Blue Bell and the Roses

At the top of the ladder well at last, Packy Burkhalter paused at the hatch. Even with the arthritic knuckles in his right hand, still he gripped the frame like a safety line.

And that was just silly. What could happen? This probably wasn’t even the same plane, though the outline of the time-faded painting on the nose was familiar.

But even if it was the same plane, it was here, today, like he was.

And both it and he were old and used up. No flight hours left in either of them.

Unwilling yet to release his grip on the right side of the hatch, he glanced at the hinges on the left side of the frame.

There was a little grey-green paint still in place, and a little clear black grease pushed up in a few permanent, dust-covered bulges. But the rest was rusted over. Even here in the searing, arid heat of the desert. He shook his head.

Those hinges had always been difficult. Occasionally he had heard them screech as the bombardier or navigator had pulled the hatch closed. Even from the back of the plane, even over the roar of the engines.

Toward the end of the war, both the hatch and the rear turret screeched when they moved no matter how much grease the boys put on them. The ground guys were always sure they could fix anything. But some things just refused to be fixed. Personality flaws, he thought. Or maybe just personality, period.

A grim smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. An ironic sense of brotherhood swept over him. Both the plane and he were arthritic, with failing joints.

Was he wrong back in the day to think of this hunk of metal as nothing but a mode of transport? Or was he wrong now to think of it fondly as a brother in arms? Well, a sister in arms.

His neighbor down the block, Slim Green, was on the ground during the war. Not even on the same continent. But he still kept his M1 Garand well-cleaned and oiled.

A scant three weeks ago, on a rare, cool, overcast morning, Packy and his cane took a power limp to the end of the block. As usual, as he walked, he looked down most of the time.

The cracks in the sidewalk were rivers or streams. The ants were trucks, and lines of them were trains. The occasional grass stem lying across a crack was a bridge. Now and then a pebble was a farm house. A one-inch by one and a half-inch piece of rotting wood imbedded in the concrete was a factory. Could the bombardier hit it? Yes. Yes he could.

On his way back he glanced up one time, as if his chin was lifted by fate.

Slim was sitting on his front porch. An undershirt was tucked into khaki trousers. An olive drab cap sat on his head, the bill pulled down to an inch or so above his eyebrows. At his feet, the scene shifted and went radical as it fell off into brown leather flip-flops. Probably his youngsters had gotten to him.

The Garand, bits of it, lay on two oil-stained towels on a small yellow-metal patio table in front of him. He perched on a similarly painted metal chair. His fingers moved over the metal parts as lovingly as if they were the various parts of a woman. The stock, a rich, brown wood, lay across the front of the table.

He and Slim hadn’t talked often. Neither cared to talk about what they had most in common.

Still, the man glanced up at the right time. He smiled and gestured hello with his chin.

And Packy raised his left hand. Maybe the guy was embarrassed to be caught in the middle of the process. It wasn’t like he was being practical. It wasn’t like he’d ever use that rifle again.

But even with his walk three-fourths finished, Packy wasn’t ready to be home yet anyway. He turned to make his way up Slim’s sidewalk.

“Nice rifle,” he said as he approached. “M1?”

Without looking up, Slim nodded.

Yep, embarrassed. Well, Packy ought to be getting home anyway. He had a lot of things to—

Still without looking up, Slim said, “Every time I sit down with her, it’s like going home.” Finally he looked up. He gestured again with his chin. This time to his left side. “Come sit if you want. I have coffee.”

Packy looked at him. “All right. No coffee though. Thanks.”

He moved gingerly the remaining few feet up the sidewalk to the porch.

Slim reached back with his left hand and grabbed the top of an identical folding chair. He dragged it closer. When he had regained a solid balance, he lifted it and popped it open. “Here you go.” As Packy made his way around the table to the chair, Slim said, “You know the Garand?”

More to be polite than to rest, Packy turned and lowered himself onto the chair. “No. I recognized it, or thought I did. Trained with it a little, but I was in the air.”

