Gunner's Island

By RR Holzhauer

Gunner’s Island is a post-war novel that will engage dog lovers, military veterans, history enthusiasts, and undoubtedly anyone who is all three. Set in the small town on a tiny Canadian maritime island, the story unfolds with the return of World War II pilot Linus, following a plane crash that left him irrevocably altered. Linus is grappling with PTSD and acclimation back into civilian life, when he is mysteriously befriended by Gunner, a full grown and affable Newfoundland dog.

With a wide array of detailed characters and scenes that jump between flashbacks and present life, Gunner’s Island is both a drama and comedy. It is earnest yet jocular, weighty yet wholesome, and meant to set sail the reader into the story as effortlessly as its northern ocean waves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jun 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035806614

RR Holzhauer

Ralph Holzhauer is a retired high-school math teacher and life-long dog-lover, residing in a small town along Lake Champlain in upstate New York. When not writing, he enjoys training his Newfoundland dog for multiple canine rescue certifications and dog shows, travelling with his wife, and spending time with his four children and many grandchildren. Gunner’s Island is his first novel.

Book preview

About the Author

Ralph Holzhauer is a retired high-school math teacher and life-long dog-lover, residing in a small town along Lake Champlain in upstate New York. When not writing, he enjoys training his Newfoundland dog for multiple canine rescue certifications and dog shows, travelling with his wife, and spending time with his four children and many grandchildren. Gunner’s Island is his first novel.

Dedication

I dedicate this first novel to Mary Rose Casey, who has always been my biggest fan.

Copyright Information ©

RR Holzhauer 2023

The right of RR Holzhauer to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035806591 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035806614 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781035806607 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgements

My wife, Anne Marie Holzhauer, for her steadfast support and never-ending encouragement. Frances Ness, for her detailed critique and editing assistance. Rebecca Lyons, for her creative illustrations and vision of Gunner’s Island. The Lake Landseer Newfoundland Water Rescue Training group.

Chapter 1

The lighthouse scanned the water north of Miscou Island. The view out into the Gulf of St Lawrence glistened with just a ripple, rare for any time of year, especially for a late Christmas Eve evening.

Linus swirled his drink. It was his third. Looking down he could make out the liquid circle, the middle of the tumbler. An oil lamp allowed him to measure his surroundings. Six years had passed since his return that day. White-washed ceiling and walls held him like a goose-down comforter. Exposed hemlock beams barely passed over his head when he straightened, cocked his head and swigged down the rest of his scotch whiskey.

Gingerly, the young war veteran stepped around remnants of one hundred and fifty years of life in the lighthouse cottage. Fishing nets in a corner, trunks against the far wall, a plank table in the centre of the room gave him pause. Linus left his cane propped up adjacent to the chair. A tripod with a spring-loaded clamp punctuated a supply of minute paint brushes. Posing next to the easel was a wooden box with two leather clasps and a black handle.

A slight smile changed the line of his lips briefly. He almost reached for a brush but hesitated and continued in the dimly lit workroom. His destination, covered with a four barred Hudson Bay blanket, had a tinge to its normal deep red hue. Linus nestled below the thick wool while arranging a pillow whose softness brought a rush of childhood security back.

I’m home, thank God, I’m home, he thought.

The cottage sat next to a light-tower well elevated above the point. From his bunk, Linus as a child would fall asleep with a view through a bay window opposite him now. He’d lacked this reassurance; he’d longed for it. The oil lamp flickered at its lowest setting and would go out soon. The young officer panned over more of his surroundings. Almost everything, his grandfather had kept in its place.

Woodworking tools attracted his attention across to the far wall. Antiques by any measure, Linus mused, they should be considered works of art themselves. He also imagined his father using them. A casualty of the Great War, Colum Gordon visually existed through his military portrait.

With kind eyes and a gentle smile, Linus’ father always stood in his 1st lieutenant uniform, never to hold his infant son. A victim of German machine guns, the Canadian officer found his final resting place with his Scottish platoon in a countryside cemetery east of the Argonne Forest. His men loved him, of this Linus was sure.

The adult beverage finally began its anticipated effect. The RAF pilot’s eyes glazed, but the young adult stalled the pressure of sleep a bit longer. Colour drew his eyes back to the window. Though the edge and corner panes were frosted, the dozen in the centre provided a clear panorama from the cottage to the North Atlantic horizon.

The spectacle sobered Linus to raise his head. Lights, shimmering and skating, illuminated the sky. There were no straight lines but folds of lime green and lavender that reached from the distant mirrored ocean into the eternity of midnight above. The beams ruffled as chiffon curtains do in a summer window. Frosted edges of the window had a rainbow tint to them.

