As a child we play as a child. As a Man we play as men.
In the year nineteen hundred and fifty six the joys of having no responsibilities and the feeling of a weekend play day seemed to last for hours on end , from light till dark was a child's sense of time, but with no sense of time one could mesh easily with ideas and the world of imagination.
Our streets were made up of dusty graveled roads and the summers heat blew dust upon the nostrils with the smell of a mix of mildew, dirt and oil from the oiled down graveled bed. The discoveries seemed to be tenfold each day. But upon this one day while scuffling along the gravel kicking rocks like one was playing "Kick the Can" , (a game whose origin bypasses me at the moment), I and the other boys I was with had encountered a discovery of wealth. This was a WWII wrecking yard of aircraft of the times. A yard with its cut up fuselages and wings stacked upon other wings. B-17's, B-36:s, and B-24-s just to name a few I had recognized from our days of building modeled aircraft.
We would climb around upon the pile of wings in order to climb into the fuselages and work our way up to the cockpit with it's blood stained seats and switches which we nicknamed J2's ,and knobs everywhere. With windows riddled with bullet holes and glass one or two inches thick. Looking at the glass turrets underneath the fuselages where it's guns used to hang out gave me quiver's as I thought about those who went before me, I had often had thoughts of what it must have been like for those pilots and the horrors of war.
In the year nineteen hundred and fifty six the joys of having no responsibilities and the feeling of a weekend play day seemed to last for hours on end , from light till dark was a child's sense of time, but with no sense of time one could mesh easily with ideas and the world of imagination.
Our streets were made up of dusty graveled roads and the summers heat blew dust upon the nostrils with the smell of a mix of mildew, dirt and oil from the oiled down graveled bed. The discoveries seemed to be tenfold each day. But upon this one day while scuffling along the gravel kicking rocks like one was playing "Kick the Can" , (a game whose origin bypasses me at the moment), I and the other boys I was with had encountered a discovery of wealth. This was a WWII wrecking yard of aircraft of the times. A yard with its cut up fuselages and wings stacked upon other wings. B-17's, B-36:s, and B-24-s just to name a few I had recognized from our days of building modeled aircraft.
We would climb around upon the pile of wings in order to climb into the fuselages and work our way up to the cockpit with it's blood stained seats and switches which we nicknamed J2's ,and knobs everywhere. With windows riddled with bullet holes and glass one or two inches thick. Looking at the glass turrets underneath the fuselages where it's guns used to hang out gave me quiver's as I thought about those who went before me, I had often had thoughts of what it must have been like for those pilots and the horrors of war.
What had been a play place like none other, a realm enchanted with the imaginations of youth and an astonishment beyond being told. What became of the stories of these courageous men who had fought untold battles in the skies, or yet none at all , only to be found upon land once again. As a child we knew or felt one thing, they had passed into that realm of which we shall all see one day. From once upon a time to a current reality...Heaven. Yet , as children we did not dwell upon what was the obvious, we continued upon our adventures and quests of our own time. The next realm for ourselves was from woods and railroad, to trees and swamps..
AUTHOR INTERJECTION
As a writer and Veteran with no combat stories, I was a member of the United States Airforce, Vietnam Era, duty at the Strategic Air Command , Offutt A.F.B., Omaha Nebraska, I wish to interject at this point of stories that I hold true.
My uncle Frank Schoenmakers whom died at Omaha Beach, another two uncles Casey Schoenmakers and Jack Scoenmakers whom had stories of their own, all brothers from a family of fourteen . My father Alonzo "George" Maloy served in the Army Air Corp, and the United States Navy and Naval Reserve as Bombardier over the Midway Islands, and Navigator. I owe much to fellow Veterans, some passed on and some still with us. Like schoolmates Ignacious Duro, Gilbert Fifer, Michael Keller, and many others whom never made it home.
I here by dedicate this short story to my grandson Matthew Maloy whom has just enlisted into our United States Marine Corp.
May fate and faith watch over him.
April 7th 2017, Matthew graduates from Marine Corp Basic Training at San Diego.
