THE FALLER

 

            John studied the French countryside. It appeared safe enough—lots of open country spread across wide grass fields. In the distance, he could see a wooded area, but that was good, too far away for a sniper. The dirt roadway was rough, bouncing him around in the back of the small truck like a toy doll. The vehicle's wooden bench was hard on his ass. But it was a lot harder for the five captured German soldiers crammed in with him. They could barely move—packed together with their hands tightly bound.

            John reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and took a deep breath. He noticed the young soldier beside him was watching.

            "Bitte?" the young German asked, motioning to his mouth.

            John smiled. "Sure." He placed the cigarette in the soldier's clasped hands.   

            "Danke," the soldier said. He took a deep drag, smiled, and handed the cigarette back.

            John nodded, "Danke."

            Suddenly came a far-off roaring noise—getting louder! John glanced down the long roadway. Circling fast was a yellow-nosed fighter plane turning to make a run at them! He jumped up and pounded hard on the roof of the cab. "MESSERSCHMITT! Stop the truck! Get out! Get out!"

             The driver slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop.

            "Raus! Raus!" John yelled to the prisoners. The men quickly jumped—more accurately fell, out the back of the truck.

            The aircraft was almost upon them, its engine screaming. John helped those who were stumbling and guided them to the safety of the ditch. The fighter's twin cannons opened up with a deafening staccato of bullets, stitching down the roadway until they hit the truck, ripping the back to pieces. The fighter disappeared in the distance, but everyone stayed hidden—afraid the menace might return. Finally, after ten minutes, the driver, and the Lieutenant riding with him, popped back up. The officer motioned for John to regroup the prisoners. The hands-bound Germans were scattered up and down the embankment. Suddenly one of them jumped from the roadway and began running for the far-off woods.

            “HALT!” John yelled, running forward. Then the other prisoners jumped from the roadway and also began sprinting across the field.

"Shoot them, Corporal, screamed the officer. “Don't let them get away!”

            John raised his rifle, then hesitated. “I can't shoot tied prisoners!" He yelled back.

            The Lieutenant was furious. “GOD DAMN IT, SHOOT THEM! That's an order!” The officer yanked out his pistol and began firing, but the small weapon was no good for the distant moving targets.

            John tucked his M1 Garand under his chin, took aim, and fired. The farthest man away fell. He aimed at the next man. “Halt. Halt!” He yelled out, but the man kept going. ”He fired again—the second farthest man fell. John tried wounding the next man—aiming for his shoulder. The runner faltered, then kept on. John crammed in another ammo clip, his voice screaming, “HALT, HALT!” repeatedly firing until all four runners were down.

            The Lieutenant came forward. “There's one going in the woods!” he yelled, pointing to the trees.

            John started running across the field to where the wounded German had entered the forest. The man's trail of blood was a giveaway. John tracked him through the foliage and found him lying on his back, his chest gurgling with a deep rasp. He had been shot through the lungs. The soldier raised his hand, blood spitting from his mouth. He was horribly wounded. "Kill mien!" he pleaded in broken English. John raised his rifle.

            The two men standing back at the truck heard the rifle crack. They winced. All the soldiers were down now. The air smelled of gunpowder and death.

            On returning to the bullet-ridden vehicle, John recognized the prisoner he had given the smoke to. He checked for the fallen man's breathing. He was dead. John took the soldier's tags and walked back to the truck. The Lieutenant approached him. “Are you Ok?” He asked.

            John didn’t answer. He went to the roadside, and sat silently, with head in his hands.

           

             After the war in 1947, John Schindler met Janine Bennett. She was hitchhiking to the little burg of Monmouth in the Willamette Valley. She had heard there was a waitress job there, but she had no car, so she walked. John saw her, hit the brakes, and immediately stopped. It was a no-brainer, pretty young girl, good-looking young vet. They immediately hit it off, and it was only a short time before they married.

            But there was a snag. Janine was recently divorced with a four-year-old male child. That boy would be me. My nickname was Sonny.           

