First Meeting

*Paratroopers of the 101st Airborne Division Liberating Sainte-Marie-Du-Mont,* June 6, 1944. Photo at Memorial De Caen/NARA

A couple of years ago, I began writing D-Day related historical fiction pieces to prompts for the Chatham Writers Group. This particular story was written three years ago, months before the D-Day anniversary to a prompt about strange meeting places. My original draft was longer than the 1,000 word limit. I resurrected the story, made several changes, and I am posting for the 80th Anniversary of the Invasion of the European Continent.

June 5, 1944, outskirts of St. Marie-Du-Mont, France

In the corner of their dining room, Gerard Bouchard sat huddled around a small wireless radio with his brother, Rene, and father, Charles, listening to jazz being broadcast by the BBC in London. Shutters drawn, blackout curtains drawn and clipped together with clothespins, the only light in the room came from the radio dial. The musical program ended, and the Bouchards leaned in closer to the radio.

A distinct voice floated over the airwaves now. A French-speaking host announced, “London calling with Frenchmen speaking to our countrymen, London calling with some messages for our friends”. From this point on, they would broadcast all messages in French.

After a brief pause, the voice recited a line from a poem by Paul Verlaine “Wound my heart with a monotonous languor”, then repeated it.

The Bouchards sat bolt upright, emitted a collective gasp and looked at each other’s faces with wide, anxious eyes. They leaned back over the radio as a series of other abstract messages poured from the wireless. “Molasses tomorrow will bring forth cognac,” announced the voice.

“My God!” exclaimed Gerard’s father.

The next radio message declared that “the dice are on the carpet”.

Charles sobbed, stood, and motioned for his sons to stand. Hugging and kissing them both, through his tears, he said, “France is about to be liberated. We have a long night ahead of us. Be quick, we have work to do.”

Messages still were being transmitted when Gerard turned off the radio and hid it away. They didn’t need to hear anything else. The ‘dice were on the carpet’ was their signal, which meant the Allied invasion of France would begin before dawn. The Bouchard’s role in this drama would be to disrupt communications by blowing up a line of telephone poles that linked the German army rear support depots to the defensive lines on the beaches at Normandy. Gerard and Rene followed their father to the root cellar. Charles pried the lid from a barrel and pulled out a canvas bag loaded with plastic explosives. He reached into the barrel twice more, handing a bag with fuses and wire to Gerard and one with the detonator to Rene. They slung the bags over their shoulders and set off for their targets.

Avoiding German patrols along the roads, the Bouchards followed obscure paths, leading them through orchards to a dense hedgerow. Pausing for a moment, Charles Bouchard looked back in the direction they came to make sure no one was following. The hedgerow ran roughly 100 yards where it stopped at the edge of a forest where they were to meet someone who would guide them to the targeted section of trains tracks.

“We are not being followed,” Charles whispered to his sons, and led them off towards the tree line. After they moved about 50 yards, a light flashed on and off once from the woods at the end of the hedgerow. Gerard pulled a flashlight from his coat pocket and clicked it on and off twice. A single flash of light answered him from the woods. Charles said, “That’s our guide. Let’s go.”

When they reached the trees, Gerard was surprised to discover that their guide was a woman.

“My name is Margaux. Follow me. No talking,” was all she said.

In the darkness, it was impossible for Gerard to make out her features. Gerard didn’t recognize her voice, but she sounded young. About his age.

Margaux led them to a second team of Resistance fighters tasked with blowing up the rail bridge over the Merderet River, close to the telephone poles the Bouchards were to destroy. They carried weapons. There were German soldiers guarding the bridge. For the first time, Gerard noticed Margaux had a machine gun slung over her back. She turned to look at him. The clearing next to the railroad tracks was not as dark, and he immediately noticed how beautiful she was. Ringlets of dark hair curled from beneath her beret. He couldn’t tell if it was black or brown in this light. But there was no mistaking how blue her eyes were.

