It happened this way.
I had responded to a call from a worker at our state’s
Office of Volunteerism and had agreed to some pro bono work for the City of
Alma, Arkansas. That’s a nice community in the far west of the state, almost to
Oklahoma. Yes, you remember right, it’s where Buck Barrow and another of Bonnie and Clyde’s gang
members murdered a town marshal back in the 1930s. Anyway, it’s a long way from
Little Rock.
I figured I would
drive there and do my thing, then drive back. But no, the man from the state insisted
on driving the both of us in a state car.
Drats. I barely knew him. His name was Hal Naylor, and was a
fastidious sort of guy—tall, thin, neat, and no-nonsense. And here I was, well,
much the opposite in some ways. But I was stuck with Hal for maybe four hours
in a car, just the two of us. Maybe I could keep him occupied by relating my
fascinating life’s story. Maybe not. Drats.
We took off. Somewhere about the western city limits of
North Little Rock, something motivated him to tell me about his life. First thing
was, he was distantly related to Dwight Eisenhower, the Dwight
Eisenhower. Hal told about how, when he was a young boy, the Colonel had
stopped by to visit family when passing through Kansas. Hal had met him and
still remembered how splendid he looked in his uniform and highly shined boots.
Then it really got interesting. Hal was a college student
when World War Two broke out. He left college, joined cadet pilot training
program, and, at age 21, found himself piloting a B-17 Flying Fortress and its nine-man
crew, ten counting Hal. Holy wingspan! Now, I’ve nothing against the youth of
today. I’m only thinking how few 21-year-olds I would let take my car in for an
oil-change.
Oh goodness. On the flight over to England, the Germans hacked
the plane’s communications and he landed in a neutral zone. After being hustled
out, he made it to England and began bombing runs over France and into Germany.
We were halfway to Alma by then, but I hadn’t even noticed.
On, if I remember right, their sixth mission, they got shot
down. Being the pilot, he was the last one out, barely making it through a hatch
jammed by the heavy winds of a fast descent. His parachute was tied to his leg,
so he had to slip it on as he fell. Somehow, he made it onto German soil.
I’ve always thought it interesting that he, although quite
talkative, didn’t have a lot to say about how they carried out his rescue. He just
said, “I walked through Germany to a designated spot.” Still classified after
all those years? Maybe. Anyway, his rescuers told him to hide in the woods at
the edge of a clearing where, a plane would land at 0130 Hours, a while after midnight. It would
turn around, a hatch would open, and he had 30 seconds to be through the hatch
before the plane took off.
He’s 21 years old, mind you, in Germany and facing certain
death if anything went wrong.
The plane came, landed turned and waited. The hatch opened
and our young escapee started running.
“Then,” he said, “I heard all the footsteps behind me. I made
the conscious decision that if they caught me and killed me, I would be as close
to that plane as I could get.”
Somehow, he reached the plane before they overtook him and he
dove through the hatch. Another body dove in behind him. Then another, and
another and another. Soon, the cargo space was full of young Americans and the plane
took off for freedom. Seems they had all been waiting with no knowledge of another
person anywhere around.
On that day, I took the shortest ride to and from Alma, Arkansas
that I ever took. Gee, I wish I could take it again.
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