John worked as a faller, the elite of the loggers. Fallers had the highest-paying job of all the forest workers up and down the Pacific coast. His job was to bring down the giant Douglas firs that towered over the land. However, he would also be the first to be laid off after the big trees were cut. Then he had to move on and find a new hiring site. But the job did have an upside, it allowed him a lot of free time at home between jobs.

            Over time, the young married couple produced two more children, Johnny, Jr., and Lois Ann. However, Janine still worked, and looking after three kids soon proved a problem, my presence wasn't sitting well with John.  

            As I grew older, it was decided it was best if I stayed with John's widowed mother on her farm in the Willamette valley. She was living alone and gladly took me in. Occasionally John and Janine would visit and leave the other kids there too. Over time, John was beginning to subject me to harsh treatment whenever he came by. He was tough on his own kids, but for some reason, he singled me out. His personality could change to a meanness that was scary. I became wary of him and kept my distance whenever he was around. Of course, it didn't help when he drank. Then he could be terrifying. Once, he found me playing near the house. He came over and started a verbal assault, railing at me for being weak and worthless. He threatened me and told me he'd take me out and dump me somewhere on the side of the road, like the many stray dogs that wandered onto the farm. But then, inexplicably, he would be friendly the next time he came. Then just as quickly, he’d go back on the attack. It was scary as hell. He was a big lumberjack, bull strong from carrying a heavy saw in the woods. But I was never afraid he would physically hurt me. It was always verbal.

            Then one day, in mid-summer, when I was about thirteen, he did something unimaginable. I remember he drove up in the yard, opened the car trunk, and motioned for me to come over. He pulled out a small shotgun and handed it to me. "It's yours," he said. "I want you to have it."

             This sudden change was unreal. Even more so was why? Why now? Maybe he realized I was growing up, I had no real father, so perhaps he judged I was ready. He was going to train me to be a hunter like him.

            John’s favorite hunting place was for pheasants in the high, open fields beyond the farm, and there were plenty of them in the myriad of fencerows that surrounded the area. “We’ll go out this Saturday,” John said, “and get us a rooster.”

            So that would be the day I went hunting with my stepfather. We were up early that morning and started through the woodland behind the house. There was a little trail winding up the hill where I had often played. But now I was a real hunter with a real gun, not a boy with a toy. And even better, I was with him like his real son.

            We started into the forest, and I trailed behind him, carrying the shotgun. This area I loved, and it had special meaning for me. Once, it was my fantasy place. But now I was growing up, and I must put those childish things away. Then came an event I will never forget, a tree limb was blocking part of the trail. John turned to push it aside, and at that exact moment, he saw me holding the shotgun, I had accidentally pointed it at him. He whirled and swatted the gun back.

            "God Dammit, Sonny!" he snapped at me. "Don't EVER point a gun at a man!"

            I pulled back in fear. "I'm sorry, I forgot."

            "You hold that gun straight up. You hear me?" John's voice was stern. His sudden change was frightening. "Do you know what it's like to shoot a man?" He asked as if I might. "You pay attention."

            As we walked on, I realized I had been charged with serious responsibility. Before, I had carried the gun happily. Now, it had become an awful burden, and I tried to think of nothing else but the position of the barrel.

            Soon we reached the end of the woods, where the trail led down into a little ravine, then back up to an old wire fence that skirted the fields. I followed him down, picking my footing carefully. I had come through here many times, but not toting a shotgun. John bounded the fence effortlessly and stood studying the open field. I struggled with the wire, trying to steady the gun, then my hand slipped off the stock. I attempted to re-grab it, but it came up and pointed at John. At that precise moment, he turned and saw the barrel.

            "YOU GODDAM STUPID ASS!" He shouted at me. The words exploded at me, ringing my ears. John rushed forward and snatched the shotgun from my grasp.