Was it a projection in his room? The night clearly held its own from behind the translucent colour. Even stars dulled but visibly maintained their location. Could it be God’s painting? Silence but moving, that is something God would portray. Where was God when I needed him? If Christmas Eve 1946 projected this ocean grandeur, why not something simple on the Eve in 1944?

These questions Linus anguished over finally only to blink and shake his head clear. God could have, he should have— the thought trailed away from the RAF pilot.

But, again, it haunted him, his dreamlike state ebbing.

Wait, what had crept into his mind? A college professor’s voice stated vaguely in a lecturing voice, The Aurora Borealis, though uncommon in New Brunswick, occurred often enough to not cause scientific consternation.

Yes, the ocean shone in a way Linus did not remember and the northern lights never appeared like this.

Somewhere, someone else argued, But they do happen!

A different sounding voice announced, Aye, if it be painting God practices this night, it be watercolour. Linus smiled and faded away to sleep. His Gunner was always right.

Chapter 2

Sputter, pop! Sputter pop! Sputter, whoosh! Smoke then dust flew up and around the front of his fighter-bomber. The Bristol Hercules engine ignited fourteen cylinders and bumped the single-wing WWII plane down the dirt runway. Linus increased his speed and prepared to pull back on the stick. A two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bomb placed under each wing strained the flying tin can’s courage. The two-seater only had a max speed of two hundred and twenty-three miles per hour proving no match for German fighters even with a rear gunner.

As a result, only one hundred thirty-six were built for the Norwegian campaign. Barely a handful still existed by the time Linus inherited his in 1942. Originally designed to be attached to carrier duty, the Blackburn B-25 Roc did participate heroically in the rescue at Dunkirk. Linus’ craft barely managed to survive where most did not, including its first crew.

Air pushed below the B-25 Roc’s wing and off the two-seater rose. The clumsy metal left the airfield, scratched from farm fields north of Inverness. Linus banked east along the shore road for a bit. Seascapes reminded him of home and if air direction allowed, he would tact all the way to Lossiemouth before veering out to the North Sea. Lights flickered from the stone farmhouses and byres below, always since their patrol times were dawn or dusk. Warmth from the straw-filled stalls and low lantern light reached up to him.

Many evenings had been spent listening to tales of native people who lived on the shores of New Brunswick, in such buildings, afraid to venture out to Miscou Island. A few did, they did not always return. Mesmerised he had been as his grandfather told his yarns.

Aye, laddie, not until Jacques Cartier, the French explorer landed on this very point did people feel safe enough to homestead here about, regaled his gran-pa.

Linus would absorb all the tales. This very byre stood on the actual landing spot for the age of discovery sea captain and these very cut stones were constructed into this ageless structure, he had been told repeatedly.

Even as a teenager, he still loved the embellished history lessons while several alpine goats exchanged milk for some molasses and grain. Chickens scratched up the same, scattered on the straw-strewn stone floor not as interested in Gran-pa’s stories as the goats. Evidently, local history escaped their agendas.

Abruptly the young pilot was pulled back. Laddie! Seen enough? Reid Campbell, Linus’ gunner/bombardier prodded.

In a short time, the Scotsman had become the young pilot’s best friend and someone he could trust. Supposedly college educated aces frowned on enlisted men ‘palling’ around with officers. No one had befriended the young Maritimer since he had left his island several years hence. Socially rejected at a Saint John’s preparatory school and in the engineering department of Manhattan College in distant New York City, Linus did not fit.

As a curiosity, his Bronx college mates exchanged pleasantries but never quite included him in their escapades. The bourgeoisie of Saint John could not lower themselves to acknowledge a maritime islander let alone be receptive.

To be fair, Linus concentrated far too much on studies and the constant ‘part-time work’ for campus kitchens and groundkeepers. At least that’s how the RAF pilot now rationalised his respectful but aloof treatment. He applied the same treatment to his new acquaintances.

Aye, young stout, no doubt you long for the farmer life. Hah, love to shovel that shiit, do ’ya now? Linus visualised the broad smile across his Scottish mate’s face, even though they rode back-to-back in their two-seater.

Gunner, you stepped in so much at MacNaughton’s it made you six inches taller.

The airmen often helped local farmers, especially during hay season. The RAF felt it kept the flyers in good condition if the planes were down. The men thought the command just wanted to keep their minds off the hazard of their real service.

Oaff Laddie, three inches taller and my own ‘willie’ would be hangin’ below me kilt. Reid enjoyed expressions that would rouse the rather proper Canadian.

Linus wondered about the mathematics of his gunner’s retort.

Check your turret, you crazy bagpipe player!

