Fragments and Figments: Short Stories

By John Thomas Rickert

Alfred Lord Tennyson in his poem, "Ulysses" has the aging hero say, "I am a part of all that I have met". To this the poet might have added: and of all that I have thought.

Storytellers find their stories among the broken fragments of their lives, things they have done, seen, or heard. They also find them among the scattered figments of their minds, things that they have deduced, dreamed or imagined. Their tales are crafted of these fragments and figments, with the mix varying widely. In the following stories that mix favors fact over fancy.

Three of the stories are taken from my experiences during the Korean War; two are drawn from my childhood; and one from the courtship of my grandparents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 8, 2003
• ISBN: 9781410708304

John Thomas Rickert

John Thomas Rickert, Ph.D.,Lt.Col.USAFRet. A third generation native of Houston, Texas – his maternal grandfather was mayor there during the 1890’s – he views himself in his eightieth year as soldier teacher, and farmer. As a soldier he was an Air Force pilot in three wars: WWII, Korea, and Vietnam, flying combat in the last two. His awards include, the DFC, bronze star, and 14 air medals. As a teacher he spent three years teaching Air Science at Princeton University; four years instructing limited war and counterinsurgency at the Air University; and eight years lecturing in American history and American government at Frederick Maryland’s Community College. As a farmer he raised registered Polled Herfords on his farm in Maryland. After a lifetime love of short stories, he decided to try his hand at writing them with a view to adding author to soldier, teacher, and farmer.

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© 2003 by John Thomas Rickert. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/17/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4107-0831-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4107-0832-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4107-0830-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2002096828

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Introduction

An Untidy Ending

Something Left Over

A Change Of Heart

The Courting

Conversion Is A Sometime Thing

A Ferry Tale

Those Faraway Places With Their Strange Sounding Names

God Bless Secretary Seward

About The Author

To JOSIE

INTRODUCTION

Alfred Lord Tennyson in his poem, Ulysses has the aging hero say, I am a part of all of all that I have met. To this, the poet might have added; and of all that I have thought.

Storytellers find their stories among the broken fragments of their lives, things they have done, seen, or heard. They also find them among the scattered figments of their minds, things they have deduced, dreamed, or imagined. Their tales are crafted of these fragments and figments, with the mix varying widely. In the following stories that mix favors fact over fancy.

Five of the stories derive from my experiences in three wars, WW11, Korea, and Vietnam; two come from my childhood; and one from the courtship of my grandparents.

John Thomas Rickert

AN UNTIDY ENDING

Speaking of the citizen soldier in wartime, the distinguished journalist, Vermont Royster, once wrote; For those who survive, terrible though it may be to say so, the experience is not only unforgettable but for many unmatched . . . .

Such experience includes not only the barracks and the battlefield but also the barroom and the brothel. For the citizen soldier in his newfound brotherhood, far from kirk and kin, sinning comes easier. While war disciplines him at work with harsh new rules, it loosens him at play from inhibiting old ones. Suddenly there are no Ten Commandments, only four: thou shalt not be cowardly, disloyal, disobedient, or incompetent at thy trade. Not everyone, as Royster implies, survives this harsh and heady experience; and no one, he might have added, knows who will.

During the Korean War, I was an amphibian pilot in the Thirty-ninth Air Rescue Squadron. Its main mission was to pick up fighter pilots who had bailed out over enemy waters. The squadron’s aircrews rotated every couple of weeks between Ashiya, Japan, where they were permanently assigned, and Seoul, Korea, where they flew their combat missions. The contrast between the two places was stark. At Seoul, the crewmembers lived in tents, slept on army cots, ate from mess kits, used outdoor latrines, and went without baths. In summer dust, flies, and heat plagued them; and in winter, the terrible cold numbed them, even freezing the kerosene lines to their heaters. However, worst of all, fear, like invisible germs, filled the air, poisoning everything. In contrast, at Ashiya, which had been a Japanese fighter base during World War II, the crews had all the amenities of home. In addition, Ashiya sat by the sea on Japan’s southern island. As a result, it had mild winters, pleasant summers, and a lovely white beach. Best of all, when crewmembers were there, their duties were light and their fears forgotten. Therefore, returning to Ashiya from Seoul was like going on a soldier’s holiday.

Over fifty years have gone by since that September afternoon in ’52 when I went to the flight line with my roommate, Rudy Lovejoy, to meet his new navigator. Yet the whole scene rushes back clear and sharp, the tied down aircraft, the wind swept, rain drenched tarmac, the black scudding clouds. Even more than these portents of a coming storm, I remember Rudy Lovejoy, who was not someone easily forgotten. Although small, no one thought of him that way because he stood so straight and acted so sure. More arresting still were his good looks: his chiseled features, bold blue eyes, and long dark lashes that often made women turn and stare at him the way men do at a beautiful girl.

As we watched, the wind-tossed clouds to the west suddenly there appeared an Albatross. That is what the manufacturer called the amphibian we flew, perhaps because of the old sailor’s superstition; to harm an albatross was bad luck. The aircraft crabbed down the final, bounced onto the runway, and lumbered down the taxi strip toward us. Watching it approach with its pontoons, fuel tanks, and landing gear hanging down, I marveled at how something so homely and ungainly could be so respected and liked. The men who flew it swore by it, and called it not Albatross but Dumbo, after the lovable little elephant whose flying seemed so miraculous.

