by Frank Felton
The Lord works in mysterious ways.
That was all in the past, and he was tired of thinking about the past. What’s done is done. A new phase begins today. His life is about to change. Released on probation, and no longer held prisoner by the United States government, for the first time in his life he is completely alone. He has no family remaining in this world, except for a sister that lives half-way across the country.
What he does have, besides his deflated ego, is a rather large parcel of land left him by his grandfather, Hank Benson. It was the man whose funeral he had recently been allowed to attend. A man he barely knew. That too is about to change. He will soon become more familiar with his grandfather in death, than he ever possibly could have in life.
2. Crash Carter
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. – Hebrews 13:2
There was a strange feeling of déjà vu as he glanced around the house. He remembered things that he shouldn’t have known. There was a half-full glass of water on the table. Embers of coal burned in the wood stove. A dog stood outside, wagging its tail. She looked at him as though she had been waiting on him; waiting for food. Was this really his first day at home, in this house, on this farm? It looked as though he’d been here for weeks, perhaps months. How long was he asleep? He ushered these odd thoughts back to his subconscious. He was not so sure he could trust even his own instincts anymore.
Those odd thoughts stopped dead in their tracks. They were replaced by a much more reliable, and basic, instinct which kicked in. His brain quickly processed a well-known sensory perception. A surge of adrenaline entered his bloodstream. It wasn’t exactly a fight-or-flight response, but was just as dramatic. His body froze. It took his mind a few milliseconds to digest the overload.
His heart raced with anticipation.
It was the song only a radial-engine airplane can make, and it was approaching quickly from the west. It bore down on him. The noise grew louder until he felt the feeble walls of the house began to rattle. It was close. By his judgment, it couldn’t have been more than a hundred feet above ground level.
Only one thing flew that close to the ground. It had to be a crop duster, and this one sounded like the one Old Man Wernli had flown. He remembered the distinct tune very well from his days growing up out on the farm, but Mr. Wernli was long dead. No doubt some enterprising young daredevil had taken up the mantle when the old codger kicked the bucket. Before Troy could finish the thought, the yellow skin of the massive airplane appeared through the pecan trees, as the noise reached deafening levels. It was just over his head, banking hard to the right as it emerged into the clearing.
It was beautiful.
Troy ran out into the open field and watched as the aircraft returned to level flight, then pulled up and back to the left. It dove into a neighboring field in an intricate display of airmanship, darting underneath a row of power lines, and disappeared behind a hill. As the plane dipped beyond the horizon, Troy jogged up the nearby hill, from which he would have a 360-degree view of the surrounding Milam County farmland.
The plane reappeared, in a vertical climb, rolling almost inverted, and returning to the Earth with the sharpness of a razor’s edge. After a few minutes, Troy had the best seat in the house. He stood in awe as the crop duster moved across the field in perfect harmony. The sharp, crisp, maneuvering meant this pilot had good hands. It was something a fighter pilot like Troy could truly respect – both of these men were masters of that craft.
It was summertime in Texas and the fields were coming into full bloom. This guy no doubt had a full day’s work ahead of him, so what happened next would leave Troy thoroughly confused. As the pilot finished up a neighboring field, he turned the plane back west. He appeared to be headed directly toward Troy’s location.
~~~
At the top of the hill was a rusty equipment hangar in which his grandfather kept an old airplane. It was a vintage 1954 Cessna 180 Skywagon, painted in white and green livery. By now it was so full of cobwebs and mud dauber nests that it would need some serious attention to ever get back into the sky. His grandfather, Hank, had been a pilot, and Troy had learned to fly in that plane. It was a true joy to fly growing up, and his true inspiration to become an Air Force pilot. Once he’d moved on to the fast paced life of the Air Force, slow moving puddle jumpers like the Skywagon failed to spark his interest any longer.
In fact, he’d almost forgotten about Old Green, as his grandpa called her. The hangar was at the end of a long gravel road that ran the length of the hill. His grandpa used that road as a landing strip. The rear elevators of the Skywagon were pockmarked with dents and dings from the main landing gear kicking up rocks. Grandpa fancied himself a barnstormer in the mold of Billy Mitchell. Just as with his approach to most things in life, Hank was an old school pilot. He thought that real pilots flew tail draggers, and fancy new tricycle-gear airplanes were for sallies.
The crop duster made a slow, arching circle around the hill. Its airspeed slowed. It appeared to be setting up for a landing on the gravel road. Who was this guy; perhaps his grandfather’s friend? No one even knew that Troy was out here. The plane continued its steady descent, lining up right on target.
Sure enough, the mysterious plane landed.
The yellow bird bounced slightly once the main landing gear touched the ground. It completed the landing roll and made a sharp U-turn while it still had considerable forward speed. It throttled up, and headed back down the road towards the hangar. Troy was now in a full sprint to get to the hangar, racking his brain for something that would explain why this marvelous beast had landed here. No one had been on this farm in weeks, ever since his grandfather died and bequeathed the property to Troy.
