QB VII (14 page)

The Brothers
by Abraham Cady had an excellent reception in England. Old Shawcross had come up with another of his sleepers. It was a simple story, the author was not finely polished, but he struck at the heart. The novel said that because the Western Allies had betrayed Loyalist Spain there would be a great war. The price of diplomatic obscenity would be paid in the blood of millions of English, French, and Americans.

In America
The Brothers
was published by a firm who had originally rejected it (on the grounds it had nothing important to say) and it received an even greater acclaim, for it was published on the eve of World War II.

4

FROM THE TIME OF THE SELLOUT AT MUNICH POPPA TRIED EVERYTHING TO GET THE RELATIVES OUT OF POLAND BUT IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE. IN ADDITION TO HIS FATHER AND TWO BROTHERS THERE WERE SOME THIRTY OTHER COUSINS AND AUNTS AND UNCLES. AND THEN GERMANY ATTACKED POLAND. IT WAS A NIGHTMARE. FOR A SHORT TIME WE BREATHED EASIER, WHEN THE SOVIET UNION TOOK THE EASTERN PART OF POLAND WHICH HELD THE TOWN OF PRODNO. THEN THAT HOPE DIED WHEN GERMANY ATTACKED RUSSIA AND PRODNO FELL INTO GERMAN HANDS.

POPPA’S ATTITUDE ABOUT FASCISM CHANGED. BEN’S DEATH AND THE FEAR FOR HIS FAMILY TURNED HIM INTO A MILITANT. I KNEW IT WOULD BE TERRIBLE FOR THEM WHEN I DECIDED TO GO TO WAR, BUT I COULDN’T WAIT.

IN THE FALL OF 1941 I ENLISTED IN THE ROYAL CANADIAN AIR FORCE IN ORDER TO GET TO ENGLAND AND JOIN THE EAGLE SQUADRON OF AMERICAN VOLUNTEERS. LIKE BEN’S LACALLE SQUADRON IT WAS A HELL BENT GANG, BLAKESLEE, GENTILE, CHESLEY PETERSON, AND A LOT OF OTHERS WHO MADE NAMES AS FIGHTER PILOTS, FUNNY PART OF IT WAS THAT MANY OF THEM HAD WASHED OUT OF THE AMERICAN ARMY AIR CORPS FOR INABILITY TO FLY.

POPPA MADE A SMALL PROTEST ARGUING THAT AMERICA WOULD SOON BE IN THE WAR SO WHY SHOULD I GO OUT SPORTING FOR TROUBLE. MOMMA WAS WORSE. SHE FEARED SHE WOULD END UP LOSING BOTH OF HER SONS. THEY GAVE IN. POPPA CONFIDED THAT HE WAS PROUD AND MOMMA SAID THINGS LIKE, “TRY TO BE CAREFUL AND DON’T BE A HERO.”

I WAS PRETTY SCARED WHEN I KISSED THEM GOOD-BY AND BOARDED THE TRAIN FOR TORONTO. A FEW MONTHS AFTER I STARTED TRADING AS A SPITFIRE PILOT, AMERICA WAS ATTACKED AT PEARL HARBOR.

August 19, 1942

Seven thousand Canadians and British Commandos poured ashore at the French beach resort of Dieppe on a reconnaissance raid to test the German coastal defenses.

Engineers moving behind the infantry reached and spiked some large German guns but the operation ran into serious trouble quickly. One flank was hit by a German flotilla and in the center, Canadian tanks were hung up on the sea wall and then the German counterattack turned the raid into a disaster.

Overhead, a blizzard of Spitfires and Messerschmitts raged in a massive dogfight while other allied planes came in low to cover the disaster on the beach. Among them were the American Eagles and their youngest pilot, twenty-two-year-old Abraham Cady flying his fifth mission.

As the planes ran low on fuel and ammunition they streaked back to England to refuel and load and return to the action. Abe came back to Dieppe on his third sortie of the day as the airmen desperately attempted to stall the German counterattack.

Working at treetop level he made pass after pass at a German company crawling out of the woods. With communications largely broken and squadrons scattered all over the sky it became increasingly difficult to warn comrades in trouble. They were all on their own.

Abe swooped down on a bridge and sprayed it clean of the enemy, when a trio of Messerschmitts pounced on him from the cover of a cloud. He peeled off deftly to evade and just as he felt he had slipped away his plane shuttered violently under the impact of a striking of machine gun bullets. The controls jerked his arms half out of their sockets, and he started to spin. Abe muscled her back into control, but she veered crazily like a toy glider in a windstorm.

JESUS H. CHRIST ON A CRUTCH! MY TAIL’S SHOT UP. DITCH HER? HELL NO, NOT OVER WATER. SHAG ASS FOR ENGLAND. LORD, GIVE ME THIRTY MINUTES.

Abe jockeyed his swerving craft a few hundred feet over the Channel racing for England. Fifteen minutes to land, ten ...

“Zenith, Zenith, this is Dog Two Dog on red alert. I’m shot up.”

“Hello, Dog Two Dog. This is Zenith. What are your intentions?”

SONOFABITCH!

