Drowning in Her Eyes

by Patrick Ford

  Drowning in Her Eyes

  By Patrick Ford

  * * *

  Start Publishing LLC

  Copyright © 2012 by Start Publishing LLC

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  First Start Publishing eBook edition October 2012

  Start Publishing is a registered trademark of Start Publishing LLC

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN 978-1-68299-200-5

  Drowning in Her Eyes

  by

  Patrick Ford

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  * * *

  Published by

  TORRID BOOKS

  www.torridbooks.com

  An Imprint of Whiskey Creek Press LLC

  Copyright © 2016 by Patrick Ford

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN: 978-1-68299-200-5

  Credits

  Cover Artist: Kris Norris

  Editor: Merrylee Lanehart

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1 Beginnings

  Chapter 2 Far Horizons

  Chapter 3 Collision Course

  Chapter 4 Heaven on Earth

  Chapter 5 Heartbreak

  Chapter 6 Coping

  Chapter 7 Down to Dusty Death

  Chapter 8 The Bien Long BBQ

  Chapter 9 Homecoming

  Chapter 10 Forever and Ever

  Chapter 11 Bearding the Lioness

  Chapter 12 Homeward Bound

  Glossary

  About the Author

  For Susan and her baby

  The Flame still burns

  Chapter 1

  Beginnings

  New York City, New York, USA—1945

  James Baker stood at his station on the forecastle of the destroyer USS Warren B. Henderson and watched the crowds thronging the pier. There was an air of expectation, tinged with war weariness and relief. After a war that had taken the lives of more than fifty million and had left Europe in ruins, he was thankful to have survived to come home at last. He had had a fortuitous war, he reflected. Not that it had been comfortable or without danger, but the Henderson had been a lucky ship. Her worst casualty had been a drunken liberty man who had tripped on the gangplank and broken a leg on the iron-hard timbers of the Liverpool docks. She had sailed back and forth across the Atlantic for three years on convoy escort duty, had attacked without success several U-Boats, and had fished a few hundred survivors from that cruel sea. However, enemy bombs or torpedoes never came close to her—a lucky ship indeed.

  Certainly, the war had changed his life for the better. He had come from a small ranch in Montana, too small to provide him with any kind of future. The Navy had hardened, trained, and nurtured him. Today he stood as a fit and confident Petty Officer, Second Class, and a fully trained electrician. In a few short days, he would be a free man about to marry his sweetheart and tackle the world head on. As Henderson entered the great harbour, heading for the Brooklyn Navy Yard, she passed the famous landmarks of the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and Staten Island. Jimmy Baker felt a little surge of patriotism; he was not a demonstrative man, but took a fierce pride in his nation and its achievements.

  His thoughts turned to his girl. They had met in a drugstore of all places, on his last leave. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but he found himself admiring her trim figure and dark hair. Her skin had a light milk coffee tone, suggestive of a Latino background. In fact, an ancestor had been a Spanish adventurer who had left a young English woman a widow when his ship disappeared off Cape Hatteras in 1740. He was never to see his baby daughter, but his genes had persisted through many generations.

  Her eyes were her most startling feature. They were dark brown and there was a slightly Oriental look about them. Up close, they were deep pools lit from below with a tawny light—one look into those depths and Jimmy Baker was lost.

  Marci had been working as a typist for the U.S. Army for the last couple of years. Soon, her work would no longer be required. They had decided to settle in Worcester, west of Boston. Jimmy had a tentative position offered by a colleague of Marci’s father, a manufacturer of wireless equipment who had prospered from a couple of Air Corps contracts. He was pleased to welcome home a trained man to his factory; the war had decimated his skilled workforce. Right now Marci would be preparing to meet his train at Boston.

  The Henderson slipped into her berth. Amongst the barking of orders, the anchor descended into the murky harbour with a great screeching and rattling, releasing a cloud of rust. Jimmy jerked from his reverie, suddenly hearing for the first time the hubbub around him. His shipmates were arranging their shore leave. They were making important decisions about bars, nightclubs and women, but today he had little interest in such entertainment. His friends were gathering around, exhorting him to join in the revelry.

  “Come on, Jimmy,” said his best friend, Gino Vaselli, “This is my town. I can sure show you a good time.”

  “‘Sorry, buddy, I have to catch the Boston train.”

  “When?” demanded another.

  “Oh, in about two hours,” said Jimmy.

  “Great,” said Gino “let’s go find the bar at Penn Station and give you a good send-off.”

  Jimmy spent an hour drinking beer and recalling the war with his shipmates. They departed, voicing promises of reunions and letters. The last sight he had had of his pals was as the train drew out of the station. They were headed back to the bar.

  Goondiwindi, Queensland, Australia—1946

  Patrick Michael Riordan sat in his favourite chair on the homestead veranda, cold beer in hand, and reviewed his life with a certain degree of satisfaction. It had begun in the cold New England tablelands of New South Wales, where his parents cobbled together a meagre living, his father using his bullock team and wagon to carry wool and timber and all the essential goods required by the local farmers. In 1909, as a babe in arms, he became part of the cargo, as his family moved west and north to the border town of Goondiwindi.

