Benjamin's Field: Rescue (Book One)

By James Knights

Book One of the Benjamin's Field Trilogy

The year is 1918 and the world is mired in the Great War. Benjamin Kyner, a poor farmer from rural Pennsylvania who is reeling from a father's worst nightmare, discovers his son's fiancé, Eleanor, has given birth to their disabled child and has been disowned by her parents. Amid the turmoil of war and a world ravaged by the worst epidemic since the Black Plague, Benjamin finds himself crippled by his own self-doubt as he struggles with the overwhelming implications of accepting Eleanor and his disabled grandchild. If he fails, he will lose his last remaining chance at happiness. Fighting for Eleanor are Father James Templeman, who, torn between his humanity and his Church, is struggling with a tragic secret, and Randy Bridgewater, a playboy-turned-fighter pilot, who is sinking into the depths of alcoholism as he fights his own demons of guilt. In the background is Hiram Bolt, Benjamin's gentle farm hand, descended from slaves, who strives to hold them all together in a world that has seen far too much pain and suffering.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Knights
• Release date: Aug 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463093535

James Knights

James Knights is a retired FBI Special Agent. A native of New England, one of his great-great-grandfathers served during the Civil War with Company E, 6th Massachusetts Militia Infantry, while another was a 'bluenose' sea captain from Windsor, Nova Scotia. He and his wife own a seaside cottage on Prince Edward Island, Canada. He has authored several published articles on law enforcement recruiting, including one on the valuable role of women as investigators.

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to all those who helped with the creation of this novel. To say this book would never have seen daylight without their advice and support would be an understatement. Regardless, any and all errors and omissions are mine alone.

The following graciously provided many of the technical and background details relevant to their respective areas of expertise to help make this historical novel as accurate as possible: Rabbi Aaron Benjamin Bisno, the Frances F. and David R. Levin Senior Rabbinic Pulpit, Rodef Shalom Congregation, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; Robert E. Burtt, author and brother, Harmony Lodge No. 429, Free and Accepted Masons of Pennsylvania; Bethanne Demas, R.N., Senior Regional Director of Public Relations/Communications, Shriners Hospitals for Children, Tampa, Florida; The Very Reverend Lawrence A. DiNardo, V.G., J.C.L., General Secretary/Vicar General, Diocese of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; William Green, Jr, M.D.; The Reverend Joseph R. McCaffrey, M.Div., Pastor, and Sister Annie Bremmer, Order of St. Francis, Pastoral Associate, Saints John and Paul Roman Catholic Parish, Sewickley, Pennsylvania; Dennis Mead, Vice President, The French Creek Valley Railroad Historical Society, Meadville, Pennsylvania.

Authors must have test readers, brave souls who are diligent and committed enough to subject themselves to the lengthy ordeal of reading a new original manuscript with thoroughness and objectivity and then critiquing it dispassionately to sensitive and protective authors. In the case of Benjamin’s Field, the people who placed themselves in the line of fire were: Robert E. Burtt; Mark Grosher, J.D.; Suzanne Kennedy; Dennis Kissane, J.D.; Arlene Seal, Ph.D. Kerry Neville provided editorial assistance. My wife, Dorothy, who in addition to formatting the manuscript, forgave me the many hours spent writing it.

My thanks to them all.

Forward

Jim Knights and I both are pilots, albeit with very different backgrounds. I first met Jim over a decade ago when he was a Special Agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and a (very professional) volunteer pilot with the Civil Air Patrol in Pittsburgh.

As for myself, I used a bit of my college scholarship money for flying lessons, and have been flying for 45 years. I’ve flown light aircraft to Greenland, Iceland, England, Guatemala, Alaska, and Hudson’s Bay, and was a crewmember on four U.S. Space Shuttle missions. When I was growing up, I read every aviation-related book I could get my hands on. The best of those used aviation as a way to explore what it means to be human, and to remake yourself while making the future. Benjamin’s Field holds its own with much of that literature.

