Into The Blue: The Sweet Water Tales, #2

By Jack Carnegie

The sleepy little town of Sweet Water, Alabama, provides the backdrop to this tale of adventure. Lincoln Beck's avid enthusiasm for his childhood comics of space exploration fuels and guides his dream of becoming an astronaut. Supported by his best friend, Rose, he embarks upon a path to try and fulfil his vision. From the idyllic summers of their youth, together, they commence a journey that will lead them into lifelong bonds with a dopey looking wandering Bassett hound, encountered one summer, and a squad of young hopefuls from the United States Air Force basic military training 'class of 58'. The journey is not without some rocky roads but true friendship and love light their path as Lincoln strives to accomplish the requirements needed to be considered for the Apollo space programme.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Carnegie
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201008772

Jack Carnegie

Jack Carnegie has a passion for writing that began at an early age. After a childhood brought up on the streets of Liverpool where everyone has a tale to tell, it was inevitable that his upbringing would come out in one form or another. As a young lad, he and a number of friends ventured into music, forming the bands, ‘Tested and Approved’ and ‘Gripweed’, the latter named after John Lennon’s character in the film ‘How I Won the War’. They wrote their own songs and Jack found writing lyrics came easy, although as a musician he knew he had a long way to go but it was the writing he was good at and enjoyed the most. Sadly, the world was denied the joys of Tested and Approved and Gripweed and like many aspiring bands they went their own ways, open to life catching up with them in the form of families, mortgages and 9 to 5s. But Jack never lost the love of writing and harboured an ambition for many years before summoning up the courage to write a novel. It was whilst working as a taxi driver that he wrote his first book, ‘The Blink of an Eye’.Whilst waiting for fares on various taxi ranks or taking a break in a cafe, he scribbled the notes that he would later convert to the story of the George family and their journey from sleepy town Sweet Water, Alabama, into the nuclear age. A city break in Krakow, Poland, provided the impetus for his second book, ‘The Auschwitz Protocol’ when a visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau focused his mind on the enormity of what happened there. This was followed by a sequel, ‘The Architect’ about the continuing hunt for Nazis who had escaped justice.To date, Jack has added to these novels with two more books about the inhabitants of Sweet Water, ‘Into the Blue’, the story of a young man’s journey to fulfil a dream to become an astronaut and ‘The Way Home’ which returns us to the welcoming arms of the George family as we follow them through the trials and tribulations of the Vietnam War days. Jack lives in Liverpool with his partner Carol. Dan Wheatcroft March 2022

Book preview

Chapter 1

Early years

As a child I’d read with wonder the amazing tales being told in science fiction magazines such as 'Astounding Science'. They fired a young boy's imagination. I was an avid reader, transfixed by the skill of the writers who dreamt the stories up. We had comic books which I’d spend my pocket money on, superheroes with super powers from planets far away in space. I'd collect and read ‘Amazing Stories,’ ‘Space Patrol’ and ‘Rocky Jones the Space Ranger.’ making sure not to crease the pages then, when finished, I'd carefully place them into an order of collection and issue number, storing them tidily on a shelf in my bedroom closet.

I wasn’t aware I was different to the other children but I guess my interests were, at that early age they mainly consisted of space and flight; I was just fascinated by them. It was the dawn of the science fiction era which had coincided with the space race which I thought at the time was pretty damn cool. Sightings of 'flying saucers' were commonplace across Alabama and abduction stories would follow, they were all over the newspapers at the time, I for one was hooked and read them avidly. 

I was from the Beck family whose history, I’d always thought, stretched back into the mists of time, the reality was a couple of hundred years. My father called me Lincoln and whilst my friends called me 'Link', my father always insisted on my full title and would scold them if he as much as heard them whisper that friendly abbreviation of my name. 

My mother wasn’t so strict, she’d ignore the boys and would herself call me ‘Link’ when my father wasn’t within earshot.

