The Lonesome Shepherd

By John F. Bronzo

What would you do with a second chance?

It is September 1943 when the captured German submarine, U-830, fails to return to the surface with its American crew. Thomas Shield’s father was supposed to be on board that day but was ordered away at the last minute. Riddled with survivor’s guilt, Thomas’s father returns home and devotes his time to looking after the loved ones his deceased comrades left behind. Thomas, who feels ignored by his father, begins a dark journey fueled by his sense of abandonment.

As substance abuse and psychological issues cloud Thomas’s reasoning and path forward, he immerses himself in a rather dark and tragic existence—or so he thinks. He becomes less sure of what is real and what has simply been renting space in his head, when he meets a mysterious stranger who believes in second chances. As Thomas struggles with his predicament, he returns to the past, with help from his father’s diary and others, where he learns the true meaning of sacrifice.

In this historical novel, the troubled son of a Second World War veteran suspects he has been offered a second chance to reconcile the past and heal.


“Riveting from the onset with a cliff hanger that leaves the reader begging for more, only to find an enthralling tale.” – Laura’s List: Books for Women

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Feb 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665717120

John F. Bronzo

John F. Bronzo is the award-winning author of the novels Mary Bernadette: Secrets of a Dallas Moon and Sagahawk by the Sea. Passionate about capturing the American experience in his works, John divides his time between New York and Florida and supports worthy causes with his writing.

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Copyright © 2022 John F. Bronzo.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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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.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-6657-1713-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1714-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1712-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021925848

Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/31/2022

Dedication and

Acknowledgments

I dedicate this book to my mother, Gloria R. Bronzo, who was the sounding board for my writing; to my friend Ed, who spent the last years of his life trying to progress treatments for Alzheimer’s, ALS, PTSD, concussions, and other neurological disorders; to my aunts and uncles, every one of them a member of the Greatest Generation; to my two neighborhood friends growing up, Billy and Chip; and to the officers and crew of the USS Thresher (SSN-593), who lost their lives on April 10, 1963, when their submarine sank during a deep dive test off the coast of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. I also would like to remember the brave sailors of the US Merchant Marine, who sailed defenselessly into harm’s way on ships like the India Arrow in support of the World War II war effort.

I want to thank my family: my wife, Carole; my children Sandra and her husband John J. LePino Jr.; John; Christine and her husband Andy Okonkwo; Joseph and his wife Dr. Christina Herrero; and my grandchildren John, Olivia, Daniel, Joseph, Christopher, and Star. I also want to thank my cousin Ronnie Miles for her help in researching, compiling data, and providing drafts for the diary excerpts used in relation to the character Arthur Phillips in the story. Without their help and support, this book would not have been possible. Finally, I would like to thank Sandra Powell of Archway Publishing for all her help and support, and Lynn David Newton of Neologistics Editing for his valuable and insightful editing of this book and of my first two novels.

Contents

Prologue      Port Gloria, Florida Keys (January 2012)

Chapter 1     Port Gloria, Florida Keys (1942–43)

Chapter 2     Cambridge, Massachusetts (Early to Mid 1960s)

Chapter 3     East Coast of the United States (Winter of 1942)

Chapter 4     Central Pennsylvania (Fall of 1943)

Chapter 5     Cambridge, Massachusetts (Early to Mid 1960s)

Chapter 6     Port Gloria, Florida Keys (1942–43)

Chapter 7     Brooklyn, New York (1944–46)

Chapter 8     New York City (1946)

Chapter 9     Central Pennsylvania (1946)

Chapter 10   New York (1964)

Chapter 11   New York (Late 1960s and Early 1970s)

Chapter 12   Central Pennsylvania (1950s and 1960s)

Chapter 13   Cambridge, Massachusetts (1970s to 1990s)

Chapter 14   Port Gloria, Florida Keys (2012)

Chapter 15   New York (2012–13)

Chapter 16   New York (2033–11)

Chapter 17   Port Gloria, Florida Keys (January 2012)

Chapter 18   Port Gloria, Florida Keys (January 2012)

Prologue

Port Gloria, Florida Keys (January 2012)

As I sat on a bench in the old railroad station, trying to envision what the decrepit building might have witnessed in its heyday, I heard a voice call out.

You need a taxi?

Yes.

Where to?

Port Gloria.

Don’t get too many requests to go there these days.

Is that a fact?

Afraid so. It’ll be 138 bucks up front.