Reid rotated his half-sphere glass canopy right then left. One bolt then the second bounced back and readjusted on his two of the four .303 Browning machine guns, also part of his routine. Their Blackburn also had one gun under each wing controlled by the pilot. An impressive arsenal when you include the two two-hundred-and-fifty-pound bombs but no match for a German Messerschmitt.

Reid took pride in his work and a dead seriousness about his mission. Relegated to patrolling the seas about Northern Great Britain, especially Scotland, the B-25 Roc had been demoted of sorts by air command. His pilot, however, demanded they carry their intended bombs. The U-boats had met their demise as a result.

The Seawolves often came to periscope depth in the twilight hours and his young Canadian friend could spot irregularities in the sea with an uncanniness that would make you believe in the wood fairies his gran-pa had detailed to him as a child. Two ceremonies with accommodations had come their way as a reward.

Reid was an immediate local hero thanks to the Inverness press corps, while Linus refrained from the attention. Killing so many struck him very hard. Still, they never had to pay for a drink again. For Reid that meant limitless tumblers of Glenfiddich, The fifteen-year malt, please. Linus, however, nursed a heavy black stout. No one chided him for his relative sobriety while maintaining an appropriate distance from the bar once the singing began.

Linus had banked to the left as Reid had gone through his routine. Now heading due north of the highland coast, he allowed his mind to wander back to a recent visit to Reid’s family home. A two-day furlough and train tickets had prompted the pair to take a short trip to St Andrew’s. The small city, famous for its ancient golf course was known for a large assemblage of the clan Campbell.

Upon their arrival, Linus received a greeting beyond his comprehension. Hugs and kisses rained down from Reid’s aunts and sisters as well as handshakes and back-slaps from uncles and brothers. Their chaotic endorsement surrounded the comrades as they moved into the parlour of the stone rowhouse. Reid’s great uncle pointed out the massive cut stone beneath the front door-jam as quarried in the 11th century, almost immediately upon entry to Linus.

Although the startled pilot did not know quite how to respond, the crowd grew silent then simultaneously exploded in laughter and pride in their clan’s historic residence. The party only escalated from there. Linus even allowed some scotch into his hand abet pushed there. When no one noticed, Reid would snatch the glass, with a wink and gulp it down. The tumbler somehow finding its way to his friend’s hand.

After many hours, Linus managed to melt away and find a corner bedroom upstairs that contained his kit. He authorised himself to listen to the zeal and delight from below. Glee emanated up the narrow staircase. He felt the rapture. Never had he experienced such inclusion, though there existed no regret for growing up on Miscou Island. He had to return. It was his place, it breathed life into him. During his life the islanders had tried to protect him, this Linus knew.

Reid’s mother had greeted him like her own son. It had been fifteen years since he had such a welcome, that which only a mother can give. He longed for the cottage on lighthouse point.

Linus shook his head, his focus restored. Reid had not even noticed. Something had jarred his idyllic vision. To the north, darkness did not only reign. A miniature Aurora Borealis had assumed control over a corner of the sky. Another detail from Scotland that reminded him of home. Half of Miscou’s residents of Scottish heritage may have biased Linus’ placement as well. It was the battle of Culloden, his grandfather, Hamish had always claimed. A request to RAF command for highland duty, a less than supposed glorified mission, accepted.

Command needed a loner, the inferior plane a given, no one mentioned but pilots understood. Linus never looked at it that way but he was well aware of what the other RAF pilots thought. He knew that aristocratic aroma. It prevailed in the library and smoking room of the estate the flyboys had for a residence. Linus avoided the place, moving his kit to a bunk next to his gunner in the estate’s stone horse barn. The move to the enlisted man’s barrack became permanent after a week.

The air is better, Linus told the commanding officer and nothing more was said.

He’s that loner Canadian from some tiny island near New Brunswick, let him be, they rationed.

Aye, laddie, jarred Linus back to task, the ‘Mirrie Dancers’, Reid said through his mouthpiece.

Yes, I see them. We have them at home once in a while. They’ve just started, Linus observed.

The lasses, Linus, we be needin’ to find ye one so you don’t have all this time for studin’ such things. Aren’t there any women folk where you reside?

There are a few, the pilot replied.

Counting the bonnie Campbell cousins would be an onerous task to be sure, Laddie. Our next trip I’ll introduce you to a few of the finer in the bevy. St Andrews has the Old Course you know, perhaps you can find some on the back nine. Reid giggled.

Don’t start! scolded Linus while smiling and shaking his head.

Pssh! Pssh! Solo come in, solo 11 come in!

Read you, Inverness, replied Linus.

Massive incoming, Lufwaffe to your southeast. Manchester seems to be the target. Be on the lookout for U-Boat support. Out. Forwarded