, he could feel the very tongues of the flames themselves. The same foul smoke that rose from the visitor seemed to cling to his shoulders as well.

 “The same fate awaits…”

   It couldn’t. 

  “You have rejected the only Cure…”

   Other options had to exist. 

  “The same fate awaits…”

   There remained no will to resist. No avenue for reasoning or bribing. His fate was sealed. 

  “If what you say is true…how long?” he asked somberly. 

  “Only He knows. But it is already so much later than you think.”

   A response began to form on the man’s lips when the visitor interrupted. 

   “Seek Him while He may be found, for He does not abide  under the infernal sky!!”

   The hopeless voice screamed in agony.

  “He is not there!!”

   The pitiful voice of the visitor suddenly bore a shred of familiarity as he gazed again into the hopeless eyes in front of him. 

   “David?” 

   It was the name of his deceased brother. 

   Without another word, the floor underneath David opened into a chasm as the pitiful figure clawed hopelessly at its edges as it swallowed him whole. 

  “No…No!!!”

   The shrieking then faded as David was dragged into the chasm as the floor closed intact above him. A single puff of black smoke escaped but soon dissipated as the sounds of neighborhood children playing returned to fill the room. The closet light illuminated once more and the closet door gently swung open. Left underneath the lower rack of clothes was the trembling form of the still living brother. 

   He remained there only momentarily as the lingering terror would not allow him to delay. Bolting through the now open closet door, he stumbled down the stairs and headed straight toward the stack of books. At first unsure as to why he was drawn there, he nonetheless soon became aware that the Bible jumped into his hands.

  “There has to be an answer,” he whispered as he frantically thumbed through the pages. Completely unfamiliar with the book, his fingers flipped faster and faster. 

  “I don’t even know where to start…” he groaned when the Book suddenly slipped from his fingers and slapped against the hardwood floor.  As he leaned to pick up the book with a trembling hand, he noticed that it had fallen open to the Gospel of Luke. As he looked more closely, the words seemed to leap off of the page. 

   “Then Abraham said to him, “If they do not listen to Moses and the prophets, they will not be persuaded even if someone rises from the dead.”

   The ringing of the front doorbell startled him back to reality although he initially did not move but remained motionless staring at the open book. The second ring jolted him to his feet and he shuffled toward the front door. As his hand reached out for the knob, he hesitated as his mind pondered what might be waiting on the other side. The strange events of the last hour caused him to fear the worst. Inhaling deeply, he turned the knob and found his young neighbor Susan, standing on the porch with a broad grin and a stack of books. Upon observing the man’s face, Susan’s expression changed to one of concern.

  “Are you OK?”

   The man straightened his shoulders and ran his fingers through his hair. 

  “Sure,” he responded hesitantly with a shaky grin. “I just wasn’t expecting you back so soon.”

   Susan’s expression changed to one of confusion. 

  “Back so soon?”

  “Yes, I mean after you brought the books by earlier.”

   Susan looked down at the stack of books. 

  “I’m not sure I understand. This is the first time I’ve come by today. I have your books right here.” 

   He could tell by studying Susan’s face that she was sincere. Besides, Susan’s personality was not the practical joking type. The man studied the stack of books for a moment before inhaling deeply.

  “Then let me guess,” he began. “Your cousin's favorite was Miss Suzy.”

   Susan nodded her head. 

  “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess.”

   Susan then smiled once more before handing over the stack of books. The man turned to enter the house when he realized that he was still clutching the Bible. Gently placing the books on the front porch, he called after Susan who was already crossing the front lawn. At the sound of her name, she turned to face him. He held the Bible out toward her. 

   “Susan, you and your family know this book pretty well, right?”

   Susan nodded. 

   He chose his next words carefully. 

  “Is there hope inside?”

   Susan smiled. 

  “From cover to cover.”

   “Well then, will you sit here with me on the porch and show me?”

   He was fighting back the tears. 

   Susan stepped forward to respectfully take the book. 

  “The Gospel of John is a great place to start…”

   The man’s wife returned from her errands carrying a grocery bag up the brick sidewalk when she noticed her husband and Susan sitting on the front porch. As he looked up to greet her, she had to admit that she had never found her husband’s expression to be more serene; almost as if a great weight had been lifted. 

  “So,” his wife began with a smirk . “I assume that not much packing has taken place in my absence?”

  “Maybe not,” he began. “But, boy do we have something to tell you…”

The Corsair

  

  The lone B-17 struggled to remain airborne. The pilot, Jim Franklin, checked the number two engine just outside the window to his left to make sure the engine fire remained extinguished. The engine was dead, having caught fire after taking a hit from anti aircraft defenses on the bombing run over the German city of Bremen, the flames leaving behind a telltale black scar streaking rearward across the wing.  The three remaining engines kept the heavy American bomber airborne but incapable of keeping pace with the rest of the bomber group. The mood was somber among the remaining men as they all understood their slim chances of survival away from the protection of the group and each man on board, with that fact in mind, decided to invest himself quietly in his duties. Besides, the tail gunner Eddy Humphries would not be coming home after attempting to fight off an approaching Messerschmitt fighter, and it just didn’t seem right to be chatting it up as if nothing had happened when Eddy’s cot would be empty that night. That is, if they ever actually made it back to their own cots. 

   Jim mechanically pushed through his usual checklist as he reviewed all the gauges and dials on the panel in front of him. For the moment, all seemed stable as the big bomber lumbered westward on the return flight to England. He then quickly glanced over to the seat next to him only a few feet away in which sat his copilot, Daniel “Danny Boy” Lawrence who was similarly busy inspecting the gauges in front of him. 

   The flight team of Jim and Danny could not have been comprised of a more unusual and yet more efficient pair. Jim was from southeastern Alabama, not too far from the cotton capital city of Enterprise. His childhood had consisted of farming, hunting, fishing and various forms of manual labor all of which entrusted him with a great respect for the outdoors. He was a natural mechanic with steely nerves and it did not take the Army Air Corps long to recognize his talents as a pilot. 

   Danny, in contrast, hailed from Long Island New York, from Brooklyn to be exact. Italian food, traffic, concrete and steel were his specialty. Before meeting Jim, he had never known anyone from the Deep South, much less Alabama, and it took him some time to understand the slow cadence of the southerner’s speech. In spite of their friendship, Danny nonetheless never missed an opportunity to mimic the pilot’s accent. He was, however, always surprised by Jim’s quick wits and, although he would have never admitted it openly, he rarely emerged as the winner from their verbal jousts. The Southerner was simply too fast on his feet, even for the fast talking New Yorker. 