A Messerschmitt came up behind Abe. Using every ounce of his strength he pulled the nose of his plane up and into a deliberate stall. The startled German was unable to duplicate the maneuver and passed beneath him. Abe let her dive and pressed the triggers.

“I’ve got him! I’ve got him!”

HANG ON. THANK GOD ... COAST OF ENGLAND. CHRIST, I CAN’T HOLD MY ALTITUDE. EASY BABY, EASY, YOU’RE RIPPING MY ARMS OUT.

He veered at the mainland at a sharp angle.

“Hello, Dog Two Dog. This is Drewerry. We see you now. We’re advising you to ditch.”

“I can’t. I’m too low to jump. I’m going to have to land her.”

“Cleared to land.”

The sirens at Drewerry set off a scramble of activity. Fire wagons and an ambulance and a rescue squad inched up the apron next to the runway as the wounded bird augered in.

“Poor devil, he’s really out of control.”

“Hang on there, Yank.”

BOY, I DO NOT LIKE THIS ANGLE. I DO NOT LIKE IT AT ALL. COME ON, SWEETHEART, LINE UP WITH THAT RUN WAY. THAT’S A GOOD GIRL. NOW JUST HOLD IT.

Three hundred, two hundred, cut engine, glide, glide. “Look at that lad fly!”

COME ON, GROUND, LET ME FEEL YOU. COME ON, GROUND. OH BOY, DOES THAT FEEL ... JESUS! MY FUCKING LANDING GEAR IS BUSTED.

Abe pulled up his landing gear and set her down on her belly. The Spitfire careened off the runway with sparks flying. At the last instant he veered away from a barracks and tore for the woods, then mangled to a halt in the trees. The sirens screamed and bore down on him. Abe shoved the canopy back and crawled out on the wing. Then after a beat of silence a terrible explosion was followed by billowing flames!

5

OH MY GOD! I’M DEAD! I KNOW I’M DEAD! GOD! I CAN’T SEE! I CAN’T MOVE! MY HEAD IS BLURRED!

“Help me!” Abe cried

“Lieutenant Cady,” a woman’s voice penetrated the darkness, “can you hear me?”

“Help me,” he cried, “where am I? What’s happened to me?”

“Lieutenant Cady,” the voice said again. “If you hear me, please say so.”

“Yes,” he gasped.

“I’m Sister Grace, a nurse, and you’re in the RAF Hospital near Bath. You’ve been badly hurt.”

“I’m blind. Oh God, I’m blind!”

“Will you try to get control of yourself so we can speak?”

“Touch me so I know you’re here.”

He forced himself to gain control.

“You’ve undergone a serious operation,” Sister Grace said, “and you’re all bandaged up. Don’t be frightened because you can’t see or move. Let me go and get the doctor, and he’ll explain everything to you.”

“Please don’t go away for long.”

“I’ll be right back. You must remain calm now.”

He sucked in air deeply and quivered in fear. His heart raced to urgent footsteps he could hear coming toward him.

“Woke up, have you,” a commanding British voice said. “I’m Dr. Finchly.”

“Tell me, Doctor, tell me if I’m blind.”

“No,” the doctor answered. “You’ve had quite a bit of sedation and your mind is apt to be rather fuzzy. Are you able to comprehend?”

“Yes, I’m a little cuckoo, but I understand.”

“Very well, then,” Finchly said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You’ve lost the sight of your right eye, but we’re going to be able to save the other one.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, we’re quite certain of it.”

“What happened?”

“Let me explain it to you in simple terms. Your aircraft exploded shortly after you ran into the woods. You were crawling on the wing at the time and at the instant of explosion your hands went up over your face to protect it.”

“I remember that much.”

“The backs of your hands took most of the shock and were severely burned. Third degree burns. Now, you have four tendons on each hand like rubber bands to each finger. These may be damaged. If the burns don’t heal properly we will have to do a skin graft and if the tendons have been damaged we’ll do tendon grafts. Do you understand me so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In any event we will be able to restore full use of both hands. It may take time, but we’re very, very successful with both skin and tendon grafts.”

“What about my eyes,” he whispered.

“With the explosion, some minute fragments hit both your eyes perforating your cornea. The cornea is a thin membrane that covers the eye. Now, each eye is filled with a substance that appears somewhat like egg albumin that keeps it inflated like air in a tire. Your right eye was deeply penetrated, the fluid leaked and the entire eyeball collapsed.”

“As for the other eye, everything was intact except for the perforation of the cornea. We had to replace it with a substitute cornea. The way we did this was to dissect the upper membrane of your eyelid and cover the eye with it, stitching it to the bottom of the lid. The stitches are thinner than a strand of human hair.”

“When can I know if I can see?”

“Well, I promise you, you have vision in your left eye but there are two problems you’re going to have to face up to. A fatty embolism can form from the damage to your hands and move up to your eye and destroy further tissue. Secondly, you are suffering from a rather severe concussion from the blast which would put normal vision out of focus. We’ll allow you to see for a few minutes each day, when we change bandages and treat your eye and hands.”

“O.K.,” Abe said, “I’ll be good ...and thanks, Doctor.”

