Ghosts of the Past
Read Ghosts of the Past Online
Authors: Mark H. Downer
Mark H. Downer
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2012
Mark H. Downer
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Contents
March
22,
1945.
Kelheim,
Germany
May
14,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky.
May
17,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky
May
18,
2001.
Chicago,
Illinois.
May
19,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky.
May
19,
2001.
Chicago,
Illinois.
May
20,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky.
May
20,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky.
May
20,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky.
May
21,
2001.
Louisville,
KY
May
21,
2001.
Louisville,
Kentucky
.
May
22,
2001.
Zurich,
Switzerland.
May
22,
2001.
Lucerne,
Switzerland.
May
22,
2001.
Zurich,
Switzerland.
May
23,
2001.
Lucerne,
Switzerland
May
23,
2001.
Northeastern
Switzerland.
May
24,
2001.
Chicago,
Illinois.
May
25,
2001.
Wildhaus,
Switzerland
May
25,
2001.
Voralpsee
Lake,
Switzerland.
May
25,
2001.
Wildhaus,
Switzerland.
May
26,
2001.
Zurich,
Switzerland.
May
27,
2001.
Treasure
Beach
Resort,
Barbados.
To
my
mother
who
always
believed
I
could,
and
to
my
father
who
passed
on
the
skills
to
make
it
a
reality.
Ghosts
of
the
Past
was truly a labor of love, and fulfills a promise made to someone who was always my biggest cheerleader. I am quite certain she will read it in her own time and heavenly dimension. Hopefully, this is one of many more to come.
I want to acknowledge a long list of friends whose names are recorded for posterity in the first and last names of the characters in the book. For the two main characters, I want to thank my father for allowing me to borrow from him, and many thanks to my dear departed friend, Grady, for allowing me to lift his name for another.
The sound inside was deafening as the whine of the sputtering engine gave way to the rush of air against the metallic body tilting earthward. The smell of burning oil was overwhelming in the dense, white smoke, which choked off not only the oxygen, but the visibility outside.
The altimeter spiraled counterclockwise, increasing in speed to the point that it looked like an additional propeller, but offered none of the benefits. Another volley of fifty caliber bullets strafed the fuselage of the helpless craft, a rapid succession of dull thuds into the lifeless body.
His hands fumbled blindly inside the cockpit, searching desperately for the release handle to the sliding canopy. His goggles were caked with black residue from the oily smoke and he reached up and ripped them from his face. Sweat dripped out from under his flight hat and into his eyes, and he tore at the leather gloves, removing them from his trembling hands. He reached the handle and pulled at it, only to have it break off in his hand.
He was growing disoriented and delirious, and he could sense the charge of oncoming ground. Banging at the canopy overhead, desperately trying to unseat the seal, the specter of death crept inside the airplane with him. He had envisioned dying many times, almost welcoming and inviting its finality, but not this way… not now… not yet. He still had to tell someone.
He needed to reveal the whereabouts of the crash. It could all be returned, given back to the original owners, absolving him of his responsibility, all sins forgiven. It was time to tell someone, but now there was no time.
He cried out, “It’s in the rock! The treasure’s behind the rock.”
He patted his flight jacket, reassuring himself that the letter was there. He couldn’t feel it; he couldn’t feel anything, his hand passing through his body as if it were air.
“Look in my jacket. Tell him to start with my flight jacket,” he mumbled aloud.
The rush of air had grown quiet and a cool breeze flowed through the cockpit. Bright light replaced the smoke, and a sense of euphoria overtook him. He was floating next to the plane and then it disappeared. Soft, pleasing music tickled his ears and he heard his mother calling to him through the veiled illumination.
The monotone hum of the heart monitor registered a flat line and the nurse reached over to switch it off. She looked back at the elderly man and stroked his hand softly. “Goodbye Mr. Hignite. May the peace of God passeth all understanding.”
March
22,
1945.
Kelheim,
Germany
It was cold. Not the bitter, biting cold of mid-winter, but the wet, bone chilling cold of an early Bavarian spring night. Major Max Hignite, all six feet and two inches of him, was hunched into a knot under the gray wool blanket, the rock hard bench barely noticeable through his overwhelming fatigue. He had been falling in and out of sleep waiting for some explanation as to why he had been summoned from the warm confines of his squadron’s barracks earlier in the evening.
He and the young lieutenant, lying on the opposite bench in the back of the Mercedes M-366 half-ton truck, had been driving for almost two hours. Mercifully, they had come to a halt in the woods just outside of Kelheim, about 20 kilometers southwest of Regensburg. Another identical truck, filled with a rag-tag collection of enlisted men, idled behind them. A kubelwagon with two officers and a driver angled around the parked vehicles and moved forward another few meters into the clearing, just off the dirt road they had navigated. The flurry of activity and noise from the disembarking soldiers was still not enough to keep him from slipping out of consciousness.
“Max, you’re not trying to sleep in there, are you?”
The voice was a deep sleep nightmare, until the canvas drop flap was thrown open and a cold blast of air rifled through the back of the truck, immediately returning Hignite to his senses.
“Come on Herr Major, you’d think this was a holiday compliments of the Fuhrer!” Bellowed the voice of the intruder as the narrow beam of a flashlight probed the dark interior of the truck.
“I should have known you’d be responsible for this intrusion on my peaceful duty to the Fatherland, Dieter,” Hignite muttered as he rolled over to face the old acquaintance.
Max Hignite was tired. Over four years of war had sapped his energy. The once sharp, rugged features appeared to sag under the weight of stress and strain, and with the two-day old stubble, he looked ten years older than his twenty-six years of life. His only saving grace were the sharp, penetrating green eyes inherited from his mother that still flickered with life.
Born and raised in Munich, Hignite’s mother was an elementary school teacher and his father a university professor. His younger brother and sister, along with himself, were all born and raised with a distinct eye towards education and cultural pursuits. However, outside of school Hignite had developed a passion for flying. Fueled by his Uncle Wilhelm, himself a World War I ace, Hignite spent many weekends at his Uncle’s farm, just outside of Augsberg, mastering the old Folker D-7 that Uncle Wilhelm had meticulously restored.
As Hignite grew to adulthood, the political climate was shifting dramatically. The family was very cognizant of the birth and ascent of the
Nationalsocialistiche
Deutsche
Arbeiterpartei
, and the injustice and evils that were inherent with the
Nazi’s
rise to power. Nevertheless, the allure of the emerging military air force, known as the
Luftwaffe
, was too great for Hignite to pass up, and he enlisted in 1937.