He wasn’t a hard father, he was fair and honest. I guess in his own way, he was trying to instil a sense of self respect in me he’d not been given by his own folks. He’d had a pretty tough time as a boy. His father, my grandpa, was an alcoholic and abuser of women, my grandma took the brunt of his drunken rages but grandpa had stopped socking my father as he’d grown, afraid of the boy becoming a man. I didn’t much like my grandfather when I was young but my family stuck together as a unit and they looked after him, his past misdemeanours forgiven as age betrayed his health. He became a frail old man whose life had been blighted by war; the scars and torments he’d endured in World War One had manifested in alcoholism and fist fighting. Some folk just run that way I guess. Without having the experiences of war himself, my father didn’t pass judgement, he didn’t like how his father had become nor the whooping he gave my grandma but it was in the past and a gentler older man now sat at the table giving grace at nights. Within his words I guess he felt shame for his past and carried the guilt, trying his best to be a better man. Grandpa John was a strong influence in our home. He took no bullshit from folk, which I guess was one of his better traits. He’d defend the family with his life but there was always an underlying fear that was a big part of our household, a fear of the man he’d once been.

It was a strange childhood which moulded me into the person I became, a self-contained and quiet boy who took joy from the small things in life, like laying in a meadow staring up into the sky above, dreaming of space and flight, watching the clouds changing in form and using my imagination to break them into characters and shapes. I enjoyed those quiet tranquil moments most of all. I found a friend in Rose to share that calmness with. She was a local girl from Sweet Water, who had a spirit about her that was different to anyone else I knew, we'd gotten to know each other over time because she lived in the farm opposite our own and we became real good friends. We’d go for long bike rides in the summers of our childhood, the time between school terms seemed almost endless and we filled every moment with simple joys. We’d often ride out to Hoboken and take a dip in the creek off Nicholsville Road, sometimes we’d get invited over to old Tom Cartwright’s swimming pool. He’d seen us play over the years in the creek, one day he invited us on over for a cola and a dip in the pool. He was a nice old guy who’d lost his only son to the war, I guess we gave him a few nice memories as he watched over us.

There was always a sadness when we had to make our way on home. We promised Tom we'd come back and see him soon, he was a lonely guy who just needed to talk to somebody, we both knew that. Each summer we took our trip out to old Tom's and enjoyed his company, then one year he wasn’t there. We walked up the road to the next farm to see his neighbour Eliza who told us that he’d died in the winter of 51; influenza had taken a hold of him and he’d passed away peacefully in his own bed. She told us he’d reached the grand old age of 86 which took Rose and I by surprise, he’d seemed a lot younger, I think his spirit was. We’d miss old Tom, his generosity and kindness would be remembered long after his passing. We took no shame in passing a tear or two; his friendship had been an annual pilgrimage to us both. We used to go biking with excitement at the thought of the day ahead with him, his loss would be difficult to replace, maybe you just don't do that we thought, so we'd talk of him often with great fondness.

Rose had turned thirteen which was a big occasion in Sweet Water, she was officially a teenager, a so called coming of age event. I myself had a few months left before I’d hit that landmark. Rose wasn’t that excited by it all, she had seven brothers and sisters, so had been left to her own devices mostly, like myself in the main. Her parents worked long hours to put food on the table and had little to no time for themselves let alone a teenage girl. I guess that’s why we became good friends, her age, being the youngest and all. Her brothers and sisters didn’t pay her much attention, I think because of that we became the best of pals. 

That summer, we came across a Bassett hound called William, we found him on the high street in Sweet Water with a tag round his neck that simply read: 'My name is William. I’m a free spirit. Feed me and let me roam.' 

He had a dopey looking face about him but in a nice friendly kind of way, you couldn’t help but like William, he didn’t so much as grow on you, you kinda instantly liked him. His owners must have realised he was a wandering spirit and given him the dog tag to ensure his welfare, so we spent the day with him as he followed our every move. We guessed he had friends all over Alabama, in every town he passed through but it was Rose and I who had the pleasure of his company on that specific day; a joyous adventure spent wandering around in the Alabama sunshine, with our new little friend. We allowed William to go about his ways that first year, not knowing when, or even if, we’d ever see him again. He made his own decision to leave that day, with a glance back at us both, as if to say his cheery farewells and off he went to find his next meal and friend to spend another day with. His life was one I wouldn’t have minded living myself, off he went into the unknown, going from town to town meeting friends who’d feed and play with him, he had it all worked out that little dog.