She smiled at him briefly, but then her features drew hard, her eyes flashed and she snapped, “Close your mouth before a bug flies into it. We’ve got work to do.”

Gerard’s face felt red hot, and he hoped it was dark enough to hide his embarrassment.

The two teams reviewed the plan one more time. The bridge and telephone pole explosions had to occur at the same time. The Bouchards would set their charges first, allowing the other group time to approach and set their bridge charges. When the bridge team was ready, Margaux would jog back along the tracks and signal with a torch. Seeing her signal, Gerard would turn to his brother and father and signal his torch. After detonating the charges, the Resistance fighters would disappear into the darkness and make their way back to their homes. The groups separated.

It did not take long for the Bouchards to have their explosives in place. Gerard ran alongside the rail line towards the bridge. Ducking behind a utility box, he awaited the signal from Margaux. “Where was she? He thought, “This is dragging on for too long!””

Shouts, German voices, from the bridge made his heart skip a beat. Gun shots now, more German voices yelling “Halt”! He could see tracer bullets searching through the trees. There were gun flashes from the woods. Someone was approaching fast along the rail line. He had no weapon to use if it were a German. It was Margaux! She signaled with her torch. Gerard turned and sent his signal. A stream of German machine gun fire spit down the tracks. He heard Margaux cry out in pain, saw her tumble down the rail embankment. At the same moment, the explosive charges detonated behind him and in front of toppling the telephone poles and collapsing the bridge into the river. In the light from the explosions, he saw Margaux lurch off into the woods. He stood to run after her, but there were Germans on this side of the river! They were walking in his direction with weapons at the ready. Upon spotting Gerard, they shouted, “Stop!” and started shooting without aim.

The burping of Margaux’s sub-machine gun from the woods to his left made the German soldiers scramble for cover. He sprinted towards where he had seen her muzzle flashes.

He stumbled over a branch and heard her call out “Here”! Discovering Margaux behind a fallen tree with a wound on her side, he bent to help her up. Throwing her over his shoulders, he lumbered off deeper into the woods. They could not outrun their pursuers. Margaux begged him to put her down. German soldiers tracking them from both sides of the river fired indiscriminately into the trees, the rounds striking very close to them.

Bursting from the woods, Gerard discovered the Merderet River flowing right in front of them. With little thought, he plunged into the water and began swimming along with the current, his arm around Margaux. Soldiers following on the other side of the river saw them and raised their weapons to fire. The sound of plane engines, hundreds of them, halted the German soldiers in their tracks. They now stood gaping up at the sky. Soon searchlights broke through the darkness, parachutes blossomed in the glare. The Germans sprinted back to the smoldering bridge.

Gerard floated onto a shoal. Catching his breath, he carried Margaux out of the river and set her down on its bank to examine her wound. From the darkness came whispered voices. Margaux let out a cry of pain.

A voice shouted from the darkness, “Throw down your weapons! Put up your hands!”

The voice from the woods was speaking English! Gerard called out, “I am French, I have a wounded friend”.

Three men, faces blackened with burnt cork, cautiously stepped from the woods. Gerard noticed their uniforms. Their left shoulder had a black patch with a white eagle stitched on it, and their right shoulder had an American flag.

Gerard cried out, “Americans! Your Americans!”

Seeing the wounded Margaux, one of the Americans yelled “Medic”!

#####

L’Estaminet Hotel, Sainte Marie Du Mont, June 1994

From the kitchen entrance, Annette saw the host seat a couple at a table in her section. Both were strikingly attractive. The woman had black curly hair threaded with silver and her eyes were a deep blue. Gray streaks were also present in the man’s brown hair. His brown eyes sparkled above his broad smile. Annette thought they were about 60 years old.

After seating the couple, the host walked over to Annette and said, “A special couple for you, Annette, and a special evening. They’ve been celebrating their anniversary here long before I came to the L’Estaminet.”

Arriving at their table, she said, “Hello, my name is Annette, and I will be your server tonight. I understand you are celebrating a special event this evening?”