Slim looked at him and nodded. “I always wondered what that was like, being up there.” He turned his attention back to the table. Picked up a smaller oil-stained cloth than the two that lay on the table, then picked up a long, slim piece of dark metal.

He held the piece close to his face to inspect it, then began rubbing the cloth over it. “Scary, I figure. Always flying through flak. Fighter or bomber?”

Packy nodded. “Bomber. Mine was the B17E. I had the tail.” He paused. “I always felt bad for guys on the ground.” 

Slim laughed lightly. “We didn’t have nearly as far to fall as you guys did.” A moment later, he said, “Well, I’m done I guess. I clean and oil my friend here once a week.”

Before he realized what he was saying, Packy said, “Why? It isn’t like they’ll ever call on us again.” His tone belied some bitterness.

Slim’s hands moved instinctively through the quick process of putting the rifle back together. “Oh, I know. But it’s what she deserves. I like to think she enjoys our visits as much as I do. It’s like going home.” He frowned. “I think I already said that.”

They talked for a few more minutes, then Packy excused himself and headed for home.

But the conversation stuck with him.

The M1 Garand was Slim’s best friend. Or that’s how he treated it.

And maybe he was right. The Blue Bell had been his home in the air. It wasn’t a friend so much as a shelter from the storm outside. Then again, no matter the circumstances, it had gotten him home every time.

It waited patiently, too, as he and his human friends had dinner, saw women, and closed the local pubs. Almost as if it was standing guard until he returned.

Human friends had come and gone, transferred in or out. None had been wounded, none had died.

But Blue Bell was wounded several times, and twice severely. Even when the fuselage was severed almost through three-fourths of the way back, it had held on and kept him safe until they landed. He had walked out of his tail gunner bubble then as easily as he ever had before.

And he’d never given the plane a second thought.

Until now.

Two days later, he walked to the corner and caught the right bus.

At the gate he transferred to the shuttle, then paid attention as the young driver announced each area.

Finally the driver called, “Bombers, B17.”

Packy shuffled the few feet to the front of the small bus, then paused. “You don’t know the Blue Bell, do you?”

“Figure of a woman in a sweeping blue ball gown just behind the Plexiglas?”

Packy nodded. “That’s her.”

“Maybe.” He gestured toward the front passenger seat with his chin. “Have a seat.”

Packy sat down again and the driver moved the shuttle a few rows forward. “It’s really faded, but maybe down that way. I’d drive you if I could but—”

“No. No, that’s all right. Thank you.”

That was almost two hours earlier. The Blue Bell—or what he hoped was the Blue Bell—was not in that row. It was the next row. But the driver had saved him searching several more.

And here it was.

The boy—the young man—was right. The figure on the front was faded almost to grey-white, but the general form was right. “Blue Bell, you beautiful lady.”

And she was here, in this place. This extended waiting room for shelters—no, friends—who had outlived their usefulness.

Officially she was waiting here, as she had a lifetime ago, for her country to call on her again. For a crew—her crew—to return and make her useful again.

Unofficially the place was labeled a graveyard.

But it wasn’t like there was a headstone to hover over. She hadn’t been buried quite yet.

He looked up at the faded figure, then laid his left palm on it. He shook his head, then bowed it. Quietly, he said, “Sorry it’s taken me so long.”

Then he had ascended the stairs.

Now he eased up on his grip on the right side of the hatch and stepped aboard the plane. Left foot first, as always.

Inside, he glanced to the left, halfway expecting to see Crazy Jack Morrison, the pilot.

But he didn’t.

A lot of the controls and dials were still there though, as far as he could tell. That wasn’t his end of the plane.

He started to turn right.

The bombardier and the navigator­—Louis and Frank—sat there and there.

He heard their good-natured teasing at him for coming on board late, as usual.

But it was coming from very far away.

If they had actually been there, he would have laughed and tossed back, “You’re just jealous, old people.”

But of course, they weren’t.

“Excuse me,” he said, and stepped past them.

Then the engines roared to life.

But not really. No, it wasn’t like they started.