   But there was now no time for humor. The oppressive strain that both men felt weighing down on their shoulders was undeniable. Counting themselves, there remained nine souls aboard the plane, all of whom desperately wanted to see the fields of England once more. Nine souls for whom they felt completely responsible. 

   The silence began to be oppressive and so, in an attempt to keep his crew focused, Jim cleared his thoughts and spoke into the intercom. 

   “Alright ladies,” he began. “I know Jerry has left us alone for now, but you can bet he’ll be back. Keep your eyes open.”

   “Hey cap,” responded the smooth voice of Ridgeway “Ridge” Taylor the ball turret gunner.  “I just wanted to remind you that my gun position was, shall we say, slightly compromised during this mission and I’m afraid remains somewhat unserviceable at the moment.“

   Jim shook his head in mild amusement as Ridge was always known for being long-winded. 

   “Therefore,” Ridge continued. “I have moved back to the tail gun position. I can still be your eyes back here but Eddy’s .50 cal gun took a hit so I’m afraid I am not going to be able to do much more than hurl some harsh language at any fighters that show up.” 

   “Fair enough,” Jim responded. “Call out what you see. Keep the chatter down.”

   “That’s Ridge you’re talking to there,” replied Bobby Quinn, the right waist gunner. “If you tape his mouth shut, he’ll blow up.”

  “Enough about explosions,“ Ridge responded. “I’ve had enough of things blowing up for one day.”

   The solitude, interrupted only by the background noise of the remaining engines, returned as the intercom fell silent. Jim inhaled deeply as he gazed once again out the left window across the dead number two engine. The day, aside from the horrors of war, had been beautiful from a weather standpoint with cotton-like clouds intermittently obscuring the October sky. Jim watched as the bomber lumbered on, its wings slicing through the intermittent clouds. 

   “Jim,” Danny’s voice suddenly recalled the pilot from his musings. 

   “Uh huh,” Jim responded as he turned to face his copilot, noticing that Danny did not have his usual carefree demeanor. 

  “What’s on your mind?”

   “This mission is different.”

   Jim wrinkled his forehead. 

   “How so?”

   “Listen,” Danny began. “I’m only telling you this because I know you’re not the superstitious type. You know how the rest of us are. It’s just that last night before we left, I had this dream.”

   “Ok.”

  “You put much stock in dreams?”

   “I reckon I haven’t thought about it much.”

   “See, now there’s your problem,” Danny responded. “You don’t think enough. Well, I don’t dream that much. At least not about home. I mean, I’m a New Yorker. I’m not the nostalgic type. So, when I dreamed about being back home, it got my attention.”

   “So what’s wrong with dreaming about home?”

   “Now see, if you were the superstitious type, you would understand what that means. It’s not a good thing, but you’re too busy farming and picking cotton to have time for such as that.

   “Maybe so,” Jim responded with a laugh. “But then again I’m not the one using his pilot as a shrink.”

  “But see,” Danny continued as if he didn’t hear. “Last night I had a dream that I was back home. In my own bed. It was as if I woke up and could hear all the usual sounds. I could hear my mother humming in the kitchen, and most of all, I could smell the sweet scent of my mother’s cornbread muffins coming from the oven.”

   “I hate to rain on your parade,” Jim interrupted. “But if it’s sweet, it’s not cornbread. It’s cake.” 

   “Whatever,” Danny replied. “That’s not the point, hillbilly.”

   Jim smirked. 

   “Not a hillbilly. It’s flat where I come from.”

   “Are you going to listen to my story or not?”

   “Alright, I’m done pulling on your chain. For now.”

   “So you see,” Danny resumed. “It’s never a good sign to dream about home before a mission. Especially as vivid as this one was. It could mean that you’re close to the end of your rope. You know, that your time could be running out and your luck is about shot. That kind of thing.”

   “Why couldn’t it mean that this whole thing is going to be over soon and we’ll all be going home?” Jim offered. 

   “You’re way too optimistic,” Danny replied as he motioned out his window. “Have you actually looked at this plane? We’re shot to pieces and we’re all alone.  It’s not looking good for us.”

   “Just don’t let the others hear you say that.”

   “Believe me, they already know it. Bombers like us in the shape we’re in don’t come back.”

   “It’s just that they look up to you, Danny. Hearing it from you would snatch away whatever little bit of hope they have left.”

   Danny nodded his head. 

   “I’m being serious though when I tell you that I appreciate you telling me,” Jim responded sincerely. “You’re just preachin’ what we all feel.”

   “And what about you? You just sit there and grin and bear it?”

   “You know I’m not superstitious.”

   “Yeah, I know. But we’ve all got ways of dealing with it.”

   Jim took a deep breath. 

   “I just believe that the story of my life was penned long before I was ever born by Someone who created me and loves me more than I can understand. I’m not leaving this world one second before I was meant to. If you believe that, it changes the way you look at things.” 

   “Like I said,” Danny continued unconvinced. “We’ve all got our ways.”

   “I reckon so,” Jim replied. “It’s just that some ways are more true than others.”

   Before Danny could respond, Bobby Quinn’s voice crackled over the intercom.

   “Hey, Cap, we’ve got company.”

   “Where?”

   “Five o’clock. Same altitude as us. Looks like a single fighter.”

   “German?”

   “Not sure, but it didn’t look like any German fighter I’ve ever seen.”

   Danny immediately swung around in his seat to check out the sighting. 

   “I don’t see it, Jim.  Just clouds.”

   “Contact,” called Ridge from his new position in the rear. “Five o’clock coming out of the clouds.” 

   Danny strained his neck even further for a better view. 

   “They’re right. I see him now.”

   “Call out what you see, Danny,” reminded Jim. 

   As Danny continued to observe and report, he noted immediately that the new visitor was not on an attack course, but was instead pulling alongside into an escort position. As it left the clouds behind, Danny observed that the fighter’s design was not German, but neither was it a typical friendly design from the skies over Europe. 

   “Bobby, is he showing any hostile signs?” Danny called back. 

   “Negative. He’s just pulling up alongside. Wait, he’s got American markings.”

   “Hold your fire, then”

   Danny watched in amazement as the solitary fighter drew in closer. It seemed to glide in with the grace of a soaring eagle all the while wagging its wings in greeting as it did so. The sun’s white light shimmered off of its pristine blue paint and, in fact, the entire plane had the appearance of having just rolled off the assembly line and never having faced combat at all. The large, powerful engine spun an oversized propeller which, even on casual observation, seemed capable of accelerating the plane to impressive speeds. The plane nonetheless had graceful lines and its design seemed familiar to Danny, but not from the European front. It definitely did not conform to the well known silhouettes of the P-47 and P-51. 