I was given a kite for my twelfth birthday. I was a little awkward with it at first but given time I became an adept kite flyer. I got to grips with the basic maneuvers and learned to launch it with ease; it took a while but I got there, I wasn't a quitter. I pulled quick turns and snap stalls, I could make full loops and combinations, I’d go on to master push turns, a trick I learnt by accident. Mostly we both just enjoyed watching that kite flying high in the sky, almost touching the clouds, it seemed. I guess my fascination of flight was nurtured in those early years with that red and white kite, we enjoyed many a fine sunny day, taking turns flying that small first venture into the sky. 

As children, Rose and I had a great natural imagination. We’d find fun in fly fishing or simply taking a dip in the creek. Our life was simple in those days, the world was there for us to play in and just as William did we took each day as it came, an adventure, I guess we’d learnt a lot from him. The freedom to do what we wanted to do was liberating, I suppose we learnt more in those early years outside of the schoolhouse than within. We’d help my father fix up old cars or the tractor on the farm which mostly was in a state of disrepair, or anything that came to hand that needed fixing. We both enjoyed the learning processes, skills that would stay with us all of our lives, things that wouldn’t be taught in a school environment. School was a chore to us; it kinda interfered with our learning of life and fun. In the classroom we were amongst other kids who were different to us, different in ways we found hard to understand. They all seemed to be like young adults, way ahead of their years, serious and full of themselves. Rose and I both knew we didn’t fit in with that kind of thinking and didn’t care much for it, we just wanted to be us, we were comfortable in our own skins and could see the angst and confusion those other kids were going through. It seemed the way at the time, people brought their children up seriously; after the war years middle class America generally brought up a white collar generation. Luckily, Rose and I were allowed to grow in our own way. I wouldn’t say we were neglected, our parents most certainly loved us but we were left to our own devices and that suited us down to the ground. We had a few friends that we’d see from time to time but in the main we hung out together. Until Rose hit her teens, I didn’t think of her as a girl, because she didn’t dress or act like one, she dressed like me, dungarees and a pair of old scuff boots that we’d owned since before I could recall, that was our hanging out clothing. After her thirteenth birthday, small changes started creeping in, at first it was her hair. She’d always kept it short knowing it would get in the way of our rough and tumble ways. Slowly her hair grew longer, it must have been one of her sisters putting an influence on her but I didn’t make a comment about it, she wouldn't have liked that, she was a timid girl back then but she'd open up to me because we were so similar, I knew automatically not to question her new appearance and, in honesty, I kind of liked it. As time went on, other changes came about, she got a pair of old sneakers, I remember them with an affection, I wished my folks could've afforded a pair for myself, ankle length with rubber uppers, a little like a pro baseball player would wear. They were pretty damn cool, Rose’s sister had given them to her as she’d grown out of them and they were practically brand new. A lot of folk wore these new clothes at the time, Sweet Water was a little behind the times but just a little down the road in Nanafalia there were groups of teenagers dressing up to look just like Elvis Presley.

Rose’s new sneakers were a pair of 'Ball Band' and I'd seen a magazine with Elvis wearing a pair himself, Rose looked pretty cool. Her hair grew fast that year of 56, long and blonde, so much so she had to tie it back with a big red ribbon. It had transformed her in such a short period of time, from being what they called a tomboy to a really fine looking young woman. If I’m honest, it worried me a little, I didn’t know how she was gonna change in herself, maybe she'd stop hanging out with me and join up with those other teenagers in Nanafalia. I was three months younger than her, which was a big difference as far as I was concerned at the time. I felt the divide between us much more than Rose did, I shouldn't have worried though; I’d soon caught her up. Somehow becoming teenagers came with an ease, we seemed to grow together even more so.