  Over the years, his parents worked hard as did his six siblings. They had set up a portable sawmill and milled the local timber, cypress pine; much sought after as an essential material for the expanding cattle and sheep business. Used to build accommodation for workers and homesteaders alike, Cypress was popular because it was a soft wood and therefore easy to work with hand tools, and…it had a great bonus. The voracious termites of the Australian bush would not eat it.

  By 1936, the family had amassed enough capital to purchase a tract of land, about 5,000 acres, on which to graze Merino sheep to provide fine wool for the world’s garment factories. Paddy Riordan’s father delegated him to clean up the land, install watering points, and erect buildings in order to turn the land into a profitable s
heep station. This was no easy task. He shared a tent with his one employee and began to build a small cabin. When that was completed, he started on a homestead, for he was about to be married. There followed a small workshop, stockyards, and the large ‘wool shed’ where the sheep would have their wool removed at shearing time.

  The land he worked had a thick covering of a cactus called ‘Prickly Pear’, so named for its dangerous thorns and its pear shaped leaves. Thriving in the leaf litter below the ‘Pear’ were snakes and other dangerous creatures. The worst was the Australian Death Adder, a well-camouflaged and aggressive species. Life was hard in the wake of the depression, money and materials were hard to find. However, science was about to intervene on Paddy’s behalf in the form of a small moth and its larvae, Cactoblastis cactorum. The larva of this little creature, imported from South America, began to invade and eat the cactus. In a couple of years, it destroyed most of the cactus, revealing fertile soils and grasses. The sheep prospered, and so did Paddy. By the beginning of World War II, Ballinrobe, as the station was called, was the envy of many.

  There was, however, a major disappointment. Their marriage remained childless. Paddy yearned for a son to carry on his work, and a daughter to spoil, as most fathers are wont to do. Then the war intervened and he saw his brothers leave to fight the Nazi threat. In 1943, his brother Jack, piloting a Lancaster bomber, failed to return from a mission to Dusseldorf, in the German industrial heartland. Posted as missing, believed killed, his body never found. The end of the war brought joy. First a daughter, and, a year later, a son named Jack in memory of his lost brother. Paddy could hear him now, murmuring in his cradle. He felt a flush of pride; after many years and much hard work, he had a prosperous sheep station, a complete family, and a world—at least for the time being—at peace. He smiled into the soft summer night and hugged his wife, Helen.

  “We’re bloody lucky, love,” he said, “to have all this. And now, with the little bloke, the future looks good.”

  Helen looked at her big strong husband, remembering the blood, sweat, and tears he had invested over the last ten years. “Not that lucky, Paddy, you’ve worked so hard. You deserve it all and more.”

  In his cradle, young Jack slumbered on. He had no idea his life would lead him on an incredible journey and to an unbreakable link with a family now living on the other side of the world.

  Meanwhile, not far to the north, in a small French Indochinese colony, rebel forces had commenced advancing on the French stronghold of Dien Bien Phu. Newspapers reported that the French stronghold would never fall to an undisciplined, rag-tag army of native irregulars. Australians who noted the report shrugged. What did it have to do with them? The bloody Frogs couldn’t fight anyway; surely we aren’t going to bail them out again?

  Worcester, Massachusetts, USA—1955

  Worcester Massachusetts had prospered during the war, and the Baker family was living the American dream. They now owned a neat bungalow, and Marci had proved to be a good wife, providing three beautiful children. In 1946, their daughter Susan was born. She was the image of her mother, and as Jimmy Baker looked into those beautiful brown eyes, he fell in love all over again. Sarah followed a year later and James Junior rounded out the family. Sarah was a fairer version of Susan, with Jimmy’s blue eyes. James Junior favoured his father but had those lovely brown eyes, and long dark lashes. “He’ll break a few hearts before he’s done,” Jimmy said.

  One day, just before Christmas, Jimmy received a summons to the manager’s office. He was puzzled at the summons, but reasoned that his work had been good and the manager just wanted to talk to him about production targets for next year. He was not concerned for his job, but some sixth sense, some primal instinct, was telling him this was not going to be any ordinary meeting.

  “Okay, Mr. Baker, you can go in now.” The manager’s secretary smiled sweetly.

  Jimmy had an overwhelming urge to ask her what it was all about; instead, he nodded his thanks and pushed open the door. To his surprise, a group of four men confronted him. The manager he knew, but he had not met any of the others. A large grey-haired man he did know by sight and reputation. He was Bob Phillips, President of Worcester Electronic Inc.

  “Come in, Jimmy,” said his manager. “Meet the President, Bob Phillips, Art Cohen, chief accountant, and Chris Bauer, chief design engineer.”