   “Can anyone tell me what plane that is?” Danny asked. 

   “It’s an F4U,” Ridge responded. “It’s a Corsair.”

   “A Corsair?” Danny responded as he turned to look at Jim. “Those only serve in the Pacific, not here. I’ve never even seen one.” 

    Jim was as perplexed as Danny. 

   “See if you can raise him on the command radio.”

   Danny’s attention returned to the unique visitor now clearly visible out his window. He could now easily see the pilot through the clear walls of his cockpit canopy. Danny seemed to catch his attention immediately at which point the fighter pilot greeted him with a salute. The new visitor then pointed to Danny, motioning to the entire bomber in the process, back to himself,  and then straight ahead. 

   “What’s he doing?” Jim inquired. 

   “I think he’s saying that he’s going to escort us from here.”

   “What’s a Corsair doing here?”

   “What do you want me to do, send him a letter?” Danny responded. “You know there’s no way in the world I can ask him that without radio contact.”

   At that exact moment, the radio operator’s voice crackled into their headsets. 

   “Sorry, Jim. I can’t seem to contact him. I tried every channel.”

   Danny then turned again to see their new escort remaining steadfast out his window. Almost as if he anticipated what the next question would be, the fighter pilot pointed at his throat microphone and then drew his finger across his throat in a slashing motion. 

   “He seems to be motioning that his radio is out.”

   “That’s convenient.”

   There was a brief period of silence. 

   “This is all really odd,” Jim began. “Something’s not right. Can you see any other ID markings?”

   Danny’s gaze returned to the fighter.  

   “He has the number ‘777’ in gold on the tail and engine.”

   Danny continued his inspection. There was another emblem painted underneath the pilot’s canopy, and it took Danny a moment to decipher what it was. 

   “He’s got a pair of wings painted under his canopy.” 

   Danny turned back to Jim.

   “What do you make of that?”

   “Probably means he can fly.”

   “Smart aleck.”

   “Well,” Jim began as he looked across Danny and out the right window. “Maybe we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. This is definitely irregular but it’s not something that we can’t all figure out once we're on the ground. At least we have an escort. That’s certainly better than none.”

   “Maybe so,” replied Danny. “But I’m not sure I trust him. And what good is a single fighter against the whole Luftwaffe anyway?” 

   “Time will tell,” Jim stated bluntly as he shrugged his shoulders. “Just keep your eyes on him and let me know if he does anything unusual.”

   “He just flew in all the way from the Pacific. You can’t get much more unusual than that.”

   Jim nodded in agreement as Danny’s gaze returned to their steadfast blue companion. The Corsair continued to maintain a consistent distance off the right wing. Danny could tell very little about the pilot except that his gaze seemed fixed forward save for the occasional glance to check on the struggling bomber. It was almost as if he was perfectly at ease. As if everything was unfolding exactly as it should. 

   “That is one nice-looking fighter,” mumbled Danny. 

   “Position?” Jim’s voice broke the silence. 

   The navigator’s voice crackled through the headset indicating that the beleaguered plane was now lumbering over The Netherlands.

   “See,” Jim responded as he shot a glance over at his copilot. “We’re making progress.”

    “Like I said before, you’re too optimistic. Jerry is still out there licking his chops.”

   Bobby’s voice suddenly interrupted the conversation as he broke in over the intercom. 

   “Cap, you might want to take a look at our escort.”

   Jim leaned forward to better see out Danny’s window. The sleek blue Corsair had begun to inch closer to the right side of the bomber while slowly gaining altitude. The pair watched in amazement as the fighter gradually began to slip into a position directly above the bomber. 

   “What’s he doing?” inquired Danny.

   Jim’s only response was a slow shaking of his head. 

   “Ridge,” Danny called over the intercom. “We’ve lost eyes on our escort up front. Call out what you see.”

   “Well,” Ridge responded. “He’s settled directly  over us but he’s steadily climbing. He’s getting smaller and smaller as time goes by.”

   “Kind of like Ridge’s brain,” Bobby whispered. 

   “I heard that.” 

   “I’ve got him,” Danny replied looking through the plexiglass pane directly overhead. As Ridge had indicated, Danny could see the lighter undercarriage of the fighter becoming smaller as it continued to climb. 

   “Nice of you to hang around,” Danny exhaled sarcastically. “I can’t blame you for heading home a little early, especially after all the Jerry’s you just shot down.”

   Jim continued to watch the fighter through his own plexiglass pane but did not respond to Danny’s comments. There was not particular explanation for the emotion, but Jim could not deny a sense of sadness as the Corsair disappeared into the cloud cover. With a sigh, his gaze returned to the airspace ahead. 

   “Well,” continued Danny. “You know what they say.”

   “They say lots of things these days.”

   “I’m talking about when they say about you getting what you pay for.”

   Jim nodded in agreement. 

   Danny’s attention then returned to the front of the bomber. Initially, nothing appeared to have changed. Most of the cloud cover remained above the bomber’s altitude and the sunlight still illuminated the Holland landscape far below. A sudden flash of light low and off to the left suddenly caught Danny’s attention. His arm immediately shot up to point at the area of the disturbance. 

   “There, 9 o’clock low.”

   “I saw it,”  Jim responded, having seen the flash at the same moment.  

   “Hold her steady,” Jim ordered as he reached behind him for his binocular case, an undeniable sense of dread descending as he did so. Jim unclasped the latch on the front of the case and slipped the binoculars free before raising the lenses to his eyes. After getting his bearings in the airspace in front of him, Jim soon located the single craft speeding towards them. Initially, Jim did not recognize the design but was awed by the rate of climb and the speed with which the small craft turned into their path. Even at that distance, Jim could see that it was a sleek vehicle with a green mottled color enhancing its almost shark-like appearance. It was not an Allied design, and Jim prayed against all odds that their presence might go unnoticed. This slim hope was short-lived, however, as the plane turned directly into the stricken B-17’s path. As it did so, a wave of terror knifed through Jim’s stomach as he realized that the plane had no propeller. Jim lowered his binoculars and handed them to Danny, his pale appearance unable to mask his anxiety. 

   “Our forward turret is out, right?” Jim asked as he motioned for Danny to investigate the incoming plane for himself. 

   “Yep,” Danny responded as he peered through the lenses. It only took a moment for the copilot’s emotions to match Jim’s. He lowered the glasses and immediately looked over at the pilot.  

   “You don’t think…it looks like a…”

   “A Messerschmitt 262,” Jim completed the sentence. 

   “The German jet fighter,” Danny added. 

   “Ridge,” Jim called over the intercom. “I need you to stay sharp. Call out anything you see approaching from behind. We’ve got company up here.”