Okay, I said as I reached into my pocket for my billfold. Seems like a lot, though.

Gotta cover my return trip too, you know. Not like there’s going to be anybody lookin’ for a ride back.

I suppose.

What takes you there anyway?

Just a little unfinished business.

Nobody has unfinished business in Port Gloria. Hell, nobody’s got any kinda business there as far as I reckon.

Well, I do, I said as I handed him the $138.

Six twenties, a ten, a five, and three singles. Guess it’s all here, he said as he finished counting it and shoved it into his shirt pocket.

Getting a little impatient with him, I asked: Can we please go now?

In a hurry, too, are you? he snapped back as he reached over to pick up my bag.

I stopped his hand and picked up the bag myself. Yes, I answered.

Don’t think I’ve run into anyone recently in such a hurry, as you seem to be.

Today’s your lucky day I guess.

No need to get sassy with me, fella. I could let you walk there.

I wanted to say that it probably would be faster but thought better of it and just said I was a little on edge from the long trip. That seemed to mollify him.

Where’re you comin’ from? he asked as we got into the old Ford wagon that I guessed was only a part-time taxi when it wasn’t also something else—possibly even a mobile home when things went from bad to worse.

New York.

That explains it. You all are used to being rude to one another, living on top of each other the way you do.

Have you been there? I asked.

No, but around here we don’t take too kindly to being pushed or rushed.

I’m coming to appreciate that.

Good, that’ll help you go a long way in these parts, he said as he started the wagon, put it in gear, and began to slowly drive away.

Finally—we’re moving! I told myself as I sat back and enjoyed the gentle breeze the motion of the car was now generating.

What’s in the bag?

An urn.

An urn? What do you mean?

Ashes, I have ashes in an urn to be laid to rest in Port Gloria.

You mean you got a dead person in my taxi? I’m not takin’ too kindly to that.

No, I have the person’s ashes.

Hell, that’s worse. How do you know they wanted to be all burnt up like that?

They asked me to have it done.

What do you mean?

When they were alive—before they died—they asked that I do this for them. I’m only doing what they wanted done.

You sure about that?

I’m positive.

Good, because I don’t want no trouble in that department if you know what I mean.

Deciding to have a little fun with him, I answered: I think I do. It’d be bad for business if word got out that your taxi was haunted by unhappy ghosts.

Knocking his clenched fist on the dashboard, which was not even wood, he exclaimed: Now, don’t you even go thinking anything like that, let alone saying it, not even in jest. You hear?

Having had my fun, I thought I’d let the subject drop, and simply acknowledged him with an okay.

But his curiosity just wouldn’t allow him to let it go! He had to ask: Why would anyone want to get their corpse all burnt up like that?

Why does anybody want to do anything? I don’t know; I guess it’s just a personal preference.

Would you want to do that to yourself, when your time comes?

Don’t know yet. I haven’t given it much thought to be honest with you.

Hell, if you don’t mind me sayin’, it seems you’re wandering through this life without knowin’ much about what you’re doin’ or where you’re goin’ or even how you’re goin’ to end up—I mean that’s if you ask me.

I felt like saying Who the hell asked you? but once again thought better of it and simply acknowledged that I’d never looked at it that way and maybe he was right.

Satisfied with himself and apparently deciding to end on a high note, he started to whistle softly as he drove, choosing to do so at a slightly faster pace, much to my gratification. I welcomed the respite from the inane conversation and let my mind begin to wander back to that old railroad station where I’d been sitting. The paint on the outside was worn thin and peeling. You could see bare wood in some places and different-colored layers of paint in other spots. The roof had makeshift patches on it, and several broken windows were covered with plywood or merely a piece of cardboard. Inside, the linoleum floor was worn away in sections revealing the old wood floor underneath. The lavatories were filthy and mostly not functioning. Yet, the ceiling was made of pressed tin, there was marble on the countertops of the ticket windows, and fancy lamps hung from the ceiling. If only I could know the stories those walls might tell from an era before they were abandoned and filled with meaningless graffiti—a time before air travel when trains were still the way to go.

In my imagination, I began to remodel and restore the shabby facility to its original grandeur, and before long my mind’s eye could see majestic old steam engines and then later proud diesels pulling in and disgorging beautifully dressed dignitaries and celebrities from their ornately painted Pullman cars. I could almost feel the hustle and bustle, the excitement and confusion in the air as passengers and their luggage were moved about by porters in crisp uniforms and the accompanying noise of the many conversations echoed off the high walls and ceiling. Yes, once long ago it must’ve been something special. Then, the breeze and the motion of the car caused me to nod off … nod off to sleep.