The reader could be forgiven for initially believing Benjamin’s Field is about aviation, as it plays such a significant role in each of the three books of the trilogy. However, such is not the case. For while we use airplanes for travel from one place to another, in the story the author uses them to take the reader on a much different type of journey.

Benjamin’s Field is a captivating tale about the journey of life, during which we each experience success and failure, joy and pain, and (if we are lucky) forgiveness and healing.

Especially useful to young readers, but valuable to us all, are the story’s lessons about this journey: our greatest achievements are for others, not ourselves; overcoming difficulties makes us stronger; disappointments can be blessings in disguise; help can come from unexpected sources; sometimes one door must close so another can open; it’s futile to blame the universe or a higher being for pain that’s inflicted by our fellow human beings.

I recommend Benjamin’s Field for anyone who wants to step outside his or her daily routine for a while and spend some time gaining insight into the indomitable human spirit.

Jay Apt

Prologue

This is not a story about a place, though characters must have a place in which to act out their story. The particular place central to this story became what it was not by design, unless by the hand of destiny, but by chance.

It was not an airfield, or at least one would not have called it that. The place was undistinguished from both the air and ground and, even if a pilot were looking for it, the place was easy—very easy—to fly past without noticing it. No surprise, then, that while it had been there for years, most of the local inhabitants didn't know the place as an airfield. When asked by the rare traveler for directions, the reply was normally, You must be mistaken. There is no airfield here.

The place could barely be called a landing strip. In point of fact, it was actually a long stretch of rough turf that separated a farmhouse, barn and arable fields on one side from a good-sized pond on the other.

To the west, the grass strip led almost directly toward the setting sun, which often made late afternoon landings literally blinding affairs. In the opposite direction lay the Alleghenies, once called by the old flyers Hell's stretch because there was no safe place to put a machine if the engine became troublesome or simply quit, which happened more often than not. In that direction also lay the local cemetery, where, if the pilot failed to handle his machine with care, he would end up one way or another. In the early years, the sight of this sobering landmark always had the effect of making pilots more attentive to the conduct of their precarious machines.

The place was very particular about what type of visitors it would accept. It tended, if grudgingly, to accommodate small, uncomplicated machines with wheels under their tails—constructions that could absorb the bumps, knocks and skids imposed upon them as the price of admission. This was because the place constantly complained about its predicament, as though protesting having been put there against its will by an unseen hand bent on making the patch of grass acquiesce to some malevolent and mercurial will.

The runway sloped down to the east, which meant it had to slope up to the west, and at its eastern end canted, almost imperceptibly to the eye, downward to the north. Its surface wasn't flat and smooth, as one would expect, given its use. Instead, it undulated precariously as it descended eastward and rose westward. Pennsylvania shale filled the length of it, resulting in a million small yet punishing imperfections; it was like an alligator's hide. So, when a machine tried to alight there, it would touch down roughly, careening up and down; if the pilot failed to pay attention, it would slowly slide sideways toward the downhill side. When a strong wind blew across the place, it was like landing on a living, writhing thing angry at the intrusion.

In spite of these conditions, the place did, indeed, speak to those who listened. This place could cast spells. For one standing on the green runway surrounded by hills and trees with a slight wind whispering in the branches, the world outside ceased to exist. If serenity could be said to have weight, it weighed heavily here; a gentle, soothing serenity enveloping the soul like a down comforter on a cold night. So much so, it was a wonder the flying machines could lift themselves into the air. Here, time stopped and magic began; for while the asphalt roads and highways would lead land-bound machines across the surface of the earth like ants negotiating a maze, this few thousand feet of grass was a gateway—for those with the skill and the patience and the time—to anywhere and everywhere. In many ways, it was like the fabled genie’s lamp: the right person, at the right time, would get his wish.

The place exists today much as it existed then.

That place is Benjamin’s field.