   Jim glanced briefly at Danny, his attention never wavering from the developments to their front. 

  “These fighters are hardly ever alone,” Jim observed. “If we’ve got one in front, I’ll bet there’s another approaching from behind.”

   “Jim, we’ve got nothing to defend ourselves with, front or back.” Danny observed. “We’re a sitting duck.”

   “Eyes forward,” Jim responded with a nod. 

   “I mean, was it really too much to ask for our fearless escort to hang around at least long enough for Jerry to show up?” Danny added as he peered longingly through the overhead window. 

   “Maybe not,” Jim responded somberly. “But I’m not sure what chance he would have had against this fellow anyway.”

   Jim’s focus returned to the stretch of sky ahead, the fighter now dead ahead and closing incredibly fast as the black exhaust from its twin jet engines tainted the sky behind it. The fighter grew in size as the jet accelerated and the distance between the two shrank incredibly fast. 

   “Whatever you’re gonna do, you’d better do it quickly,” Danny encouraged as his knuckles turned white. 

   “At that speed, he’ll only have a second or so at best to fire,” Jim responded. “Wait for me, and when I give the signal, we turn hard right. With his high approach speed, he may not have time to adjust. Maybe.”

  “Hang on, fellas,” Jim’s voice crackled over the intercom. “It’s gonna get rough.”

   “Get ready, Danny”

   “He’s closing fast…”

   “Hold steady…”

   The shark mouth and its bristling canon were almost within range when the sudden arrival of a new outside disturbance shattered the tense atmosphere. It was a sound difficult to describe; not quite a whistle or a scream but closer in character to a howl. Rising rapidly in intensity and pitch it quickly overshadowed the hum of the B-17’s remaining three engines and pierced its metal hull from above. Glancing quickly up through the overhead plexiglass, the two men’s gaze was met by the incredible sight of the Corsair streaking forward in a steep dive on an intercept course with the approaching jet. 

   “Jim!” Danny exclaimed. 

   “Hold steady! Don’t turn! Let him do the work!”

   Within only seconds, the graceful Corsair appeared as a blue blur as it streaked in front of the two men, seemingly close enough for them to reach out and touch the rear stabilizer. Leveling out directly in front of the them, the Corsair briefly eclipsed the view of the Messerschmitt before opening fire with its six .50 caliber guns. Caught completely off guard, the Messerschmitt was soon engulfed by tracers and the right engine erupted into flame. In mere seconds it spun violently out of control, dipped its nose and tumbled downward and to the left. 

   The two pilots remained paralyzed  and speechless as they had no time to process what had just happened before Ridge’s distinctive voice burst over the intercom. 

   “Cap, Cap! Contact at 7 o’clock low and closing crazy fast!” 

    Danny caught Jim’s gaze.

   “There’s your other bad guy.”

   Jim nodded. 

   “And our guy’s now way out of position.”

   “Cap, this Jerry is a different bird,” Ridge continued. “He’s…wait…is that a Schwalbe?” 

   The men recognized the German nickname for the Messerschmitt 262.

   “Afraid so,” Jim responded. 

   “And just what was that commotion earlier?” Ridge continued. “All I heard was a lot of high-pitched howling.”

   “No time to explain,” Jim responded. “But we’ve got some help now.”

   Jim’s focus returned to his front, the silhouette of the Corsair growing smaller as the much swifter fighter continued to pull away rapidly from the bomber. 

   “Come back,” Jim whispered inaudibly as hope seemed to flee away with the Corsair. Almost as if on cue, the graceful fighter pulled up into a steep climb, silhouetting itself against the lighter blue background of the sky. It appeared to hang there suspended momentarily before rolling over smoothly and racing back toward the bomber from which it had come. 

   “What’s he doing?” Danny questioned.

   “Follow me,” Jim responded. “ I think I know what he’s up to.”

   Jim then reached down and opened the throttle on the three remaining engines. 

   “Now, what are you doing?” 

   “Ridge,” Jim spoke into the intercom without directly answering Danny. “What’s our situation?”

   “Not good, Cap,” Ridge responded, the growing panic audible in his voice. “Still closing really fast. He’ll have us in his sights in no time.” 

   “We don’t have much time,” Jim’s instructions were aimed at Danny. “We have to close the distance between us and our friend as fast as we can. Open the throttles all the way. We have to push her.”

   “She’ll fly apart!”

   “She’ll hold together. She has to.” 

   The bomber’s three remaining engines roared under the strain, the large bomber surging forward with that final effort. The Corsair remained steadfast, streaking  directly toward them as it gained velocity.  

   “Now is not a preferred time for a game of chicken,” Danny suggested. 

   “Hold steady.”

   The Corsair continued to bear down on them. 

   “Stay steady,”  Jim ordered. “As the 262 pulls in behind us we’re blocking his view of the Corsair. Hold your course.” 

   The Corsair rapidly grew in size, coming straight at them. 

   “Jim…”

   “I know. Hold your course.”

   “Cap!” Ridge exclaimed. “He’s on us!” 

   “Steady…”

   The Corsair was upon them at that exact moment as well and Jim saw the sudden flash of its .50 caliber guns, seemingly close enough to feel the heat from the muzzles. The tracers streaked by Jim’s window just clearing the upper surface of the left wing and the dead number two engine. The shells arced gracefully past the rear of the bomber and slammed into the approaching jet at the exact moment it arrived at its optimum firing distance. As the men watched in amazement, the canopy of the jet shattered before the left engine exploded and severed the fighter’s entire left wing causing the plane to spin out of control. The Corsair then altered its course just enough to sail over the left wing of the B-17, it’s left wingtip only inches from Jim’s side window. 

   Suddenly, the sky was clear. The roar of the bomber’s engines remained prominent and Jim reached out to ease back on the throttles.

   “Both of them…” Danny began after several moments had passed.  “He got both of them.”

   Jim nodded without responding verbally.

   “And I don’t think he even broke a sweat. I have never seen anyone fly like that.’

   “Nor have I, “ Jim responded. “And I wouldn’t expect to anytime soon.’ 

   Fatigue descended over the crew as the adrenaline began to subside and the skies remained quiet.  The fact that they were still alive in the face of such incredible odds only then began to sink in fully. A sudden, but graceful movement outside of Jim’s window caught the pilot’s attention as the Corsair resumed its escort position. The fighter pilot, as calm as ever, gazed over at Jim and made sure that he had the pilot’s attention before motioning straight ahead. As Jim’s vision adjusted to the distance, he began to make out the coast of Northern Europe and the waters of the North Sea beyond. They had made it. England would be just beyond those waters. Jim gazed back at the fighter pilot, but could think of no appropriate way to express gratitude of such magnitude. Almost as if in understanding, the fighter pilot simply nodded and with a crisp motion of his hand, saluted the bomber. 