The woman answered, “Yes! My name’s Margaux and this is my husband, Gerard. It’s our 50th wedding anniversary.” Annette realized they were older than they looked. “Oh, my! How delightful! Congratulations! Can I ask how you the two of you met? I am always curious how people who have been together a long time met each other.”

With a twinkle in his eye and a wry smile on his face, Gerard looked at Margaux and replied, “Well, Annette, we met while swimming. It changed our lives forever. We had a blast.”

*L’Estaminet Hotel, Sainte-Marie-Du-Mont. The site of my character’s anniversary.*

French Resistance members received coded messages relating to the impending invasion along the Normandy Coast. The last two messages in this string are the ones that alerted the French that the invasion would begin in 24 hours.

In The Beginning

*The house we lived in on Lanza Avenue. Our apartment was on the second floor.*

The prompt for the Chatham Memoir Group was “Beginnings”. I heard the Emerson, Lake & Palmer song, “From the Beginning”, playing somewhere. Thinking about my earliest memories and where we lived at the time, I began to string some lines together in my mind.

In the Beginning – Lanza Avenue

Ernie Stricsek©

There are some things I can recall

Fire trucks screaming by

Sirens and lights new to my eye

We sit on the basement steps

The landlord nods with a smile

He shovels coal from a pile

Fragments in my mind

In my mind I can see

When it was my mom, dad and just me

In the beginning

Classical music on the phonograph

Hunters searching the woods

Peter catching the wolf

I jump and leap to an Offenbach tune

There’s a knock on the door

The landlord tells us no more

In my mind I can see

When it was my mom, dad and just me

In the beginning

Across the street looms Saint Stan’s Church

The bells sounding loud

The colorful crowd

I remember the bassinet

First with my brother Ken

Then my brother Dave

In my mind I can see

A family larger than three

Memories of the beginning

Once Upon A Time

A brief story about our son, Jeremy, and a blanket puppet he loved when he was a mere wisp of a lad. Written to a prompt about things that are valued (inanimate things).

Once Upon a Time

Ernie Stricsek©

Once upon a time in the New England state of Connecticut, there lived a child named Jeremy. Jeremy was bright-eyed and curious, with a heart full of wonder, whimsy and imagination. He had a very special companion named ‘Bunny’, a soft and cuddly blanket bunny that had been with him since he was a baby.

Bunny was, indeed, no ordinary bunny; he had pink, satiny inner ears surrounded by white felt outer ears. Bright eyes hovered over a pink, satin nose and a broad smile stitched on a face as fluffy as his ears. Bunny’s coat was a patchwork of colors that hung from his head like a cloak and two white cottony paws peaked from beneath it. From the moment Jeremy’s tiny fingers grasped him they formed a bond that was stronger than the strongest of steels. Every night Jeremy would tuck himself into bed with Bunny nestled nearby. He would become Jeremy’s protector, his confidant, and a great source of comfort in a world that felt big, overwhelming, and sometimes very scary.

For an inanimate object, Bunny developed a personality that was bigger than life and became a big part of the family. He went everywhere Jeremy went. The grocery store, on visits to the doctor, visits to grandparents, family trips. Sometimes Jeremy’s dad even let Bunny steer the car! When it was mealtime, he would sit next to Jeremy to make sure he ate everything. Because they were so inseparable, Bunny needed to bathe with almost the same frequency that Jeremy did. Jeremy in the bathtub, Bunny with the towels and linens in the Sears Hotpoint washing machine. He didn’t seem to be bothered by that; he would always emerge with the same broad smile on his face.

One day, while shopping at the Pathmark grocery store, Jeremy was distracted and didn’t notice that Bunny had slipped from shopping cart seat. He only became aware of his absence whey they got home from the store. Jeremy’s mom called the store and discovered some kind person had found Bunny and brought him to the service desk for safe keeping. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

Bunny was so well loved that over time, his once magnificent coat became tattered and threadbare. However, Jeremy’s mom was able to fashion a new coat from a section of blanket that Jeremy had also loved. Which also became threadbare, but thankfully was quite large and provided enough fabric for several more wardrobe changes.

