Symphony for the Angels

By Michael André Fath

Symphony for the Angels is a collection of four novellas, with two stories depicting pathos, courage, and resolve and the other two stories illustrating the complete opposite side of the spectrum—that of humor in the numerous guises that life continuously presents us. The diverse range of myriad characters gives each story its own identity, conceptual spirit, and philosophical purpose.

Diary of a Navy Corpsman (My Final Ten Months) is as tragic as it sounds. Its main character, Eric France, writing his (eventual) ten-month diary, tries to make sense of his own impending death while trying to validate his entire life as a WWII Navy corpsman, artist, athlete, general wild-ass, husband, and father of three boys.

Lecroix and Parsell is about two South Carolina police officers who, in spite of Murphy’s Law, seem to have enough street smarts and experience to survive their often-deadly profession all the while recognizing and appreciating the humor and unbelievable predicaments of the local people presented to them on a daily basis.

Eternally Yours, the Moon portrays a young man’s fight for survival in coping with the death of his wife. His only salvation being a cosmic trip down insanity lane—that of his soulmate’s eventual transforming into the moon.

Business Class Limousine takes a comical look into the life of two brothers, former rock-and-roll professionals, who had to come to grips with not succeeding at a high enough level in the music business to take care of their families and children. They start a limousine service and discover that the years of their beloved vocation taught them lessons not to be found in any higher education.

Lastly, this author makes no pretense of his love and appreciation for his Southern heritage and philosophy. The very nature of the human spirit found there: passion, humor, heartbreak, and revenge are all purposefully represented—it’s just our way!

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 16, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532072444

Michael André Fath

Michael Fath is an internationally acclaimed rock guitarist, composer, mandolinist, singer and producer, with hundreds of recordings to his credit. His band American Crush is signed to the European rock label Mottow Soundz, Brussels, Belgium. Their debut record, American Crush, was released July 4, 2021. American Crush II will be released in late 2023/2024. Michael’s extensive martial arts resume is reflected in several professional ventures including owning and operating The Blue Chip Academy and training American and Israeli military, police, American and British Special Forces, government agents and civilian clients in hand-to-hand combat. He is also on the motivational speaking rosters of Celebrity Speakers Associates (United Kingdom, Andorra) and Speakers, Inc. (San Diego, CA).

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Copyright © 2019 Michael André Fath.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-7243-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7245-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7244-4 (e)

iUniverse rev. date:   04/15/2019

Contents

Thanks To

Credits and Special Thanks To

Dedication

Symphony for The Angels

Symphony for The Angels

Diary of a Navy Corpsman

(My Final Ten Months)

Diary of a Navy Corpsman

Diary of a Navy Corpsman

(My Final Ten Months)

January 7

January 8

January 9

January 12

January 14

January 18

January 19

January 21

January 23

January 30

February 2

February 8

February 23

March 1

March 14

April 6

April 18

May 12

May 13

May 19

May 26

June 12

June 30

July 27

August 7

August 12

August 25

September 6

September 8

September 15

September 20

September 27

October 3

October 7

October 8

October 15

October 21

October 22

October 24

October 28

October 29

Epilogue

Lecroix and Parsell

Lecroix and Parsell

Lecroix and Parsell

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Eternally Yours, The Moon

Eternally Yours, The Moon

Eternally Yours, the Moon

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Business Class Limousine

Business Class Limousine

Business Class Limousine

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Thanks To

My daughters Jade and Sierra, their sister Paris, and Kris; Vic and mom; Rita Conestabile; Rick Davis; Jan More; Mike Waddell; Russell Anderson; Dr Keith Belote; Dr Millie Nandedkar; Dr Anne Ma; Dr Nicholas Marotta; Tammy and Stilson Greene; Cathy and Rick Donaldson; Linda Hayes; Stacy Carroll; Ginger Warder; Heidi; Jim Spruell; Cathy and Chris Neubauer; Diane and Corey Holland; Susan and Mark Mancini; Susan and Cerphe Colwell; Marla Robertson; Christina Stevens; Martha and Tom McCarthy; Susan and Chris Grimes; Karen and Doug Grimes; Dion Brown and Ray Koury; Christian Scarborough; Prescott Engle; Tom Bateman; Steve Hartman; Mitch Herndon; my cousin Georgia; Steve Cummins; Ben Myatt; Eric Dean; Kate Reese; Andrea Weiss Bryk; Jerry Curran; Patrick Thornton; Michael Meador; Janet Gilman; Tina Fortunato; Carlos Larraz; Meghan and Dan Derner; the Laurel Brigade Law Group (Leesburg, VA); Debbie and Bob Dempsey; Angela Schelp and Emily Cutliff; Carol and Cliff Dunning; Rekha Kaula; Laura Smith; Linda Ale; Robb Foster; Mike Lyle; Harlos Larrowe; Eddie Solomon (rest in peace); my students and fans; and, my many other friends and family, who are too numerous to mention.