   “Are you all seeing this?” Danny inquired gently over the intercom.

   “You’d better believe it,” Ridge replied. “Looks like someone came to say goodbye.”

   “That is one elegant plane,” Bobby Quinn added. 

   For an instant, the Corsair remained seemingly motionless, its powerful engine humming in unison with the bomber’s. With ease and grace, the fighter then slowly began to gain altitude. The crew watched it slowly ascend, its lighter underbelly visible overhead as it settled over them. With one final flash of light from its pristine exterior, it disappeared into the overhead cloud cover and was gone from their sight, 

   After a moment of lingering tranquility, Danny’s rhetorical question broke the silence.

   “So, Cap. What now?”

   “Now,” Jim replied with a smile. “We go home.”

———————————————————————-

   “So,” the Colonel growled angrily as he tossed the men’s report onto the desk in front of him. “Let me make sure I’ve got this straight. You fellows want me to believe that your damaged bomber was magically saved from not one but two Me 262’s by a single F4U Corsair?”

  Jim and Danny stood at an uneasy attention in front of the colonel’s desk. 

   “That goes without saying that the closest American Corsair is thousands of miles from here shooting down Japanese Zero’s in the Pacific. But, I’m sure you fellows know that.” 

   The men remained at attention.  

   “Oh, sure,” the colonel continued sarcastically. “The Brits have a few but most ain’t colored blue and they’re nowhere near here. They’re mostly on carriers. And they’re certainly not escorting bombers.”

   The colonel snapped forward and flipped the report folder back open. 

   “And what’s this nonsense about a fighter group ‘777’ painted on its tail?”

   The colonel glowered at the two men.

   “You know that no such fighter group exists, right?”

   “Sir,” Jim began. “Permission to speak freely, sir.”

   “Oh, pardon me, captain, but after telling me some outlandish story like that, I assumed you already were.” 

   “Sir, there is no other story to tell.” 

   “Listen to me, captain. You return with a shot up bomber and one of your crew dead. Unfortunately, by itself that story is pretty ordinary these days. But, what gets my dander up is that you come in here with some hair-brained story about being saved by a single American fighter whose type doesn’t even serve in Europe!”

   The two men remained silent.

   “Do you know what that sounds like, captain?”

   The silence remained. 

   “It sounds like a cover-up. Like you’re hiding something.”

   Jim remained steadfast.

   “There is no other story to tell, sir. We are here, and that is because we were saved by a single Corsair.” 

   The papers on the desk rustled in the disturbance caused by the swift closing of the file. The colonel then sat back in his chair and stared briefly at the men in front of him, first at one and then the other. 

   “That will be all,” the colonel stated flatly. “Now get out of here.”

   With a swift salute, both men turned quickly and left the room, the door latching behind them. 

   “You give out very little sugar with your judgments,” declared a voice from the corner of the room. “If I have permission to speak freely.”

   “You and I have been friends for long enough, major,” the colonel responded. “You know you can always speak freely.”

   “I think those boys were telling you the truth.”

   “Maybe so. You can never be too sure.”

   “No need to have been so uncivil. They were just doing their jobs.”

   The colonel didn’t respond. The major then stepped out of the shadow, pulled up a chair and sat down directly in front of the colonel, the old wooden legs creaking as they accepted his weight. 

   “Besides,” the major continued. “I suppose I’m a little surprised at your reaction.”

   The major crossed his legs as he eased back in the chair.

   “Because, feel free to correct me, but wasn’t it you that told me that story from the Great War? You know the one. The one about an English Sopwith Camel biplane saving you from that German triplane? I don’t know, but didn’t you tell me that the numbers ‘777’ were painted on its tail? Or am I mistaken?”

   The colonel stared intently at the paperwork on his desk before adding his final signature to the report from The B-17’s crew. Without answering, he closed the file for a final time and passed it to the major. 

   “Take this file to Ms. Johnson outside, if you wouldn’t mind,” the colonel responded with the vaguest hint of a smile. 

  

Of Love and Lunchboxes- A Christmas Story

   

 A pair of weathered hands skillfully guided the wheel of the old 1979 Ford F-100 as the older gentleman pulled into the parking lot of the elementary school. As the steering wheel rebounded to its more central position, the rhythmic clicking of the turn signal ended abruptly and left in its wake the smooth purring of the engine as the vehicle pulled easily into a vacant parking space. Afternoon visits to pick up his grandson at school had become the older gentleman’s recent routine, but he had been asked by the boy’s teacher to come a little earlier than usual on that particular day so that she could make him aware of a situation that had arisen recently. She had assured him that his grandson had done nothing wrong and there existed no cause for alarm, but she nonetheless wished to discuss the issue with him and felt that it would be best to discuss it in person.

   Having pulled completely into the parking space the gentleman, with a twist of the key, silenced the engine and took his foot off of the clutch and brake. He then gazed around the interior of the old truck as if it were a trusted friend. He had often told himself that if he had been endowed with the gift of writing, he could probably have made his fortune telling the stories that the old vehicle had witnessed. The truck’s history delved deep enough to have known his own daughter when she was the same age as his grandson. If he was brave enough to allow the past to resurface, he could still see the image of her sitting on the passenger portion of the long bench seat, her hair up in a ponytail and dressed in a simple cotton dress. In her hand was a fountain drink from the local convenience store as it was always his tradition to buy her a treat when they would ride together. The older gentleman had always tried to take care of the truck and he felt that somehow it had taken care of him and his daughter in return.  

    Reaching out and pulling the door handle, the truck door swung open on its well-greased hinges as his boots simultaneously swung out to contact the dusty gravel of the parking lot. He gently eased the door closed as he enjoyed the pristine sensation of the cool December wind as it brushed across his face. He could hear the sound of many children’s voices emanating from the nearby playground. The side  entrance to the school was on the far side of the parking lot and he began to make his way in that direction. His grandson’s teacher had informed him that her classroom number was 102 and that it was located only a short distance down the hallway on the left after passing through the side entrance door. As he approached the door, he could see that the glass windows of the door and most of those of the classrooms along the side of the school had been decorated with handmade Christmas decorations and he found himself stopping at the door to admire the children’s handiwork. Christmas had always been his favorite time of year, even though this year’s celebration would be much different. He then turned the door handle and went inside. As he did so, his senses were met with the distant but familiar scent of pencil shavings, chalk, and paper products. The children were at recess and so the hallways and classrooms were temporarily vacant. Just as had been described to him, classroom 102 was just down the hallway on the left. The classroom door was standing open and so he leaned forward to gaze inside.