There was only one possibility that made sense; this guy was stealing fuel. Grandpa had a rather large fuel tank of Av-Gas up near the hangar, and this guy apparently had figured that out. The thought sent ice into his veins. He ran even faster. He wanted to see the look on this punk’s face when he dragged him out of the plane and beat hell out of him. If there was one thing that disgusted him, it was a thief. What kind of lowlife bastard steals fuel from a dead man? His respect for the artisanship displayed by the pilot dissipated. He could think of no other explanation.
The plane came to a stop next to the hangar, but the propeller continued to turn. Troy was only 200 hundred yards away now. Still in pretty good shape, he figured he had about 30 seconds. He didn’t know what this guy was doing, but he was about to give him a piece of his mind, and might knock out a few of his teeth. As he drew within 50 yards, he heard the engine spool down, as the pilot pulled the throttle.
The sudden audible squeal of the engine caused Troy to slow to a jog. His body tensed and he lightened his steps so as not to give the intruder any sign of his presence. The mighty radial gave a shriek as the lifeblood left its veins. A puff of smoke spewed forth from the exhaust pipes. Troy slowed to a walk, and crept up from the backside of the airplane slowly, ready for anything as he approached the side of the plane where he could see the cockpit.
The pilot caught a glimpse of Troy as he opened the hatch, giving a quick wave as he climbed out, posterior first. He had a long, thick beard, and wore a beanie cap pulled over his ears. His eyes were hidden by a pair of cheap sunglasses. He looked menacing, but at the same time, his body language communicated he was harmless.
Perhaps he knew he was caught, and was formulating his story. Troy’s rage lifted slightly, but he was still on edge. He was never all that good at personal confrontation, but he was also not afraid to mete out a beating when his ire was up. He glared up at the cockpit. The man threw a bag to the ground, and the spinning propeller dwindled to a halt. It was now completely silent, and Troy readied his verbal harangue.
“Mornin’” the man yelled down.
Troy stood silent. He wanted the man to feel his disappointment. His silence communicated disapproval; this man was not welcome here.
&nb
sp; “Mor-ning,” the man said again, this time annunciating more clearly, in a smarter tone.
Troy still gave no reply.
“Good day for spraying, ain’t it? Wind is calm; air is crisp, perfect weather!”
Troy had caught his breath. He had no idea who this guy was or why he had just landed a plane on the farm.
“But you know all about that don’t you?” the man continued.
Befuddled, Troy finally replied.
“Look, buddy. I don’t mean to be rude, but do I know you? Just what in the hell are you doing landing here?”
The pilot jumped down off the wing. He was a skinny fellow, dressed in camouflage pants and a long-sleeved black shirt. He ducked under the mighty wing, and walked to the back of the plane. He had a smile, revealing his teeth through the plume of facial hair; shaking his head. He put his hand up to the rear elevator, and ran his fingers along the edge. He seemed to ignore Troy for the moment.
“Heard some clinks comin’ down the road. Don’t look like they done any damage.”
Troy reached up his own hand, as he walked around the main wing. He felt the smooth flow of the aluminum skin. There was something odd about this fellow, something familiar. He was mesmerized by the sheer size of this crop duster. She was huge.
“She’s a beauty, ain’t she? Yeah, can’t believe your grandpa used this strip. It’s hell on a plane.”
Troy bit his tongue. He recognized this guy. He must have known him growing up. He seemed completely innocuous. What should he say next?
“Yeah.”
“Yeah. What?” replied the man.
“This is a nice plane. Whose is it?”
“Well, you remember Old Man Wernli up the road?”
“Yes. Damn, I knew it. I figured this was his plane. I remember that sound.”
He remembered Old Man Wernli from years back, must have been almost 20 years ago when Troy was growing up. Back then Wernli was in his 50’s or 60’s, but looked like he was closer to 80. The liquor done it as much as anything, as Old Man Wernli rarely saw a sober day. He did the work cheaper than anyone else, because he would usually miss about thirty percent of the field. He didn’t care. All he enjoyed in life was flying, and drinking whiskey.
Wernli could have passed for a World War II vet, but he was born in 1932 and was too young for that war. A vet from the area named Van Jensen had taught Wernli to fly when he got home from Europe. At only 20 years old, Van was flying B-17’s over Germany towards the end of the war. He bought a Piper Cub when he moved back home, buying land near the Bensons. Old Man Wernli caught the bug early on, and started crop dusting when he dropped out of high school in the late 1940s. A few years later, several local crop dusters had given up the dead-end gig as a multi-year drought obliterated the crops, and taken to work at the new ALCOA plant near Rockdale. From then on, Wernli had it all to himself.
“This is his?” asked Troy.
“Nah, he’s dead,” replied the pilot.
“I know he’s dead. What I mean is, this was his plane? I mean, whose plane is it then. Yours?”
“Nah, ‘fraid not. Just keepin’ her warm.”
“For whom?”
“For whom? Boy, you ain’t changed a bit. All uppity and smart. That’s what I always liked about you.”
“Look, mister, seriously. Do I know you?”
“Yes sir. You most certainly do.”
“I’m sorry. You look familiar, but I can’t place it.”
“Come on. Think. It ain’t been that long.”
“Alright, I suppose it will come to me. So whose plane is it then?”