And, most essentially, to all of you that have supported my literary adventures all these years…I am forever in your debt!

As with my previous narrative design and style, real life, its people and events, significantly inspired this collection. These four novellas were created from the humor and tragedy of life that all of us have faced. Both experiences are equally represented with two stories of laughter and two of sorrow. A few of my friends and family will clearly recognize their contributions and for them I am most gracious.

Lastly, I thank God, once again!

Credits and Special Thanks To

Stilson Greene – Graphic Design

Sierra Fath – Interior Sketches

Ed Solomon – Photography

Linda Hayes – Editing

Ginger Warder – Technical Consulting

Legal: Paice, Mougin-Boul, Smith

Dedication

These four novellas are dedicated to my dad, my brother Vic, Chris and Doug Grimes, and my Angel, all who were the collective inspiration for (hopefully) my finest work to date! May God bless you for giving me the muse for continuing.

Michael André Fath

Symphony for The Angels

Gabriel’s trumpet, heard ’round the world

Message of Saviour, birth flag now unfurled

Michael, too, with his most significant fight

Banished evil from Heaven, gave us new light

Symphonic number, four movements in play

Dedication sacred, same accolades this day

Two stories of sorrow, affirmation of belief

Another pair of laughter, most needed relief

The narrative journey and resulting thought

Purpose and meaning, optimistically caught

My words I lay bare, metaphysical hurricane

Everything to lose, yet everything to gain

So, come my friends, take excursion with me

Read and wonder, satisfy spiritual curiosity

All of us, angels, not sure, but maybe true

Novellas this conduit, my symphonic debut

Symphony for The Angels

Diary of a Navy Corpsman

(My Final Ten Months)

Diary of a Navy Corpsman

Word from above

Ten months to live

Let family know

So much to give

Childhood demanding

Now sons and wife

Survivor of war

Presented new life

Reflection normal

Going to be tough

Leaving all behind

Time left, not enough

Farewell to my blood

Three boys and best friend

I will look to heaven

Reunion…never end

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Diary of a Navy Corpsman

(My Final Ten Months)

January 7

Dear Diary,

It’s 6:30pm. Johns Hopkins Hospital, Baltimore, MD. I’m sitting up now, very gingerly. My hands are unsteady, but I can manage this. A couple of hours ago I had met with my oncologist. He gave me exactly the news I was expecting. I hate my intuition, by the way. Earlier this morning they had opened my stomach from side to side and then immediately stapled everything closed. I’ve got 33 Goddamned staples, and I mean the metal ones, stitched all the way across my body. I know, because he told me so. I must look like Frankenstein. I feel awful…sore, and extremely depressed, but not so much for me, it’s for everyone else that I am most concerned.

The doctor said that it was too advanced to operate. I had felt something for nearly a half year but just disregarded it. Always had a high pain tolerance. Maybe I should’ve paid closer attention.

He then paused, standing up, trying his best to look concerned and professional. I knew he’d done this a thousand times before.

Then he mentioned radiation, to possibly give me more time, but that chemo wasn’t an option. Said that I first needed to get my strength back.

No shit, get my strength back. Fucking doctors. I know they are sympathetic, but sometimes they can be rude, and I know it’s not intentional, but still. My oldest son, Marc, was with me when I had awakened, and he had heard the doc, had seen his mannerisms. I could tell he was shocked and sad, but also very pissed off at the callousness of this particular physician. He could see right through this guy. I could see it in his eyes.

My oldest boy’s eyes have always been very telling. He got them from his mother, by the way. He got his intuition from me, though. His truth and belief in who he is has always impressed me beyond anything I could’ve hoped for. Marcus truly has the courage of his convictions. At least I did one thing right in my life. Hell, he’s only 32. Hell, I have more fucking stitches in me.

His mother, Emily, was also here. She, too, was angry and hurt, but Em’s so much more stoic than our boy. Yankee parents, German and Dutch, and her upbringing in New York and New Jersey affected her that way, I’m almost certain. She could’ve been one of those women on the prairies, back in the 1800’s, that lost everyone in her family but would still keep going. She’s that tough.