The Benjamin’s Field Trilogy

Book One: Rescue

Book Two: Ascent

Book Three: Emancipation

www.jjknights.com

That men do not learn very much from the lessons of history is the most important of all the lessons of history.

Aldous Huxley

What experience and history teach is this: that people and governments never have learned anything from history, or acted on principles deduced from it.

G.W.F. Hegel

History repeats itself because no one was listening the first time.

Anonymous

Book One

Rescue

Pro parvulus;

Pro posterum

Chapter 1

The Farmer

Distant thunder rumbled. Turning to appraise the threatening sky, the farmer whispered a curse under his breath before leaning into the plow, yet again. It was only early afternoon on this April day, but the northwest sky was already dark with angry gray clouds and heavy with an eerie, preternatural foreboding. Soon the rain would come. Like a stern overseer, the approaching storm looked down upon the farmer, goading him without remorse to complete his task or accept the consequences.

His son would have been a great help, if he were here.

He missed Francis’ help around the place, but he missed Francis himself even more. The hired hand was a good worker, a colored man named Hiram who was younger than the farmer, but the farmer missed his son all the same.

A fleeting motion caught his eye. The quickening wind blew something flashing white across the fresh dark furrows to end its bouncing dance trapped by the plow. Looking down, he saw it was his own newspaper that had fallen from his overalls.

He absent-mindedly patted his rear pocket to confirm what he already knew.

Come here, you rascal. You got away from me. Bending over to retrieve it, he heard more rumbling from the west and hesitated as he looked up.

He glanced at the headline of The Pittsburgh Press for April 6, 1917. To the drumbeat of thunder, he silently read the words "U.S Now At War With Kaiser."

War news filled the front page. Reading further, the words spelled out; Two million youths will be wanted within the next two years.

The farmer thought, That many? Two years? How do they know?

Anger welled up within him.

Young men believing they’re invincible, he thought. That’s why old men don’t fight wars. They know better.

This he had learned from the bitter fruit of experience.

At the bottom of the page he read, "Submarines Near U.S is Warning." He recalled the sinking of the Lusitania by a German U-boat two years earlier.

Then, with just a few drops, the rain began, scattering dark spots across the newsprint.

The sting of the cold sprinkle caused him to wonder what it must feel like to be suddenly thrown into the cold sea by a monstrous explosion.

He was wasting time. Knowing he should hurry, he re-folded the newspaper and replaced it in his back pocket.

As he resumed his plowing, the black letters of the Press’s headline hung in the farmer’s thoughts like a specter: U.S. Now At War With Kaiser.

It was all a cause for deep concern. He’d heard talk that a draft would soon be started. If the worst did happen at least Francis had an education.

God willin’, maybe that will save him from carrying a rifle. Maybe they won’t call him at all.

Thoughts of his son going to war pulled Benjamin’s attention from the task at hand.

Suddenly, like the ill-fated Lusitania when struck by German torpedoes, the horses and plow abruptly jolted to a halt, hurling Benjamin to the cold, damp ground.

Flat on his face in a spread-eagle position, Benjamin, dazed and winded, slowly pushed himself up. Covered in his own rich, loamy earth, he commenced uttering such a vile string of invectives that both horses turned their heads toward him in unison, as though shocked at his lack of decorum.

In answer to the horses’ stares, the farmer continued his enthusiastic diatribe, shouting at the animals, "Well, what in damnation are you lookin’ at?"

He reached down to check for damage. Jesus Christ, he said as his callused hand felt the jagged edge of the broken plowshare. It had struck a small boulder, one of many expelled from the local fields every winter due to Pennsylvania’s severe freeze-thaw cycle.

He groped through the soil, his fingers becoming black and heavy with damp earth, until he found the severed fragment. He stared down at it, fuming at his own stupidity.

Thick, heavy rain now pelted his head.