“Well, best I can reckon’, it’s yours.”
“What do you mean, mine? I don’t own this airplane.”
“No sir. But your grandpa owned it. I ‘spect that makes it yours.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a damn minute. Grandpa never said anything about owning a crop duster.”
“I reckon not. He might a not said nothin’, but he sure as hell did. He bought it from Old Man Wernli a few years back. Long time ago. He got himself too old and too broke. Hank bought it from him but let him keep flying it ‘til he died.”
“Well I’ll be. Huh.”
“Come on. You remember my name don’t you? We grew up together.”
Troy recognized the voice. It was on the tip of his tongue. There was only one person it could be. Come to think of it, he had the look of his father, Clappy, who lived across the river. He had a son about Troy’s age, and they had been friends at one time, though it had been almost 20 years.
“Well I’ll be damned. You’re Crash Carter.”
3. D-Day
And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. - 2 Corinthians 11:14
The battle of good and evil is ever present. It is perennial, not eternal, because you can trace this battle to the Fallen Angels, when Satan led his horde of demons against the heavenly hosts. Angels were created by God, and as such, they are not eternal. Certainly they are immortal, but they were not present at the dawn of time. Regardless, the battle has been here long before humans inhabited the planet and will continue long after.
Nitpicky, isn’t it? I would agree. That is the teacher coming out in me. I suppose this is as good a time as any to introduce myself. My birth certificate says R. Cyrus McCormack, but I can’t think of the last man to call me Cyrus. I’ve had many nicknames throughout my time on Earth. When I was younger, they called me Mac, and as I grew older and became a school teacher, it became Mr. Mac. Has a certain authoritarian appeal to it, I think, short and sweet. It matches my demeanor perfectly.
But my favorite nickname is that given to me, unwittingly, by Troy Benson in 1986. Some of the more interesting things in life happen that way, off the cuff. That was a rarity for Troy. He rarely wandered off the reservation, at least when he was younger. It’s difficult for a methodical and emotionally closed-off person to understand that there are some things in life that must simply be left to chance. How he came up with the nickname, I couldn’t say. Honestly, I think someone else came up with it, and he stole it because it sounded good. We’ll get to that nickname later.
I am not much different than he is, to be honest, but I have many more years of experience. We both live in a world that is very black and white, right and wrong. It made us excellent soldiers. There is disagreement whether such uncompromising behavior is virtuous. I live by principles which have stood far longer than any modern-day relativism, revision of the Ten Commandments, or codes of law which present society aspires to follow.
I was born so long ago I can’t even remember. Well before your time, for sure. Looking back, one of my fonder memories on Earth was my time spent during the 1940’s. It wasn’t long after Pearl Harbor that I decided to volunteer. I was several years older than most of those conscripted to service. I had previously spent time as a journeyman high school history teacher after college, ending up in Brady, Texas. I have always been fascinated by history and various languages, and teaching offered me the opportunity to engross myself in ancient history to my heart’s content.
It was at Brady that I came to be mentored by a fellow educator, none other than James Earl Rudder. He was a teacher and football coach. Rudder was called back to active duty in 1941 and I decided it was time for me to leave town as well. The war underway would span the globe. It would be one for the ages, and there was important work for me ahead. However, he was an officer, and despite my education, I would be going in as a grunt. The world was at a major crossroads, with an uncertain future. It was an interesting time, to say the least.
I’d be seeing Mr. Rudder again very soon.
Perhaps it was a different day and age back then. The young men and women of America went to war because they didn’t have much other choice. It helped that they didn’t know any better, not completely unlike America as a whole, which herself was not much more than an adolescent coming of age. Both responded to their natural instinct to fight when times required it. In ta
king up the fight, this war would thrust a country to the forefront as a global superpower, shocking it from economic malaise, and establishing an era of greatness and prosperity unrivaled in human history.
First, it would require a massive investment of blood and treasure.
The world once again found itself at war. Germany abandoned the Treaty of Versailles and proceeded to invade her neighbors to re-establish national pride. That pride was lost in 1918 after the first Great War. The treaty was the genesis of this new altercation, for it hamstrung the German society so severely that it allowed the country to be engulfed by the rise of National Socialists, forever more known as the Nazis. I’m not apologizing for the German people, but a word of caution is necessary. Desperate times will always give way to irrationality. Clear thinking is the first casualty when Mr. Maslow is starved from the bottom up.
The election of a subversive government can invite world-changing shifts for an electorate who do not realize the true aims of their leadership. This has happened time and again throughout history. It will happen many times more before you ultimately annihilate the entire planet. Promised utopias never come to be, in fact, the better a promise sounds, the more likely, in military parlance, you should BOHICA. Any institution governed by mankind is subject to corruption, greed, incompetence, and quite possibly, evil itself. This is true for empires, republics, corporations, charities, and sadly, even the Church.
We were fighting for a higher cause, no doubt. But truth is, the herd was just carrying out the orders from Washington, D.C. Lost in the moral crusade were hidden dictates and political posturing which corrupted an otherwise altruistic intent. Certainly there was overwhelming good in defeating the Nazis, one cannot deny. The end justified the means.