My sons, even though they grew up in Virginia, are Southern to their very core. Don’t know where that came from. I’m from Pennsylvania, for Christ’s sake, yet they all embrace the South like there’s no other region in America. It’s like we raised them in North Carolina or Georgia or somewhere else down there. We brought them up in Northern Virginia. They have always made it clear where their loyalty lies, all three of them…well, mostly my oldest and youngest, those two have always made that patently obvious.

I’m glad Marc’s two younger brothers, Eric who is 30, and Vance who is 24, live in Switzerland and South Carolina. I don’t think I could handle all their collective grief, now…maybe later, but certainly not now. I’ve got my own to contend with. I do want to see them, though. Soon as they can figure a way to get back home.

Doc said I had two-three years, maybe more, if all goes well and we’re lucky. We all know that’s a big fat-ass lie. Pancreatic cancer is more than a 90% death sentence. I’m hopeful, but, again, my intuition is almost always dead-on. Been a blessing and a curse my entire life. Sure helped me many times in the war, though.

Did I mention earlier that I hated my intuition?

I’m spending the night here, of course, and Marcus is taking his mother home. He will need the time with her, apart from me, to sort all of this out. He’s the oldest and in charge. Has always been. Always looked after and sometimes fought for his younger brothers.

I’m so Goddamned proud of Marc.

He is coming back here tomorrow to visit, but I cannot leave for a several days, maybe even a week. They want to see if I develop any infections or whatever complications that may arise after all of this.

He will be by himself. His mother is a high school guidance counselor and needs to be at work. Marc assured her that he had the time, even though he lives 90 minutes away. I know that he needs to be here, I could see it in his clear blue eyes, and since his schedule is pretty much his own, nothing will keep him away.

I’m also very delighted that he’s become a successful guitarist. Marc has fought long and hard for this, and his belief in himself, again, makes me smile. Plus, he’s really a terrific player. I loved the band he was in with his wife, Katrina. What a singer she is, too. Wow, plus she’s so beautiful, inside and out. He got very lucky with her.

His brother, Eric, is also a very established opera baritone, and world-class, I might add. God, can he sing. He lives with his wife, who’s also an opera professional, in Basel, Switzerland. They’ve been there for a few years, both of them doing very well.

I have always painted and been into art, Emily also had musical talent, maybe that’s where the two of them got it.

My youngest is different, though, but in a very satisfying way. Vance is a South Carolina police officer, and a good one.

God blessed me with these remarkable boys. I guess I did three things right. What did I do to deserve this? It sure took its toll on Em, though. Geez, she was an only child, but has been the greatest mother imaginable. Again, thank you God. I guess that I got four things right.

The nurse just gave me another sedative. I’m going to sleep now, I’m very tired and very sore. I don’t think I can write much more tonight.

Need to start praying again. I haven’t in such a long time, but I sure did so in World War II. The war seems so long ago. It was. I loved being in the Philippines, at least in the physical splendor of the South Seas. Not the killing and the dying, though, that I’ll never forget. The salt water, the palm trees, the people, all so beautiful. Some of my buddies never made it home. I promised myself that I’d return, but I never got back there.

I gotta sleep…

January 8

Dear Diary,

It’s 8pm. When I woke up this morning, Marcus was sitting next to my bed, his hand resting on my arm. He was gazing out the window but I could tell that he’d been crying.

I had asked him, honey, how long have you been here? What’s wrong?

He doesn’t mind me calling him that. I’ve always been affectionate with my boys…well, most of the time.

He just looked at me and could not answer. He’d been there for an hour or so. I told him that everything was going to be alright, and that we could just sit here and figure it all out. There was no hurry. Made him feel a little better, I could tell.

He said that his mother would be up the next day and that he’d meet her here. We all live an hour apart in Virginia. He’s still in shock, I can see it clearly. I know this is very different from three of his grandparents dying. This is too close to home for him. In the war I saw many young men, boys really, lose their lives, so I have an idea. Marcus doesn’t have a clue and it’s not his fault. I’m glad he didn’t experience what I did. No one should have too. Still, he’s very tough and he will need to be, for his mother and two brothers, and even my own mother, who’s still very much alive. I’m glad he’s my boy.