            "DAMN, your stupid ass!" He shouted again. He yanked open the gun chamber, ejecting the shell to the ground. "SEE THAT!" he railed at me, pointing at the shell. "That can take a man's head off. You don't listen, do you? You're too goddamn stupid. Well, you won't last long as a hunter." John's tirade was relentless. I stood trembling in silence. John's explosive words seemed to be absorbed by the nearby trees, almost as if they were listening—standing like a silent crowd of gathered witnesses to my humiliation. "I knew a kid in the army who was thick-headed like you!" He railed on. "He got blown to bits the first day we hit the beach!" John picked up the shell and crammed it back into the breach. "You're a bastard child. Do you know that? Your father—whoever he is, is probably dead. And that's how you'll wind up if you don't start listening."

            He shouldered the shotgun, grabbed me, and shoved me forward. "Get moving, goddamn you. I'll carry the gun."

            My hands were shaking. I wouldn't cry, I told myself. I wouldn't let the man see me cry. Suddenly a shrieking pheasant exploded from the fencerow. John brought the gun smoothly to his shoulder, traced the bird's flight, and fired. The bird fell like a stone.

            '"Go get it!" he barked at me.

            I ran over to the dying pheasant—the smell of gunpowder filled the air. The bird flopped about the yellow grain stubble, speckling it crimson red.

            "Pick it up," John shouted.

            I grabbed the bird's throbbing legs and hurried back to John, holding it away from my body as I ran. The bird stubbornly clung to life, flopping and quivering.

            "Wring its neck." He snapped. I hesitated, staring helplessly at the bird.

            "You're a goddamned sissy, aren't you?" He grabbed the pheasant and twirled it around by its head. The bird squawked and died.

            We continued onward across the field. I trailed behind him with the dead pheasant. It was appropriate I carried the bird. We were comrades in disgrace. Only the bird would not know any disfavor. It was dead. I, however, would have to live on with my shame. As we marched on, I stared at the big man's back, his ugly words rolling over and over in my mind. Finally, I could bear no more. I dropped the bird and ran past him. On across the field, I ran until I reached the woods. I clambered over the fence and rushed headlong down the trail. I didn’t dare look back. Surely John could easily catch me. I charged along the winding path, brush swatting my face. I caught my foot on a tree root and sprawled face down in the dirt, bloodying my nose. I got up and ran on. Finally, I reached the safety of the house. I sat on the back porch to catch my breath. There was nowhere else I could go. I waited for another verbal assault upon his arrival. But when John reached the house, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, went to his car, and drove away. I sat there, both terrified and confused.

            Strangely, John’s abuse eased back in the next few days, but I still avoided him. It was as if some antithesis had transformed him, and he was now unburdened. It was bizarre. I never told my mother what happened that day. Not then, not ever.

           

            As the years passed, and I grew older and saw less of John, he and my mother had finally divorced. His drinking and her fighting with him had finally taken their toll. Then one day, when I was in my mid-teens, my mother came by the farm and told me to pack my things. I was going to live with her and her new husband, Bob.

            His name was Bob Murphy. He owned a large ranch in northeast Oregon and treated me well. He put me to work riding horses on his spread, herding cattle. Soon I became a free-range cowboy, and I enjoyed my new life. But after high school, I decided, I wanted to see the rest of the world. I talked to Bob about my plans, and he mentioned the military. He had no college, but the Air Force had provided him with a good vocation during the war.

            In 1963, I took Bob’s advice and joined the Us Air Force. My mother then drove me to the recruiting station in Portland. From there, I would leave for Texas by train to start my basic training at Lackland Air Force base. After signing all the papers, we sat in the waiting area expecting my approval, but then an officer came out and summoned me privately. I left my mother sitting there with a look of panic on her face. I wondered what was going on. Once in the man's office, he shut the door.

            “Son,” he said, “your name, Brad Schindler, doesn’t exist. Instead, we found your birth certificate, your real name is Brad Bennett.”

            Now I was both hurt and angry. I came out and confronted my grief-stricken mother, whose secret was now exposed. Then, she confessed it all to me.

            “I’m so sorry, Brad, but Bennett, my first husband, wasn’t your father either. You were born out of wedlock, by a Merchant Sailor before I married.”

              Now everything was explained. In the 1950s, a mother with a bastard child was an outcast. I had grown up and gone through high school with a false name.