“Quite all right. Your publisher, Mr. Shawcross, has been waiting here for almost three days.”

“Sure,” Abe said.

“Well, Abe,” Shawcross said, “they said you did some fancy flying to get back across the Channel and that was quite a trick getting your landing gear up and avoiding the barrack.”

“Yeah, I’m a hell of a flyer.”

“Is it all right if I smoke, Doctor.”

“Certainly.”

Abe liked the smell of Shawcross’s cigar. It reminded him of those days in New York, when they worked day and night on his manuscript.

“My parents know about this?”

“I induced them not to inform your mother and father until you could send word, personally.”

“Thanks. Jesus, I sure bought the farm.”

“Bought a farm?” Dr. Finchly asked.

“It’s an American phrase. It means he got a bashing about.”

“Yes, rather, I’d say.”

Dear Momma and Poppa:

You shouldn’t be alarmed because this letter isn’t in my handwriting. The reason I’m not personally writing for a while is that I got into a slight accident and burned my hands a little.

Let me assure you I’m otherwise in good health, in a fine hospital and there is no permanent damage of any kind. Even the food here is good.

I had a little trouble landing my plane and so forth. I probably won’t be flying anymore because they’re so sticky about perfect health.

There’s a nice young lady here who takes my letters and she’s happy to let me write to you every few days.

Mainly, you’re absolutely not to worry for a minute. Love to Sophie and everyone.

Your devoted son,

Abe

6

PATIENCE
.

IF I EVER HEAR THAT WORD AGAIN, I’M GOING TO FLIP MY LID. PATIENCE, THAT’S WHAT THEY TELL ME TWENTY TIMES A DAY. PATIENCE.

I LIE FROZEN ON MY BACK IN TOTAL DARKNESS. WHEN THE EFFECT OF THE DRUGS WEARS OFF THE PAINS IN MY HANDS BECOME EXCRUCIATING. I PLAY GAMES. I PLAY OUT A BASEBALL GAME PITCH BY PITCH. I’M THE RED SOX PITCHER. IN ONE GAME I STRUCK OUT THE WHOLE YANKEE LINE-UP. RIZZUTO, GORDON, DICKEY, KELLER. DIMAGGIO WAS LAST. WE GOT TO THREE AND TWO. HE’S DUG IN TO SAVE THE YANKEE REPUTATION. I GIVE HIM LOT OF MOTION AND DISH UP A SLOW CURVE. IT TAKES GUTS TO THROW THAT PITCH IN SUCH A SITUATION. DIMAGGIO NEARLY BROKE HIS BACK DIVING AFTER IT. NINE STRAIGHT YANKEES. IT’S A FEAT THAT WILL STAND IN THE RECORD BOOKS FOR YEARS.

I THINK ABOUT THE WOMEN I’VE SLEPT WITH. I’M STILL A KID SO A DOZEN ISN’T BAD. BUT I CAN’T REMEMBER MOST OF THEIR NAMES.

I THINK ABOUT BEN. GOD, I MISS BEN. WHAT A WINNER I AM. I WANTED THREE THINGS IN MY LIFE: TO PLAY BALL, TO FLY, AND TO WRITE. TWO OF THEM ARE GONE FOREVER AND HOW CAN I WRITE, WITH MY PECKER?

ANYHOW, THESE PEOPLE HERE ARE REALLY WONDERFUL. THEY TREAT ME LIKE A PORCELAIN DOLL. EVERYTHING I DO BECOMES AN INVOLVED CHORE. IF SOMEONE LEADS ME TO THE BATHROOM AND SETS ME ON THE POT I CAN DO MY BUSINESS BUT THEN SOMEBODY’S GOT TO WIPE ME. I CAN’T EVEN AIM TO TAKE A LEAK. I’VE GOT TO SIT LIKE A WOMAN, IT’S ABSOLUTELY HUMILIATING.

EVERYDAY THEY LET ME OUT OF MY MUMMY CAGE FOR A FEW MINUTES. MY GOOD EYE IS USUALLY GLUED SHUT. BY THE TIME I GET IT INTO FOCUS THEY’RE WRAPPING ME UP AGAIN. I KEEP TELLING MYSELF IT COULD BE WORSE. EVERYDAY THE EYE IS LESS BLURRED AND I’M STARTING TO GET SOME MOVEMENT IN MY HANDS.

DAVID SHAWCROSS COMES FROM LONDON ONCE OR TWICE A WEEK. HIS WIFE, LORRAINE, NEVER FAILS TO BRING A PACKAGE OF FOOD. SHE’S AS BAD AS MOMMA. I KNOW IT’S COSTING HER VALUABLE RATION COUPONS, AND I TRY TO TELL HER THEY’RE FEEDING ME LIKE ROYALTY.

HOW I WELCOME THE SMELL OF THAT STINKY CIGAR. SHAWCROSS HAS ALL BUT GIVEN UP PUBLISHING TO WORK FOR THE GOVERNMENT TO NEGOTIATE A BOOK EXCHANGE PROGRAM WITH THE RUSSIANS. HIS STORIES OF THE PARANOID BEHAVIOR AT THE SOVIET EMBASSY ARE A RIOT.