   Seated at her desk was a distinguished appearing young woman who was busily grading papers. Her head was crowned by wavy auburn colored hair which would likely have flowed across her shoulders but which was prevented from doing so by a well-placed hair clasp. The chalkboard  was outlined by a green Christmas garland accented by a strand of colored lights. A small Christmas tree adorned the far side of her desk and her bulletin board was decorated in similar fashion as the rest of the school with multiple Christmas projects displayed proudly within its borders. The reds, greens, blues, and silvers of the decorations all seemed to enhance the welcoming sensation that already existed in the room. He knocked gently on the door frame and she immediately greeted him with a smile and motioned for him to come and have a seat directly in front of her. 

   “I really appreciate you coming in at this time,” she began after apologizing for the small size of the classroom seats. “My school day ends everyday with recess so it gives me a few minutes to myself.” 

   He responded that his visit was no inconvenience at all. 

   “First of all,” she continued on a solemn note. “I want to extend my condolences on the loss of your daughter. I can only imagine how painful that must be.”

   The pain of the recent, tragic phone call burst from hiding, threatening to overwhelm him. 

   “It was not easy,” he responded. “Learning suddenly that you’ve lost both your daughter and son-in-law.”

   “If it is any consolation,” she responded. “I am very pleased that you chose to take in your grandson.”

   “Of course. I’m all he’s got.”

   “And he’s very fortunate that he has you.”

   The older gentleman‘s facial expression indicated appreciation for the sentiment, but simultaneously some doubt about its validity.

   “I guess it would be accurate to say that he’s all I’ve got too.”

   “I remember that your wife passed away several years ago,” came the compassionate response. The older gentleman smiled as the memory of the many years that he and his wife had shared suddenly replaced the somber memory of the recent car accident. The young woman gracefully moved her stack of test papers to the side of the desk and leaned forward in her chair before continuing.

   “I have always believed in being honest with my parents, guardians, and students and so I have always brought situations to their attention even if there’s really no action that needs to be taken.”

   Her compassionate expression did not waver. 

   “With that being said, over the past few days your grandson has endured some teasing, some would call it bullying, from some of the other students. I wanted you to be aware as I know most children do not talk about such things.”

   The older gentleman’s mind immediately raced for any possible cause for such teasing. His grandson in every way was a completely normal second grader especially for everything he had recently endured. His second emotion, following quickly behind the first, was anger. What kind of person would mistreat a young boy who had just lost both of his parents? His Southern upbringing told him that such actions were in no way acceptable and he quickly conjured up several methods of appropriate punishment for the bullies.

   “For what cause?” he inquired, still unable to come up with any possible reason for the mistreatment.

   “It seems to revolve around his lunchbox.”

   A sudden wave of embarrassment swept over the older gentleman as an image of the old, faded metal lunchbox came to mind. The lunchbox had been his daughter’s when she was his grandson‘s age. In fact, her name, written with a black marker and covered with clear nail polish to prevent its removal, still remained on the inside of the top lid. It was an old Walt Disney design shaped like a yellow school bus with several well-know cartoon characters painted on its sides. The paint had become faded and was chipped in several places but there was absolutely nothing else wrong with it. After his daughter’s passing, he had brought it out of retirement for his grandson to use. Fashion and style had not even crossed his mind.

   “I see,” he responded sheepishly. “I suppose the kids don’t carry such old things like that nowadays.”

   “Not so much,” came the kind response. “Too much technology these days, or they just eat in the cafeteria.” 

   He should have known better, he thought to himself. He should have planned ahead and realized that times had changed. He should’ve realized that his old-fashioned ways were not going to fly in the modern world. It was fine if people wanted to poke fun at him for doing things the way he always had. But now, out of his own ignorance, he had worsened the suffering of his own grandson.

   “But,” she continued leaning in a little closer. “I didn’t ask you to come in today to tell you to give your grandson a new lunchbox, or to make you feel badly about giving it to him.” 

   The older gentleman looked up to meet the teacher’s compassionate gaze. She then took a deep breath and leaned back a little.  

   “I have not been teaching for as long as some,” she began. “But I have been teaching for long enough. I have seen students and parents come and go. I have seen children from wealthy families neglected but children from families with far less resources treated with love and compassion. I have witnessed the opposite situation as well. I have seen styles, fashion, TV shows, movies and lunchboxes wax and wane.” 

   She paused for a moment, as if taking a moment to steady herself before continuing. 

   “But I have never seen a boy’s lunch packaged with more love than your grandson’s.”

   The older gentleman did not know how to respond. 

   “As a teacher, I am trained to be observant and always be aware of my surroundings. I could not help but notice your grandson the other day as he ate his lunch. Without shame at all, he placed his lunchbox on the table and completely ignored the teasing of some of the others. Everything inside that box was neatly packaged. I also noticed that when he ate his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, you had cut it into the shape of a Christmas tree.”

   The older man smiled.

   “I learned that from his mother. She used a cookie cutter to cut out the shape.”

   The teacher smiled in return. 

   “I wish you could have been there to see his face when he reads the notes you pack in his lunch.  His face always breaks into a smile.”

   The older man looked down at the floor. 

   “I just want him to know he’s not alone.” 

   “And I assure you he does. That’s why he ignores the teasing.”

   The teacher then leaned back in her chair.

   “Let me also assure you of one thing. That type of teasing is not tolerated in my classroom and I assure you that in my presence it will never be. I have made sure of that by discussing this both with the other involved students and with their parents as well.”

   “I appreciate that. And thank you for your kind words.”

   He then rose to leave as he knew his grandson would be waiting nearby. Just as he was about to reach the door, he heard her call his name. He turned once more. 

   “One of the downsides of being a teacher,” she began. “Is that you see mankind at his worst. There’s no doubt from what I’ve seen that man’s heart is twisted from birth. Never once has it been necessary for me to teach students how to do what is wrong. On the contrary, it takes all the effort than I can muster to keep them on the straight and narrow. That fact has always told me which nature comes naturally. I say that to tell you that you and your grandson are shining a light in a very dark world. The contents of a boy’s lunchbox can change the world. Five loaves and two fish did. Merry Christmas. Keep that light shining.”

   His brow furrowed with gratitude and he nodded his head respectfully, even though he felt unworthy of the compliment. He then turned and passed through the classroom entrance and left the door open just as he had found it. Sitting on a hallway bench just a short distance down from the classroom was his grandson, holding the old faded metal lunchbox on his lap. The older gentleman‘s heart was full to the breaking point as he watched the young man, the feeling of embarrassment once again raising its head. Those feelings were short-lived, however, as the young man looked up and saw his grandfather. He immediately sprang to his feet and ran to the older gentleman, the metal lunchbox clanging the whole way. 