I don’t think I’d been sleeping for long before I was awakened. I snapped to, jostled by the bumps as we turned on to an old, poorly kept dirt road. Seeing this, the driver turned to say that we’d be arriving shortly. My journey at long last was coming to an end.

That there is the only cemetery that I know of, he said as he pointed at an overgrown patch of weathered and crumbled gravestones surrounded by a stone wall and iron fence—or what currently was left of it. It stood next to an old, abandoned structure that now was roofless, but still a masonry skeleton of its former self, a church of some kind, judging from its shape. In the distance, the sound of the water could be heard, carried by the breeze that was blowing ashore. A few trees were growing where the pews and main aisle once must have been. Walking inside, as the driver waited by his car, I could make out the remains of the altar under a tangled web of vines.

Wow, this is pretty far gone, isn’t it?

I tried to warn you.

That you did!

Do you have a shovel?

Don’t need one. My instructions are to scatter the ashes into the water, presumably down there by the shore, and then I’d like to take a few minutes to say a prayer before I head back.

Head back?

Yes, I was hoping you could wait and drive me back.

You never said nothin’ about that.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to find when I got here.

You already paid for a round trip, I should charge you another ten bucks for my waiting, but I won’t because of what you’re here for.

That’s very kind of you.

If the truth be known, I feel I owe it to the ashes guy. Was it a guy?

He was a guy; he was my father.

I’m sorry for your loss. If you’d like, I’ll come say a prayer with you.

He turned off the car, leaving the keys in the ignition, and walked silently with me as we made our way through the overgrown remnants of what once was the proud hamlet of Port Gloria. Arriving at the shore, we did what I’d come to do, said our prayers, and walked back to the waiting taxi. With my labor of love now finished, I got in, as did the driver, who started the car and began to drive away. As he did, I took one last backward glance, a farewell gesture, to remember my father, who would not be returning with me.

As we made our way back along the bumpy road, the driver asked: You mind talkin’ to me about your dad and tellin’ me a little something about his life?

To be honest with you, I’m not really in the mood to talk about it right now. I appreciate that you are trying to make me feel better by making conversation with me, but I think I’d rather just keep to my own thoughts for the moment— that is, if you don’t mind?

I don’t mind, but I’m not askin’ because I want to make conversation. I’d like to know about your dad.

Why?

I’m curious about how he lived his life and why he wanted to be buried here, or I guess have his ashes spread on the water here.

It’s a long story.

We’ve got a long ride back to the station, and a longer wait once we get there before the next northbound train is a-comin’ through. Life is slow here. I’ve been tryin’ to tell you that since we met. Time is one thing I’ve got plenty of. And you do, too, at least until that train arrives.

Okay, maybe it’d do me some good to talk about it. Promise me you’ll let me know if you get tired of listening.

You got it.

I guess the best place to begin is at the beginning; the start of the War—for America, that is.

One

Port Gloria, Florida Keys (1942–43)

On Sunday afternoon, December 7, 1941, my father, Bob Shields, was on his way to the Crestwood railroad station to pick up his friend and Fordham classmate, John Carr. It was then that the awful news that Pearl Harbor had been bombed by the Japanese came over the radio. Shocked, he couldn’t believe his ears and wondered if life as he knew it was about to change. Indeed, it was.

Within weeks of graduating from college, he received his draft notice. Deciding instead to enlist in the navy, he completed basic training, was given his orders, and eventually ended up on a destroyer. Ordered to meet his new ship at Port Gloria, he hopped a train for the long journey south. It was October of 1942 when he boarded the ship here in Port Gloria. She was new and crisp, had just completed her sea trials, and she was named the James L. Barlow.

On a Saturday leave, when most of his shipmates chose to go to the local saloons or tattoo parlors, Dad chose to visit the nearby library. It was there that he met Ann Peck, his future wife and my mother. My name is Tom, the younger of their two offspring, and my older sister is named Betsy.

So, you’re not named after your dad? asked the taxi driver.

His middle name was Thomas, I responded.

Dad set sail in the weeks that followed, and after passing through the Canal, spent most of the next six months chasing Japanese subs around the Pacific. I don’t know if they ever actually sank any, but they certainly did their part to create a fuss. The diary I found in his belongings told me so.