The day Rose was hit by Edgar Travis in the schoolyard was one he wouldn’t forget for some time, I’d heard what had happened from one of the other kids and ran off to the matron's office where I found Rose being tended by Mrs Donnelly the school nurse. Rose was crying and had a split lip which brought about a hatred within me I’d never felt before. I hugged her for the first time in my life that day because I knew she needed it, it was a natural thing to do, she was my best friend and she was upset. Her tears weren’t so much from pain, I could tell that, it was an upset at what had happened to her, a kind of shame. I noticed she couldn’t look me in the eyes, which I thought was damn stupid, and it upset me but I didn't say anything. I gave her the comfort she needed, telling her, He’s an asshole hitting on a girl in a way meant to soothe her. When Mrs Donnelly asked me to leave the room so she could dress Rose’s wound, there was only one place I was heading - Edgar Travis. 

Edgar was a bully, he’d hit on most of us all of his life, a big fat kid who used his weight to intimidate youngsters.

The first hit I put on him was to the side of his head and he went down like a bag of horse shit, once that first blow went in I never gave him a chance to breathe, I threw punches at him so fast he never got a chance to defend himself. My arms went like a windmill and my fists connected to his face until my knuckles were covered with blood from his mouth and some of my own from where my skin had torn when I'd broken a tooth of his. I spat the words out in anger, You will never hit Rose again, as I punched his swollen mouth. Nobody stepped in to protect him; he'd truly been given his comeuppance. I didn’t feel a thing, adrenalin had taken over my whole body and a rage flowed through my fists into this thing before me that had hit my best friend. 

Edgar Travis spent some time in the University Hospital in Newark and I was given a strong talking to from Jim Gibson, the local cop. He'd had to come down heavy on me as the school were talking of expulsion but, in his own way, he told me I hadn't done that much wrong, just too much of it. He said if anyone asked me, I should say he'd put the fear of God into me.

Edgar Travis crossed the road whenever he passed Rose or I from then on. Bullies never came near either of us again whilst in our schooling years. I’d well and truly put the fear into those kids who thought it ok to throw their weight around to gain favour.

Rose recovered her confidence and we went about our ways as normal, although I knew something remained within her from the incident.

The other kids were talking about us behind our backs, we’d often hear them shushing and whispering, one day I’d heard the word Nuts by Jimmy Monroe. Within a week that name had changed to Nutsy a name that stuck for a while. I suppose everyone had a nickname at school, mine I kinda liked if I’m being truthful. Rose even called me it for a short while but later admitted she didn’t like the reason behind it so reverted back to Link. I guess it reminded her of the incident.

In Alabama we got a bit of everything with the weather, in general we had really hot summers and mild winters but plenty of rain throughout the year. The thing with Rose and I was we took the weather whichever way it came at us.

The rain came usually in March and boy did it come, we just accepted a soaking as a part of our fun, daring the cars passing by to drive through the puddles at the side of the road and give us a soaking. We’d be dancing in the streets, splashing in puddles like Gene Kelly in 'Singing in the Rain'. When you're wet through you can’t get any wetter, up until that point you sorta dodge the splashes but once you're soaked you lose that inhibition and dive right on in. Rose’s laughter on that day remains within me, a whole hearted, through the nose and throat burst, which took her by surprise, turning into an uncontrollable belly laugh. Hell, we’d only have to look at each other to fall apart. They were good times, ones I’d always remember in my loneliest moments; a vision of Rose was all it took to change a frown to a smile. Walking down the high street in Sweet Water like two orphans wearing our bedraggled clothes, holding hands, we'd have made a great photograph. An arm round my neck told me that Rose thought of me as her best friend, I responded in kind and we walked through the town like two ragamuffins. We were happy, nothing else mattered, we created our own fun and we didn’t have a care in the world.

We took each moment as it came, planning nothing, making it all up as the day unfolded.

Nothing ever seemed that serious to us, until one summer's day Rose’s mother took ill, she was a lovely lady who’d always been kind to me; she’d have a cookie and a glass of fresh cow's milk for both of us every time we came in after a day of adventure. She’d gotten the cancer and her time came quickly which was a blessing, she hadn't suffered much. Rose was inconsolable, she spent the weeks after staring into space, laying out in the fields looking up into the sky where we'd imagined all kinds of wonder, yet it was different. Silent sighs were caught before the sobbing came. She’d cry uncontrollably, and I, well... all I could do was be there for her, to hold her hand and comfort her. It pained me to see her in that way, trying so hard to stop