Page 48 - WTP Vol. V #2

My brothers and I were too young for World War II, but nevertheless, it seemed very close to us. Our next-door neighbors in River- side, Connecticut, on Long Island Sound were British. They hosted fighter pilots the Royal Air Force sent across the ocean for a brief respite from the battle of Britain. Each time this hap- pened, my parents invited our neighbors and their guests to Sunday dinner.
Too Young for World War II
On one such Sunday, I watched one of the pilots in his gallant blue uniform, his back to me, sipping his pre-dinner martini while he gazed out the window across our peaceful lawn at sailboats sailing on Long Island Sound. Then he turned and I saw the haunted look in his eyes. He turned quickly back to the window and I, even then, only fourteen years old, was sure he had seen what I had thought. He’s going to die. And for all I know, he did.
Even when they didn’t hit anything, the landings were never smooth. We’d rush to the downed plane, pick it up gently in our hands, like a bird dogs retrieving, hoping its wounds would not prevent another flight. Often our first aid was insufficient. Back we’d go to the hangar to make repairs. But if a wing had been ripped off, or
My brothers and I were fascinated by fighter planes. Hurricanes, Spitfires, P-40’s were lean
and long, like pass receivers; the Grumman Wild- cat was short and stocky, a linebacker. We made models of them: thin strips of balsam wood, glued together with airplane glue, which made you diz- zy when you sniffed it, covered with tissue paper, which we lacquered with airplane dope to make it hard, like a real plane’s skin, powered by a rub- ber band. Dressed like soldiers in our Cub Scout uniforms, we took them to den meetings to show them off and earn credit toward our wolf badges.
Our British neighbors also served as surrogate parents to a brother and sister, our age, Oliver and Barbara Morley, from Bournemouth, Eng- land. Their parents had sent them across the ocean to escape the nightly bombing. One day, after a big snowstorm, my mother drove us to school because there was too much snow on the road to ride our bicycles. An airplane, flying low, passed over us. I don’t think I even heard it. But Barbara, sitting in the middle of the back seat, hurled herself across my lap, pushed the door open and flung herself face down into the snow.
The next day, we would take them out onto our front lawn, turn the propellers by a finger until the rubber band was wound upon itself as tight as we could turn it, and then we would hold these beautiful, deadly machines above our heads, let go the propeller, and throw them into flight. They were graceful in the air, but they almost never flew straight to where we planned they would land. They’d hit a tree, or circle back to crash
My mother skidded the car to a stop and turned to me in the backseat. In her big fur coat she looked like a bear. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “Don’t ever dare make fun of her.”
39 into the house, and fall to the ground, or fly away
I got out of the car. But why would a fourteen year old need help to stand up?
toward Long Island Sound, our English Channel, and drown.
the rudder, or, having nosedived, the front was crushed all the way back to the cockpit, or if it had crashed upside down to crush the cockpit, we would just leave it there. My oldest brother would be the one to say it: This pilot’s dead.
I laughed.
I’m sorry,” I said. I’d figured out by then why Bar- bara had leaped.
“Don’t apologize to me,” my mother said. “Apolo- gize to her. Now get out of the car and help her back in.”
stephen Davenport