In time, the Barlow was ordered back to her home port, and Dad was reunited with Mom. When Dad was transferred to a desk job shortly thereafter, he and Mom made the most of this beautiful tropical oasis they knew as Port Gloria. I understand it was a makeshift town here in the Florida Keys, little more than a desolate fishing hamlet—that is, until the navy moved in and made it home. Out of the way and off most everyone’s radar, it was a perfect location for the navy to engage in irregular warfare training and exercises. It was during one such training program that Dad was reunited with another one of his former Fordham classmates, Ralph Angelson, an Army Air Corps meteorologist and language expert. Apparently, both were also in the service of the newly created OSS, the precursor to the CIA, and had been recruited for their roles by none other than Colonel Wild Bill Donovan himself.

On August 3, 1943, a German U-boat, U-830 under the command of Captain Günther Hengst surfaced off the coast of Florida after experiencing problems with its ventilation system. As it did, the sub was spotted by a US Navy anti-submarine patrol plane piloted by Lieutenant Richard Sheldon. Immediately, Captain Hengst ordered a crash dive, but it was too late. Lieutenant Sheldon dropped three depth charges, one of which did extensive damage to the U-830 and rendered many of the submarine’s critical systems inoperable, including the problematic ventilation system.

Captain Hengst was well-regarded and had extensive experience with surface vessels. However, this was his first U-boat command, and he had assumed the role only eight months earlier, his job made tougher by having to command an inexperienced crew. Fearing the release of deadly chlorine gas, he resurfaced and ordered some of the crew on deck to man the deck gun while he ordered other members of the crew to destroy his codebooks and Enigma machines and to booby-trap the boat. However, Lieutenant Sheldon, having already radioed the nearby Barlow, which was approaching at full speed and quickly closing the distance between itself and the sub, strafed the U-boat with the plane’s machine guns.

Captain Hengst found himself in a difficult position. His U-boat was nearly dead in the water and being tossed about by heavy winds and waves like a rag doll. This in turn was making the deck guns of minimal value in firing at Lieutenant Sheldon’s plane above and at the fast-approaching Barlow. So close was the destroyer that he no longer could see her superstructure, only her looming bow growing larger and more menacing. Fearing that she was going to ram them, he quickly realized the futility of continuing to fight and ordered the crew to surrender.

When a boarding party from the Barlow came aboard to secure the U-boat, they were amazed to find that the German crew’s efforts to destroy the codebooks and Enigma machines had been only marginally effective and that their efforts at booby-trapping the sub had not been much better. Part of the reason was that every cubic inch of the vessel appeared to have been used to store supplies, whether for canned and preserved foods shoved into the deep crevices of the boat or the moldy fresher food that was up front and in easier reach for use first. The sub’s fuel bunkers were filled with diesel fuel, which was generating odors and fumes of their own, and possibly also combustible gases. Adding to the stench of the diesel fuel were the rancid smells of body odor, human waste, rotting food, and garbage. Only a few toilets were still functional. Most were broken and being used for alternate purposes. The air hung stale, even worse than what the inexperienced crew had come to expect because the poorly designed air filtration system had been damaged and wasn’t functioning. Given the crew’s lack of experience and acute seasickness, it was little wonder that panic set in and clouded their judgment.

In the end, Germany’s loss was America’s gain, for U-830 was a long-distance Type IX and would provide a wealth of information for its captors. Once the sub had been secured by the Barlow’s boarding party and the damaged codebooks and Enigma machines had been carefully removed, U-830 was towed into Port Gloria by the Barlow and beached to prevent it from sinking. Thereafter, it was repaired and refloated, showing no sign that chlorine gas had been released.

Captain Hengst was left to live with the haunting thought that a more experienced commander and crew might have been able to escape and live to fight another day. The release of deadly chlorine gas had not been an issue, and the ventilation system was easily repaired. A complex man, he struggled with that regret and with his situation. On the one hand, he was proud of his country’s achievements. Limited by the victorious Allies in WWI in the number of surface warships they could have, the Germans had built a U-boat fleet that was now their nemeses’ biggest fear. From the ashes of that war, his people had built a military and industrial power that was a force to be reckoned with, and he was indeed proud of this. However, he wasn’t sure why Germany needed to try and dominate the world. He was a true and loyal German through and through, but like many of his countrymen, he struggled with the idea of being a Nazi. He had no love for the Jews or any of the other groups being singled out by the Nazis, but he had no hatred for them either, and he certainly didn’t think they