  Jimmy shook their proffered hands. He could not fathom why they were all there. Anxiety gnawed at his stomach. Maybe he was in trouble after all. “Coffee, Jimmy, or something stronger?” asked Bob Phillips.

  “No, thanks, I’ll be fine.” Jimmy rarely touched alcohol apart from an occasional beer.

  “Come on, son, this is a special occasion. I have some good Bourbon here.”

  “Well, maybe a small one,” he said, mainly to be polite. What in hell is going on here?

  “Let’s all sit down,” said the manager. “Bob here has some important news for us.”

  Once they were comfortable, Jimmy, clutching his untouched drink, looked at the President who had remained standing. He reminded Jimmy of his old Captain addressing the crew of the Henderson. “Gentleman,” he said, “I have some great news for you. Worcester Electronic has secured a very large contract from Defense for wireless equipment for the Air Force’s new bombers. What with the recent war in Korea and the standoff between us and our Russian friends, it seems we will be doing this for some time to come.” He paused for effect.

  “As a result, we are going into an expansion phase with a new factory now under construction for this contract. This facility will need skilled and trusted people and that is the purpose of this meeting, Jimmy. You are the best man this factory has seen in a long time. Thanks to Uncle Sam, you are a great electrician and a well-organised one at that. We want you to identify some twenty good men to staff the new factory and we want you to head up the management, reporting directly to me. Art and Chris will make sure you have the best administration people you can get. Of course, it will mean a substantial raise for you and a company car. What do you think?”

  Jimmy was dumbfounded. He knew they respected his skill, but had no idea he was under consideration for such an important job. “That sounds just swell, Mr. Phillips,” he said, “I’m sure Marci and the kids will be very happy. Just where will this new factory be?”

  Bob Phillips paused again, and then dropped his bombshell. “Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

  Ballinrobe, Goondiwindi—1955

  Young Jack Riordan was nine years old. He loved the life on Ballinrobe. There were so many things to do and he had almost free rein to do them. He was already a competent horseman and was making good progress learning to drive the old, second-hand Land Rover. He loved exploring the various buildings around the homestead. There was a large workshop filled with interesting tools and the pungent smell of engine oil. There was a large barn housing farm machinery and a high stack of hay bales. There was a small set of stables, with four horse stalls and the sweet smell of horse dung, horse sweat, saddle leather and Lucerne (Alfalfa) hay.

  However, Jack’s favorite was the ‘woolshed’. This was a large building raised about four feet above the ground so that sheep could be penned underneath during shearing time. Upstairs, the building consisted of two sections. One third contained more sheep pens to hold sheep ready for the shearers. The other two thirds contained bins for shorn wool, a huge press to compact wool into jute bales, and a storage area for the pressed bales. A huge beam of Oregon pine placed on heavy posts supported the shearing machinery that was belt driven by an asthmatic water-cooled engine.

  Shearing was a fabulous time for a young boy. The whirring of the shearing gear, the barking of the dogs penning up the sheep, the rattle of the ratchet on the wool press, the thump of a fresh bale rolling from the press and the calls of the shed hands all combined in an exciting symphony for Jack. And the smell was unique, a combination of newly shorn wool, hot sweet tea spilled on the jute bales, hot oil, and the ammonia rich sheep dung.

/>   When the shed was not in use, Jack liked to sit on one of the windowsills. From this vantage point, he could see all the way across the front paddock to a sandy ridge, where he had newly learned to shoot rabbits with an old Winchester .22 rifle. It was peaceful here. He took his favorite sheep dog with him into the shed and had long conversations with him, as children do. As an adult, he would later come here to reflect and to work out his problems.

  * * * *

  It was raining again. Dark lowering clouds raced across the sky; rain sheeted down. Paddy Riordan had never seen such rain. From the homestead veranda, he could see the watercourse rising across the paddocks. Already, it had filled his earth tanks and was rushing to its meeting with the creek, a mile or so away. The humid air wrapped itself around everyone like a shroud and the temperature—already eighty degrees Fahrenheit at nine in the morning—promised another uncomfortable day. Paddy went out in the downpour to check the creek behind the house. The stick he had planted at the high water mark was already half submerged. The waterway had risen more than a foot during the night and was still rising.

  He repositioned his marker and went back to the veranda; it was time to make some decisions. They gathered on the veranda, Paddy and Helen, the stockmen Ollie and Mick, and, listening from the fringes, the children, Denni and Jack. Their main concerns were the safety of the sheep and the situation as regards food and stores; it would be a while before they could get to town. Three flooded creeks lay across their path.

  Sheep can be contrary animals, almost suicidal at times. Wool will absorb large quantities of water and wet sheep with long wool can be so heavy they usually drown. Fortunately, Paddy’s sheep, shorn of their wool some weeks before, were in little danger from the water; Most had moved to higher ground before the rain. Now they had only to round up the stragglers. “Righto, Ollie, you and I will go for the stragglers. Mick you had better give Helen a hand to check the supply situation,” said Paddy.