   “Hey there, sport!” His grandfather began with his usual greeting as he reached down to give the boy a hug. “And just how are you?” 

   “Good!” came the honest response. “I see you met my teacher.”

   “I sure did.”

   “She’s really pretty, papa” the boy said matter-of-factly. 

   His grandfather cleared his throat nervously as he recalled the auburn-haired young woman. 

   “I hadn’t noticed.”

   “Guess what?”

   “What?”

   “ I don’t have any homework tonight. The teacher said there’s no point anyway since we start Christmas break after tomorrow.”

   “Well, that sounds fine to me,” his grandfather responded. “That actually works out for the better because I’ve been thinking about taking you to the store to see if maybe you wanted to get a different lunchbox. Now would be a good time. I know that one’s a little old.”

   The young boy looked down at the faded lunchbox.

   “No, that’s OK. I like this one. It was mommy’s.”

   “Are you sure you don’t want a new one?”

   “Yep.”

   “Alright, but the offer still stands if you change your mind.”

   “Ok.” 

   The pair passed through the doors of the school’s side entrance and surveyed the Christmas decorations once again before turning to cross the parking lot. 

   “You know what I think?” the older man asked. 

   “What?”

   “I think we should get some ice cream. I know it’s basically  winter, but I don’t discriminate. I’ll eat ice cream anytime.”

   “We learned in science that you shouldn’t eat too many treats. If you eat less ice cream, you’ll live longer.”

   “I’m not so sure about that,” the older man responded. “It’s just that life without ice cream feels longer.”

   “Maybe you’re right. Let’s go get ice cream.”

   The pair then continued, hand in hand toward the truck waiting in the distance. 

The Years The Locusts Ate- A Thanksgiving Story

 

Joel 2:25

“I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten...”

  

   I was in the most sullen of moods when the alarm went off at five in the morning. My feet begrudgingly hit the floor to face yet another day at work. Another day of taking care of ungrateful sick folks; smelling their smells and being blamed for things far out of my control. Understaffed. Sleep deprived. Unappreciated. 

   And that day of all days. Why could I not celebrate that one day with my family? Was that really asking too much? It was Thanksgiving, after all, and my extended family had travelled from out of state to visit and spend the holiday with us. Now, with the hospital patient census soaring through the roof and our lack of adequate staff, the day would be practically over before I ever got home. I knew how it would feel arriving home, dragging myself through the door to meet their smiling faces all the while grieving over the time I had lost. Time that I could not regain.

   So, with those thoughts hanging gloomily over my head, I grabbed my coat and, as quietly as I could, stepped out into the cool and dark November morning. I tossed my stethoscope over into the passenger seat of my truck as I turned the ignition and the engine roared faithfully to life. With the press of a button, the garage door squeaked open and I was soon dodging deer on the familiar drive to the hospital. 

   The sun had still not yet risen as I eased my truck into the deserted parking lot. I crossed the shadowy parking lot and scanned my badge to open the side entrance and stepped out of the brisk air into the warmth of the hospital hallway. Taking a right turn, I retraced my usual steps to the administrative conference room where I always received my newly assigned patients. Opening the door to the room, I was greeted by the fatigued face of my partner who had been the overnight admitting physician. 

   “Your expression says it all,” I said in greeting as I managed a smile. “Looks like it was a rough night.”

   She managed a weary grin in response.

   “You know,” she began. “You’d think a hospital would be the absolute last place that people would want to come on the night before Thanksgiving. But, as last night proved, I never cease to be amazed.” 

   She then fumbled through the neat stack of papers near her right hand until she found the specific sheet she was looking for. Her arm then stretched forward as she handed it to me. 

   “I wish the number of patients was better, especially on a holiday,” she began. “But, unfortunately it’s not. Everyone is going to have a lot of patients to see today.”

   I responded by telling her that it was no less than I expected and that it was not her fault, but truthfully the lengthy list did nothing to elevate my mood. 

   “If it’s any consolation,” she added as I turned to go. “The last patient that I gave you on your list is a comfort care only patient. End stage cancer. I’m not trying to be morbid, but if you get delayed in getting to see him, you may not get to see him at all.”

  I nodded in response and turned once again to leave and begin the day. 

   The day progressed no better than I had expected. The patients remaining in the hospital over the holiday were understandably melancholy and with so many of the ancillary staff out for the day it was difficult to make much progress with treatment. The nursing staff, as always, tried to make the best of the situation and many of the staff had brought their holiday specialty dishes to work as part of the annual Thanksgiving potluck lunch. On each floor that I visited, I was invited to try many of the dishes as there was always plenty of food, but each time I politely declined. I was empathetic with the suffering of those around me but I could also never quite rid my mind of the thoughts of my family at home without me and I did not want any distractions that would delay me from getting home. It was already going to be late enough. 

  I had just finished turning down yet another offer to try someone’s grandmother’s famous pecan pie when I realized that I was on the same hospital floor as my comfort care patient. My original intent had been to see him toward the end of the day as there was really very little that I could offer and the nursing staff was always excellent at contacting me if a patient’s symptoms were not controlled. However, I realized that it would be much more efficient just to go ahead and see him while I was on the floor and make sure that there was nothing that he needed. It would also allow me to avoid having to make a special trip back to that floor at the end of my rounds. I quickly grabbed a free computer and logged on before grabbing my stethoscope and placing it around my neck and heading down the hallway.

   As I headed down the hallway, I began to think about the man that I would meet in just a few moments.  In those situations involving comfort care, all possible medical therapies had been exhausted and the only options left were completely palliative and intended only to provide comfort. Comfort care patients have a way of reminding those who are healthy about the reality of the brevity of life. Any illusion of health is only temporary, as death inevitably comes for us all. Some much sooner than others. 

   My mind was occupied by these thoughts as my hand reached out for the door handle leading to the patient’s room. The door slowly swung open as I gently knocked on the frame to announce my arrival. As my head peaked around the edge of the door, my eyes begin to adjust to the dimly lit room where my attention focused on the patient lying in bed with the head of the bed elevated. At first, I thought the patient was sleeping but he soon turned to face the door and greeted my entrance with a weak smile.

   He was a middle-aged man who was very thin and pale, his skin color evident even in the low light. His cheek bones were very prominent and gave his eyes a sunken appearance. His extremities were mainly skin and bone. A morphine infusion was connected to his IV line to help control his pain. His smile, while genuine, seemed to take great effort to produce. I introduced myself and stepped over to his bed. 