From the distance, he heard, Ben! What are ya doin,’ Ben? Can’t you see it’s startin’ to rain?

Benjamin, still angry with himself, turned to look up toward the barn. A tall colored man dressed in torn overalls covering a well-worn red union suit and a floppy, ragged, wide-brimmed hat was jogging toward him.

Ben, said Hiram Bolt, stop your yellin.’ I don’t know what the heck you’re carryin’ on about this time, but we got to get out o’ the rain!

The goddamned plow is busted. It hit a damned rock.

"The plow didn’t hit a damned rock. You hit a damned rock with the plow. It ain’t the Lord’s fault you weren’t payin’ attention so stop shoutin’ at him."

Benjamin looked down at the broken plow and mumbled, Damned newspaper, damned government, damned war.

Ben, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, but we both got to get out of the rain. Let’s get the horses to the barn. You can finish your cursin’ up there, where it’s dry.

Aw, rain never hurt me before.

Maybe it ain’t, Hiram said, but that lightnin’ will sure kick your ass, especially with you standin’ out here in the middle of an open field durin’ a thunderstorm. What the hell’re you thinkin’? C’mon, let’s get these horses back to the barn or we won’t need no war to kill us.

Benjamin turned toward Hiram and, pointing his finger at him, said, I don’t pay you to scold me. He turned back toward the horses and plow.

"Hell, you don’t pay me to bury you, either, but that’s what I’m gonna be doin’ if the good Lord takes it in his mind to bring you home ridin’ a lightnin’ bolt. That’s right. Sure. He takes your soul on up through the pearly gates and leaves the rest of your raggedy ass here for me to clean up. Well, maybe the pearly gates."

With that, they led the horses to the barn.

The crippled plow was left to fend for itself in the soon-to-be-raging tumult, much like a wounded soldier in a trench.

The rain, falling on the wide backs of the over-heated horses returned to the moist air as sinuous vapors, like smoke rising from the muzzle of a gun.

Benjamin spent a good part of the next day getting the plow repaired at the blacksmith’s and, with Hiram’s help, digging the boulder out of the ground. All wasted time to Benjamin’s practical mind.

At last he was back behind the plow, squinting in the glare of the afternoon sun. Cows were grazing on the nearby shale-filled field. If he didn’t get interrupted again he could finish by sundown the next day. As he walked behind the horses and plow, careful to look for other boulders, he glimpsed Hiram on the roof of the barn replacing shingles stolen by the winter winds.

As the minutes passed, he gradually became aware of a strange distant sound. At first he paid no attention, believing it to be a passing motorcar on Fairey Hill Road. The noisy contraptions were becoming more and more common. As the odd sound grew louder, however, he thought he might be getting a visitor, so he stopped the horses and looked down the length of the dirt track leading into his farm. Seeing no Ford or other such vehicle approaching, he expanded his search to Fairey Hill Road bordering his farm to the west.

Nothing.

Turning back to the plow, he caught sight of Hiram standing at the top of the ladder propped against the edge of the barn’s roof. Hiram, motionless and staring toward the east, appeared to be transfixed on some distant point. Wondering if he’d caught his hired hand daydreaming, Benjamin shouted, Hiram! What’re ya doin’? Those shingles won’t fix themselves!

Hiram didn’t answer.

Hiram? What the hell’s wrong with you?

Without shifting his gaze, Hiram pointed the hammer eastward.

Benjamin turned to look in that direction.

Jesus Christ, he muttered as he watched with unblinking eyes. That can’t be.

A huge buzzing yellow insect was heading directly at him. Benjamin’s mind simply could not process what his eyes beheld.

The thing from Hell descended toward the cows peacefully grazing on the long strip of un-tillable land that ran parallel to Benjamin’s furrows. They bellowed in terror and surprise as they scattered in all directions tripping and slamming into one another in their panic. The thing arrested its descent and roared down the length of the field, passing over Benjamin so low that he flung himself to the ground to escape being struck and carried away by the beast.