            That night, I boarded the train for basic training in Texas, angry and disillusioned. I vowed never to live in Oregon again. I would only return periodically to visit.

            We all were standing in the Air Force Base parking lot in San Antonio, Texas. I was in a group of recruits, who just arrived on a bus, and now we were about to get our first taste of boot camp by a drill instructor, or DI. He ordered us into a ragtag line and began calling the roll call.

            "Brad Bennett." The instructor barked out when he got to my name.

            I stood silent.

            "BRAD BENNETT!" He shouted.

            I suddenly realized that it was me. "Here!” I yelled out.

            "You dumb ass!" He yelled in my face. "Don't you know your name?"

            "No, sir, I don’t!”

            (Best I stop here and not list the four-letter words emitted from that man’s mouth.)

            After finishing boot camp, I went in for my assignment interview. In high school, I had received good marks in art and writing—sadly, not much in anything else. But fortunately, the Air Force needed artists for Aircraft Maintenance illustrations, and thanks to my school record, I qualified. I then began training as a Technical Illustrator. This gave me the start of my career later as a graphic designer—thank God I had listened to Bob.                    

            After leaving the Air Force, I moved to Dallas and found work as an artist, doing graphic Illustration. It had been a long time since I had visited Oregon, except for a few short trips to see my mother, who had by now divorced Bob. They had started fighting, and sadly, Bob then turned to drink. He later died in the drunk tank in Vancouver, Washington.

            It was during this time I also learned that Johnny Jr. had disappeared. It was suspected he was mixed up with some drug dealers, and they did him in. Johnny’s body has never been found. A few years later, Lois Ann died after a long life of drug addiction. She had been a user since high school. So sad, they both had so much promise.

Years later, in the late seventies, I received a call from my Aunt Norma. Would I come up for a visit? I liked my aunt because she often visited me as a child. Her life had been successful, and she always helped out other family members when needed. So, I took some time off and flew up to Salem for a short visit. Unfortunately, my new girlfriend, Jan, couldn’t get off work, so I came alone.

          Oregon’s Willamette Valley in late August is special, like it always was when I stayed here as a boy. Now, I stood, gazing across the grain where I had often played whenever my mother, Janine left me here during the summers. As a grown man, I still felt the urge to run across this field, climb one of the old apple trees down by the pond, and sit up among the branches, eating the tangy wild fruit. 

            "Still peaceful here, isn't it?" Alicia said, "I always love coming here to visit."

            "Did you think of selling it after your mother died?"

            "Oh, not then, but I'm getting on now, and it's a chore to look after it."

            "I appreciate you bringing me by here, Alicia. I wish I could have Jan up from California with me, but maybe next time. 

            "Well, thank you for coming, Brad. Maybe next time you can bring them up to visit."

            "For sure," I said as they began walking back to the car.  

That night, After dinner, Norm updated me on the family happenings over a few glasses of chardonnay. I listened attentively, and then Norma mentioned John. I expected she would. Norma was John's younger sister.

            "John's here," I said, somewhat nervous. "Here in Salem?"  

            “Yes, I’ve been looking after him since he was badly injured in the woods. I've found him a place nearby to stay with help from the local VFW.”            

            “You know, Norma,” I told her, trying not to be too condemning. “That man gave me nothing but sheer hell when I was a kid, so I must be honest. I'm sorry, but I hated that man.”       

            Norma leaned forward and set her glass down. “Brad, before John left for the damn war, he was the best brother a sister could ask for. But when he returned from overseas, his up-and-down personality was hard to deal with. But we had to put up with him because we were sworn to a family secret by my mother.”

            This was a shocker. "What secret?"

            “We learned after the war that John was being held at Walter Reed Veterans Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland, for observation. They informed our mother that he wasn't physically wounded, but he was there for medical evaluation, which suggested John was suffering from severe mental stress. He didn’t come home until months later."

            “I never heard that.”

            "Yes, back then they knew very little about mental illness, and mother didn’t want John to be seen as a coward. But, of course, we all knew he wasn’t. John was among the first to land at Normandy beach. He fought across France, a decorated war hero.”