I told him that I was still in too much pain to actually think clearly, never mind talk about anything, and to just let the next few days take its course. Then, when I felt better, we would get our plan of attack together. Then we’d confront this dreaded disease. He knows I’m a fighter, so is he. Both of us will beat this. He’s got to believe in some sort of miracle…me too, by the way.

Marc needed to get back home by the early afternoon, as he teaches a lot and had several students later. Still, he got up early and fought the traffic all the way here. I miss him already. I miss his brothers, too. Don’t know when Eric can get back to America, his opera performances are booked way in advance and nearly impossible to re-arrange, but I expect Vance will drive up from South Carolina as soon as he can.

Tomorrow morning, Emily, Marc and I will meet with yet another specialist. Not that I’m looking for any extra help, even from God, but my boys and their mother sure could use it. I know that we all will do our research and see where everything lies. I also realize that I’m too far gone for a complete recovery, but I sure would like a couple of years…maybe enough time for me to get used to dying, if one can. So everyone can get used to me dying, if that’s even possible. I truly hope so. Time enough to say goodbye to everyone. Maybe a grandchild before I leave this earth? That would be so special.

I never discussed any of my experiences in WWII with my three boys. Now, I find myself thinking of that time of my life, particularly being a Navy Corpsman. It was the best thing I could’ve done, and I knew that I was so important to all of the Marines and Navy personnel over there. I actually saved more than a few lives. You might be surprised to know that emergency appendectomies can occur right on the battle field. Apart from my wife and kids, greatest thing, ever.

My dad lied about my age and said I was 17 when he signed the papers for me to enlist. I was 16. He’s French, and it was kinda funny how Alphonse pretended that he could barely speak English (which was somewhat true, although he knew a lot more than he let on) when explaining why he was signing for me. They got so frustrated trying to translate what he was saying that they just okayed everything on the spot. He winked at me while all of this was going on. I clearly remember that. Makes me smile, again and again. And, it was wartime in America. They needed me.

I always wanted to be a doctor, so I did the next best thing. I joined The United States Navy and became a corpsman. I remember that our 14-week training course was very in-depth and intensive in the basics of medicine: anatomy, physiology, pharmacology, emergency medical techniques and trauma management, pathologies, nursing, and we had to be able to handle weapons and understand battle tactics, like everyone else. Plus, we had to be just as physically fit as any sailor or marine. It was war.

Alphonse had immediately adopted us after he married mom. Funny thing, my real father was also French, but a criminal and general low-life who had left my Hungarian mother, also named Emily, with my sister (yes, another Emily) and me when we were real young. Alphonse is the only dad I’ve ever respected and loved. Same with my boys. They adored Alphonse and called him Papa.

He was also a world class chef and taught me how to cook. My God, he could take a simple chicken and, with a little cognac, mushrooms, red wine, bacon and spices, turn it into the greatest Coq au Vin masterpiece ever, something that would exceed any French restaurant’s highest expectations. He set up the menus in several well-known venues in Miami, DC, Chicago, and even in Paris.

Plus, he was in The French Foreign Legion. That’s why he understood me wanting to enlist at such a young age. Need I say more?

My mother could cook, too. Being Hungarian, she excelled in that cuisine, and I recalled a story to Marcus earlier today that made him smile, which was so good to see.

I was 18 when I came home from the war. She and her sister Janka, they were very close, asked me what I would most like to eat, as they knew I hadn’t experienced any decent food the entire time I was over there. All I could think of was the fact that I had not had any garlic the entire time…just wasn’t important enough to be available. That was what I really missed. So I asked them to just make me a big pan of fried garlic in butter, parsley, salt and pepper, with a little paprika. That’s it. I ate an entire loaf of French bread dipped in that wonderful sauce made of three entire bunches of garlic (must’ve been at least 50 cloves), with my mom and her sister sitting there smiling and kissing me the entire time.

What made Marcus actually laugh was when I told him that I stunk to high heaven for literally three entire weeks after all of that. Not kidding. A garlic smell was pouring out of me, everywhere. My breath, my skin, even my hands and feet. Probably my hair, too. I’m just glad that I didn’t need to be anywhere or with anyone that entire time. I could tell when people passed me on the street, by their reactions, that their senses had just been violently assaulted.

Makes me smile now, and I need to. Especially for Emily, Marc, Eric and Vance. And my mother and sister. They will need to find some sort of silver lining in all of this, and not be so angry. Especially with God. I’m pissed off, but am not going to show it. I want all of them to remember me.

I hope that I can keep up with this diary, but I