He realized they were already humming while he was still on his way up the ladder. As usual.

He frowned. Had he ever heard them start?

Well, once. He grinned. The morning after the day he had reported to the base.

He was worried he was going to be late. He had run across the tarmac carrying a heavy duffel. Some jokesters in the barracks had advised him on what to bring just in case they were shot down.

With the duffel swinging and slapping irregularly against his right leg, he made it across the tarmac. But when he reached for the rail with his left hand and the duffel hit his right calf, he missed the first step. And he busted his chin on the edge of the fifth step.

Bleeding profusely, he gathered himself and struggled up the ladder well, still hurrying.

But he hit the step so hard the pilot had heard it.

Packy reached the penultimate step just as the pilot appeared in the hatch to investigate.

The man’s eyes grew wide. Then he took in the fresh, pressed uniform and the massive duffel and laughed. He looked around and yelled, “Louie! Frank! C’mere. You gotta see this.”

And two more faces appeared in the hatch to one side of the captain.

The captain was still grinning when he said, “You Burkhalter?”

Packy tried to salute, but the strap for his duffel was still in his right hand. Awkwardly, he shifted it past the front of his legs, grabbed the strap with his left hand, then saluted. “Sir, Private Archibald Burkhalter reporting as ordered sir.” Then, still holding the salute, he frowned. “This is the Blue Bell, ain’t it sir?”

The captain and both men next to him burst into laughter again, even as the captain swung his right hand up in a half-hearted salute. When he brought himself under control again, the captain said, “Yes, yes, this is the Blue Bell.” Then he stepped back. “Come on aboard.”

The other men had stepped aside too, and Private Archibald Burkhalter struggled up the final two steps of the ladder well.

“However,” the captain said, “we never salute and we go by nicknames. And from this day forward,” he pointed briefly to the duffel, “yours is Packy. That good with you?”

“Oh, yes sir.” He twitched his right arm, but one of the others—the one named Frank, he thought—grabbed his arm and shook his head.

Then they all busted out laughing again.

The captain said, “Show him where to stow his gear, guys.” Then he looked at Packy. “Son, you don’t have to bring anything but yourself. And you’re close to an hour early.” He frowned. “You are my new tail gunner, right?”

“Oh, yes sir. And I hit what I aim at too.”

Louis said, “Throwing that many rounds down range, I would hope so.” But he was grinning.

The captain said, “Now strictly speaking, you don’t have to even be aboard until we’re taxiing down the runway. ‘Course, that’s taking off, not landing. So don’t worry too much about that, all right?”

“Yes sir.”

“All right. Head to the back. These boys’ll take good care of you.” He turned away. “We gotta get this bird in the air or those other bastards are gonna get all the good targets.”

Packy had flown ten missions before he knew they most often had assigned targets. For the captain and the bombardier, targets of opportunity were only for the leg home. If they had any bombs left. Which was rare.

But he learned on his first flight, as a tail gunner, every round he fired from his twin 12.7mm machine guns was at a target of opportunity. And he never lacked for German pilots who wanted to volunteer.

As a result of that experience, from that day forward he was almost always the last to board.

Except twice. Twice the little guy came in after he did. The little guy. The belly gunner, What was his name?

Johnson. Something Johnson. Slick?

Grimly, he nodded. Slick. The bombardier gave him that nickname. Said it’s what the kid would be if they ever had to land wheels-up.

In retrospect, it wasn’t that funny, but Packy had laughed at the time.

He glanced down. The hatch was closed.

Slick beat him on board this time, as usual. Above the humming and the vibration, he said, “Sorry, Johnson.”

But it had turned out all right. They’d never had to land wheels-up. Even when the tail was almost shot off, the landing gear had worked well enough.

Someone from the front called out, “C’mon, Packy. Get back there. We gotta go.”

He nodded without turning around.

But in his mind he glanced over his shoulder and grinned. He heard himself say, “Yeah, yeah. What’s the rush?” as he normally did.

He continued to shuffle toward the back. It shouldn’t take this long. It was only what, around sixty-five feet from the hatch? Something like that.