Among the passengers disgorged by the plane was a captain wearing senior navigator wings. Like the aircraft, he was not much to look at, with jug ears, a broken nose, and a crab like gait. In another place, without a uniform, one might have taken him for a second rate boxer who had taken more punches than he had given. However, I knew from his reputation that, like the plane, he was respected and liked.

Lovejoy, who had been studying him closely, stepped forward and extended his hand.

Hi. I’m Rudy Lovejoy and this is John Richards. You’ve been assigned to my crew and I’m here to help you get settled in.

The truth was that Lovejoy had fought hard for him and so had I. Aircraft commanders, like baseball mangers, are always fighting for good men to fill empty or soft spots on their teams. In this case, the fighting was more fierce than usual because of the combat missions and the scarcity of seasoned navigators. Most of the ones that reached our squadron were green second lieutenants.

Francis Hanahan, the navigator replied, shaking our hands and giving us a crooked smile that disarmed Lovejoy completely. It was one of those smiles that lights up a whole room and warms everybody in it. I did not realize it at the time but that meeting touched off the closest and most fateful friendship I ever witnessed.

By the time we reached, our quarters Lovejoy and Hanahan were chatting like old friends. Turning his attention to the quarters, Lovejoy pointed out that they were once the spacious home of the base commander, first Japanese then American. After the Korean War caused the departure of wives and children, the quarters became home to the senior officers of the Thirty-ninth Air Rescue Squadron. Stepping through the front door, we entered a huge room in the center of which five Japanese girls were squatting around a coffee table sipping tea.

Ladies, Lovejoy announced, this is Captain Hanahan who will be moving in with Captain Richards and me. The five acknowledged the introduction in unison by turning away their heads, covering their mouths, and giggling.

Francis, the nine officers occupying these quarters are served by five lovely maids, the highest ratio of maid to officer on base and a statistic of great pride to us. Of course, like all good things, it has its price. You can’t lay anything down, even for a fleet second, without it being washed. Once again, the girls turned away their heads, covered their mouths, and giggled.

Later as we crossed the street to the Officers Club, Hanahan asked, How do you tell them apart?

Japanese girls, you mean? Lovejoy asked, laughing. Mark my words, everyday you’ll find them less alike and more attractive. Wait until you see the girls downtown! Tell you what; if all Japanese girls look alike to you after a month, I’ll shine your shoes for the rest of my tour. This was a safe bet since the maids did the entire shoe shining.

Speaking of tours, interjected Hanahan, all I want to do is get mine over as soon as possible, without any fraternizing with the natives, and get back home to my wife and kids. I understand that if you get one hundred combat missions before your year is up, you get to go home early.

Theoretically that’s true, Lovejoy acknowledged; but no one has gone home early in quite awhile. The war is winding down and missions are getting fewer. As I see it, to have a chance of getting one hundred missions before your year is up, you’d practically have to live in Korea. To do that you’d have to volunteer to fill any navigator vacancy there; and that would put you out of sync with your own crew. My strong advice is to relax, stick with your crew, do your job, and don’t volunteer for a damn thing! That’s the best way to get home and probably as quick a way as any.

By this time, we were seated at the bar and each of them had ordered an extra dry martini on the rocks with a twist. Before long they discovered they had many other things in common. Each came from the northeast, loved to cook, and belonged to a sports car club. Most surprising, however, was the revelation that passion had moved both their mothers in naming them. Lovejoy confessed to being named after that great lover, Rudolph Valentino, with whom his mother was secretly and madly in love at the time. Hanahan, on the other hand, revealed that his mother had not only named him after Saint Francis Xavier but had prayed to God daily to help him follow in that intrepid saint’s footsteps.

Moving from the bar to the dining room, we dined on succulent, king size filet mignon topped with mushrooms; and after dinner we emptied several snifters of brandy. In the glow of the brandy Lovejoy, like someone who had saved the best wine until the last, sat back and announced:

Now Francis we must introduce you to the Green Lantern, or the Green Latrine, as the troops fondly call it.

Despite his relaxed and mellow mood, Hanahan, like a deer hearing a twig snap, stiffened and grew alert.

What is the Green Lantern? he asked suspiciously.

Lovejoy, realizing that Hanahan was no ordinary soldier away from home looking for bright lights, strong drink, and an easy lay, answered somewhat obliquely.

The air base is very isolated. It is fifty miles of rough road to the nearest town of any size. As a result, the little town outside the base gates does its best to satisfy needs not taken care of on base. For instance, it has eight dance halls, each of which has its faithful clientele that treats it like a social club. Airmen of the Thirty-ninth ARS almost exclusively patronize the Green Lantern.

Come on now, Hanahan interrupted, you’re talking about a whorehouse, aren’t you?

Unruffled by the bluntness of the question, Lovejoy smiled and answered, "Well, not exactly. Each dance hall has a mama san and fifteen or twenty girls. The mama