            “My God, that explains it all. So he lived with that all this time.”               

            “Yes, only his brother and I knew about it. Would you like to visit John now? You will find him to be a different man. He talks about you often."

            This was a surprise. I was nervous, but I now felt I should see John. "Yes, Norma, I'll do it."

           

            The next day Norma gave me her car keys and John’s location, a one-room flat in a motel on the outskirts of the city. She explained how to get there, then I left and proceeded to the address. As I drove, I tried to work on my greeting line for the man. But I couldn’t think of what to say. I couldn't imagine him any different from the man I knew.

            I soon found the motel, parked, got out, and searched for his apartment, anxiety building in my gut with each step. I located his door, knocked, and waited. I heard a creaking noise, a shuffling sound from inside, then, finally, the door opened.

            Standing in the doorway was a frail, weak older man I barely recognized. When he saw me, his face lit up, and his eyes widened. He was so delighted I thought he would cry, "Sonny!" he said. "It is so good to see you," he gave me his hand.

            I had no words now to answer. Whatever I was going to say was gone. I took his hand, "hello John," I said, "It's good to see you too."

            "Come on in, Son,” he held his arm to me. “Can you help me a bit? I'm afraid it's hard for me to get around." He motioned to his walker by the door. I held it for him and then helped him over to his chair.

            "How have you been, Sonny? Norma had told me you might visit me someday. I am so happy you did. Have a seat and tell me what you've been doing?"

            My mind was spinning. I didn't know what to say, so I started yammering about my life to date. He acted attentive, but it was apparent he had trouble focusing. So finally, I decided to ask him what had happened to him out in the woods.

            "Oh, God,” he said. ”This jackass newbie fell a tree on me while I sat on a stump eating lunch. They fired the son of a bitch, but it sure ended my career. Now I'm on a pension. My nephew visited, but he doesn't come around anymore. So I'm mostly alone here."

            As we sat and talked, I kept asking myself, who was this gentle, old fellow before me? But then, I noticed he still had that same jocular, goofy laugh that amused me as a boy. I had forgotten those few times we were happy together. Now they had returned.

            When it came time for me to leave, John had one last request. "Could you fix my bed, son?” he asked. “A slat has fallen out, and it's damn uncomfortable to lie on."

            "Of course," I answered. I slid under the bed and adjusted the slat. When I came back out, I noticed other things amiss in the room. His small TV was placed awkwardly, making it difficult for him to watch. I rearranged his furniture and put it nearer his bed. I looked around the room for more deeds to do. My lifetime of hatred had now evaporated. My self-pity now became a slap in my face. I felt foolish. Here was this poor man, suffering and abandoned, and all I had on my mind was hatred and revenge, revenge for what? What a waste of emotion I had placed upon myself.

            When it was time to go, I shook John’s hand warmly this time. This was a self-realizing experience. I now felt nothing but empathy for this man. I had spent my whole life hating him, but why? What had made him what he was?

            At the door, I retook his hand. “I will try to return and see you again, John, I promise."

            "Thank you so much, Sonny,” he said. “Please come back. I would like that.”

            Sadly, I couldn't return to Oregon that year because of a busy workload. Then towards the year's end, Norma called me and said he had died.

            Years later, after John had passed, I learned of John’s war story in France. It came from my cousin, who had learned it from his father before him. This story finally filled in the last chapter of John's history. Now I could reason why he reacted so accusingly on that day he took me hunting. My pointing that gun barrel at him gave a visual image of HIS gun firing at those fleeing prisoners. He saw those bullets ripping through their hand-tied bodies. He was the one pulling the trigger. He lived the rest of his life trying to forget that day in France. Maybe he could let it go for a while, but it must have always returned with a flash of memory. And when it did, he shifted it away—on me or anyone else. I was merely around more often.

            Of course, a psychologist could read John's history and provide a better answer. But I can say that when I visited him that day, it was evident his dementia had taken most of it away. In some ways, that was a blessing. His horrible memories were now erased. What I saw was a man finally freed from his past.

            The irony is that, in a way, I was freed as well.