Someone else, probably Simon, the flight engineer, yelled, “Hey, Packy. Early today? We ain’t movin’ yet.” And there was laughter. God it was good to be with the guys again.

He made it to the back and settled into his chair. The fit was slightly tighter than he remembered, but not much.

Someone had taken the guns.

Then they were there.

The engines came up to full throttle and the plane began to taxi.

There was the first bump in the runway. A long moment later, the second one. The engines grew louder, then the third bump, and a moment later they were airborne.

It wasn’t fifteen minutes before the belly gun opened up.

The flight engineer opened up a moment later with the top turret.

Packy expected to hear the radio operator’s single gun open up as well, but it didn’t. So nothing out front or on the front flanks.

Then a Messerschmitt dropped in behind them, seemingly out of nowhere. It seemed to float, slipping slightly to the right.

Packy took the slip into account and hit the twin thumb triggers. The ratcheting vibration of the guns moved up his arms to his shoulders. Beads of sweat tickled their way out from under his cap.

He frowned. He hadn’t remembered wearing his cap.

Almost immediately plumes of white smoke began curling back, up and over the aircraft. Oil sheeted up over the windshield of the cockpit. A second later the pilot jinxed hard right and plummeted from view.

But where was the other Messerschmitt? They seldom flew alone.

A moment later, two Focke-Wulf 190 Shrikes came in from the right rear.

Probably another Messerschmitt or two or three would join them.

But for now the Shrikes.

Just as Packy swung the guns around, two Spitfires came in from somewhere underneath.

They toasted the second Shrike. It went to flame, then rolled hard left and began spiraling toward the ground. Smoke trailed off the left wing. Hard to tell, but he thought it was the left.

The Spitfires appeared and were gone, somewhere high above.

The other Shrike made a run and the whole bubble vibrated as bullets tore through just above Packy’s head. He twisted hard on the guns, trying to bring them to bear.

The belly of the Shrike flashed past and was gone.

Maybe it would find the Spitfires.

A pair of US Mustang P51s dropped in, then slipped into flanking positions.

Packy could’ve sworn the pilot in the one on the left waved, then saluted. Then both aircraft seemed to levitate and rose out of his view.

Another Messerschmitt flashed into his right periphery.

He pressed the twin thumb triggers again and the bullets traced a straight line at an angle from beneath the cockpit up to the tail.

And the Messerschmitt was gone.

To the ground?

No. He hadn’t hit anything important. Maybe the hydraulics, by chance. Maybe the guy wouldn’t have landing gear.

But he bore the man no ill will.

He sensed no more planes would appear. He relaxed in his seat.

Relaxed. That was something he’d never done in this seat before.

There was a rush of air, and the plane suddenly raised itself higher up into the sky.

He leaned forward. Looked down, but still scanning the sky in his periphery.

The blossoms beneath him were cactus flowers like back in his native Arizona. Yellow, some white in the middle. Red, some yellow in the middle. Yellow. Lines of yellow and red. Alternating like great blossoms

Cactus blossoms had no scent.

He’d always called them roses. They were more beautiful by far than those that grew on bushes. The bushes had thorns.

The thorns on these blossoms were in the rose. In the blossom.

He sighed as they receded into smoke and dust and debris.

Then he was leaning with a wide bank. They were RTB. Returning to base. Returning to women and dinners and pubs.

Returning to dreams and memories.

There was a massive bump, then the sense the captain was attempting to set the land speed record.

He reached up for his cap. It would be good to see it again.

But his hand contacted his Panama fedora. It protected his balding head and his face and neck from the Arizona sun.

Arizona. Not England. Arizona.

He sighed, then rose from the seat. This was the Blue Bell. That much was certain. Only she would have the same memories.

Even after all these years. All these decades, waiting here in this place unofficially called a graveyard.

Soon she and her arthritic gears and hinges would be dismantled. She was too old to be of use anymore except as a friend. Soon she would be in a real graveyard.

And soon, he would be too.

* * * * * * *