After screaming past the prostrate farmer like a tormented demon, the thing ascended toward the sun in the west. The terrified horses whinnied and rose up on their hind legs, front legs pawing the air, then took off at a gallop. In their panic, they mindlessly dragged the plow bouncing behind them like a mother pulling her helpless child.

For the second time in as many days the farmer found himself facedown in the furrows of his own field.

Pushing himself up out of the dirt, he saw the winged creature continue to climb and then turn south, all the while buzzing like a carpenter bee. As it did so, it leaned to the inside of the turn and Benjamin thought for an instant it might actually flip over. Seeing it from this angle, recognition dawned on him. He had seen pictures of these contraptions in the newspaper, but they were just pictures. Now, there it was for real: a flying machine.

As he struggled to stand, his eyes remained riveted on it. It was difficult for him to comprehend how such a huge thing could hang in the air. Hiram slid down the ladder and came running to stand and watch by Benjamin’s side.

Ben, what in blazes is going on? Is that what I think it is? I never saw one before.

It sure looks like a flyin’ machine, Benjamin answered. I’m as surprised as you, but I’m gettin’ mighty damned mad that some fool just scattered my cows and knocked me into the dirt. Hell, you could ‘a been blown off that roof and killed.

Hiram doffed his hat and wiped his forehead with a blue and white-checkered bandana. Why is that thing buzzin’ around here?

Hiram, you know as much as I do. But if I get my hands on him, whoever is in that thing’ll wish he hadn’t come here to show off. Damned idiot.

Together, they watched as the machine flew east parallel to the field. Then suddenly, just as they began to think it would continue on and leave them in peace, the strange craft turned left again—back toward and perpendicular to the field it had just terrorized—and began to drop from the sky. As it neared the end of the field, it turned again, lowering its nose and aligning itself with the field. Just as it appeared to the two men that it would again scream over them, the tempo of the engine’s roar slowed. The machine neared the ground and leveled off a few feet above the grass. The cows, now scattered, were no longer a danger to the flying machine.

Benjamin and Hiram stared slack-jawed as the boxy kite-looking thing approached them. They could see it was leaning slightly into the northerly wind that was blowing across the field. The roar of its engine dropped to a murmur and its wheels touched the grass. It bounced along the rough field, wings wobbling, toward the two gawking spectators.

Benjamin, alternately amazed and then angry at what he was seeing, began to allow his anger to hold sway. Resentment was welling up inside him as if it had a life of its own; resentment at this intruder who surprised him; resentment at having to hurl himself to the ground like a frightened fawn; resentment at having no control over what was happening on his own land.

He could feel his hands involuntarily clench into fists and his biceps contract, lifting his arms into a boxer’s stance.

Hiram, sensing Benjamin’s coiling anger, looked down at his fists. He placed his hand on Benjamin’s shoulder and said, Ben, let’s take it easy. We don’t know what’s goin’ on here. It could be he’s in trouble.

The quivering, cloth-wrapped machine trundled to a stop a few feet from Benjamin and Hiram. The long, slowly swinging wooden propeller emitted loud clicks at longer and longer intervals as it finally swung to a stop and puffed out one last gasp of blue-white smoke from the exhaust pipes on the top of the cowling. The machine had two wings, one above the other, just like in the newspaper photographs. Under the top wing, Benjamin could see two leather-encased heads protruding from the machine’s body. One was a few feet behind the other. Both wore goggles that gave them bug-like appearances. For the second time that day, Benjamin was speechless as the bug figure in front lifted his goggles to his forehead, waved at him and with a big smile said, Hi, Pa!

Chapter 2

Remembering

Earlier that morning, long before the sun rose, Benjamin lay alone in his bed. Used to rising early, his consciousness began to stir. He could hear the dying remnants of the previous night’s fire crack, pop, and hiss as the embers heated errant pockets of moisture hidden