   “It’s nice to meet you, doc,” he began in a raspy voice. “I appreciate you coming by, but I’m sorry it had to be on Thanksgiving.“

   I assured him that I didn’t mind, knowing all the while that I was being hypocritical.

   “So, how are you feeling?” I continued. 

   “You know, today is actually not too bad,” he responded. “Now, I mean no disrespect whatsoever but it sure does improve a fellow’s demeanor to have such pleasant ladies take care of him. I just feel badly that they have to do everything for me these days.”

  “Don’t feel badly,” I responded. “It comes with the territory.”

   The multiple IV lines hanging from the nearby steel pole suddenly reminded me of the purpose of my visit.

   “How is your pain?”

   “Well, “ he said motioning to his morphine pump. “As long as my friend here keeps working, I’m fine for the time being.”

   My attention was then diverted to his bedside table where I saw a food tray sitting, apparently completely untouched, with the silverware still unopened. I lifted the plastic lid to reveal a classic Thanksgiving meal, complete with turkey, dressing, and sweet potatoes. Not a bite had been eaten. He looked wistfully at the tray as if remembering a time when such things mattered. 

   “Appetite not too good?” I inquired. 

   He shook his head.

   “No, I knew that I wasn’t going to eat it even when I ordered it. I’m not hungry, but it just made me feel better having it here, with it being Thanksgiving and all. I guess kind of like Christmas decorations always lift your spirits. But, now that I think about it, I suppose that’s kind of wasteful.”

   I told him I understood. 

   “Is your breathing OK?” I inquired.

   “It’s fine for now.”

   “Ok. If any thing changes or if there is anything I can do, just let me know. Let me take a quick listen to your heart and lungs here.”

   With those words, I removed my stethoscope from around my neck and assisted him with sitting up in bed as he lacked the strength to do so on his own. I pressed my stethoscope over the usual areas of his back and listened to his shallow breaths, all the while noticing the protruding ribs that ran in prominent ridges on either side of his spine. As I did so, I could tell that his attention had been captured by some other distraction. 

   “Isn’t it amazing just how many of those we get to see?”

   With the tips of the stethoscope in my ears, his voice was muffled, but I was nonetheless still able to understand him. However, I wasn’t exactly sure what he was referring to.

   “I’m sorry,” I said as I removed the stethoscope from my ears and helped him to ease gently back down on his pillow. “I didn’t catch what you were saying just now.”

   Without speaking, he pointed out his room window which was facing westward toward the Blue Ridge Mountains. The evening sun was beginning to set and was already painting the evening sky and the scattered clouds on the horizon with beautiful shades of orange and crimson. The gray shapes of the distant peaks cut sharp silhouettes into the straight line of the horizon as they stretched heavenward. I would have been too distracted to notice had he not redirected my attention. 

   “I mean, think about it,” he began. “On many if not most evenings we get the privilege of seeing that kind of a masterpiece. Most mornings, too. No two are just alike. And yet, because they happen so frequently, we don’t even notice them. They aren’t even something that we deserve.”

   His focus remained outside his room, caught up in that far off place of swirling colors. Without changing his expression, he breathed a profound sentence.

   “I made a mess of things, doc.”

   I did not know how to respond, but his redirection of my attention to the beauty painted in the evening sky made me forget my previous melancholy. Without speaking, I pulled up a chair and took a seat beside his bed. 

   “When I was disrespectful to my parents,” he continued. “The sun still faithfully rose. When I stormed out of my parent’s home and left behind the two people on this earth that loved me the most, the evening sky was still painted with the colors that you see outside now. When I found that precious young girl and mistreated her when all she wanted was someone to provide and care for her, the mountain laurel still bloomed. When I loved alcohol more than anything or anyone and would wake up from my drunken stupor, I would still hear the rain falling outside.”

  I remained silent and mesmerized.

   “And I reaped what I sowed. I deserve what I got. There is no one left to blame.”

   His voice began to tremble. 

   “But for the life of me, I promise you that when I look back, He repaid me with good in return for whatever evil I did. Beauty in exchange for ashes. He blessed me in exchange for the years the locusts ate, even though it was of my own doing.” 

   My eyes fell to the floor as his words brought to life the wasted years of my own life. 

   “So you see, doc, I deserve to die alone. There is no one left in my life to push away. But, I can see now that He has been pursuing me my whole life.”

   He paused as he drew a deep breath.

   “I won’t be lonely much longer.” 

  There was nothing for me to say. What could I say? He had summed up human existence in his short discourse. No matter the size of a person’s debt, it remained a sum that could never be paid by one’s own merit. But, to be paid back with good in exchange for evil? No greater love existed. Out of respect, I remained silent. 

   “So, what is your favorite food?” I asked when the time was right. 

   “I’ve always been a sweets person if you want to know the truth,” he said with a grin.

   “Fair enough,” I responded. “What’s your favorite dessert?”

   “Pumpkin pie.”

   “Well, you are in luck. My mother-in-law is in town and, I have to admit, her pumpkin pie recipe is one of the best. I’ll bring you a piece tomorrow. Even if you can’t eat it.” 

   He smiled in return.

   “Just like decorations at Christmas.”

   I nodded. 

   “Just like decorations at Christmas.“

   I finished rounding and drove home in the darkness with a completely different mood than I possessed during my morning drive, and one that could be best described as guilt. I had done nothing but complain. Yet, there he remained in the loneliness of his hospital room, dying, and thankful for one more sunset. 

   I walked through the door of my home into the warmth of love and family. Gone was the regret of what time I felt had been lost, replaced by thankfulness for the time that I had. I immediately found the pumpkin pie and cut a slice before sealing it in a small plastic container for the next day. 

   

   The next morning found me back at the hospital before dawn with renewed purpose. I had been very careful to make sure that the single piece of pumpkin pie remained unscathed in its container. It was the least I could do for someone who had reminded me of what in life was truly eternal. 

   But, when I arrived at his room, I found it unoccupied with fresh, crisp sheets covering the bed and a recently mopped, spotless floor. Fearing the worst, I found his night nurse, before her presence was required at morning report.

   “He passed away around one this morning,” she said respectfully. “He seemed at peace. I think he passed in his sleep.” 

   I gazed down at the container with the piece of pie. I could think of nothing to say. 

   “It’s always a comfort to me,” she stated as she searched for something to break the silence. “That maybe patients could learn something from us to comfort them in the end.”

   I turned and walked away slowly, mumbling that he had taught me more in fifteen minutes than I could have taught him in a lifetime.