However, the day that many children fear came. On a long trip from their comfortable home and familiar New England setting to a strange place that was flat as a pancake and surrounded by corn, Bunny disappeared. At a rest stop somewhere along the Ohio Turnpike, he tumbled out of the car, unnoticed by Jeremy and his family until they stopped at another rest area many, many miles away. Everyone was devastated. Jeremy’s dad called all the rest areas the family had stopped at, but the news from each of them was not good. A bunny with pink satin ears and well-loved cloak had not been brought to safety. Jeremy’s faithful companion, the symbol of his childhood innocence and unwavering friendship, was forever lost. No matter where his young life had taken him, Bunny was there, a constant reminder of love and resilience.

As time passed, the plucky, resilient Jeremy, would find another faithful companion. On a visit to an animal shelter, an orange tabby kitten called out to Jeremy when he walked past his cage. Sunny replaced Bunny and would be Jeremy’s constant companion for many more years.

Canoe Believe It?

A memoir about a memorable Boy Scout camping trip our son, Jeremy, and I went on… back in the day.

Shove Off – A Memoir

Ernie Stricsek©

April 2, 2024

“It’s a lazy, meandering creek. You should have no troubles,” said the Scoutmaster about the upcoming camping and canoe excursion.

“Yes!” exclaimed the Assistant Scoutmaster, “Don’t worry! A piece of cake!”

They were trying to allay my fears. It’s not that I was inexperienced with paddling a canoe, I had done so many times. However, my experiences were on ponds and lakes that I was familiar with. Places that were typically placid and where I didn’t have to navigate swift and unpredictable currents.

“How about kayaks? Will kayaks be available? I’d feel more comfortable steering a kayak on a river.” I asked.

The Assistant Scout Master shook his head and answered me in a defensive tone, “IT’S NOT a river. It’s a stream. There are kayaks there. If you want to use one, I’m sure you can.”

His peevish response took me somewhat aback, but my unease dissipated when I learned that our son, Jeremy, and I could use kayaks. The good news was further enhanced by the prospect of Jeremy earning a kayaking merit badge along with the cooking merit, which was the main purpose of the weekend excursion.

Four days before the camping trip, it began to rain. And it continued to rain until the morning of the day we were to leave on our trip. We arrived at the campsite on Friday night and had to erect tents and build campfires in the dark. Saturday morning, we awoke to a beaming sun and cloudless sky. After a quick breakfast, we made the short drive to the launch site of our mariner adventure. The torrential downpours had transformed the “meandering” creek into a fast-moving sluice of water. Also, there were zero kayaks available. I asked if it was safe enough to embark on the rapids. The canoe concession guy pointed to the sharp bend the creek made and told us it became calmer after making the turn. “You guys better shove off, you’re falling behind the other scouts,” he urged.

Jeremy and I entered the first bend and the current drove us into a fallen tree. We were on the creek for less than a minute before we were in the creek. This was the first of seven unplanned dips in a body of water which the name of has been permanently blocked from my memory. The creek alternated from calm spots to racing rapids, especially on the numerous bends. People gathered on the shoreline at especially challenging turns to make sport of those unskilled in navigating such turns. Like us.

As we neared the end of this debacle, two especially heinous scouts rammed our canoe, sending Jeremy and I into the water one last time. As they glided by, snickering, I was encouraged to try to earn a “Wilderness Dentistry” merit badge. You know, the one where you extract a scout’s teeth with a canoe paddle.

Jeremy and I successfully steered our vessel to the canoe landing, mercifully ending our journey. The two miscreants who had sent us into the water during the home stretch of the expedition, stood on the shore, still snickering, and pointing us. In my mind, I had moved on from the dentistry merit badge. Because I thought that action would lead to “Spend A Night Behind Bars” badge. Not wanting that, I instead settled for the one award I had certainly earned, “Creative Use Of Cuss Words”.

Why Not?

This is another one of my fish tales. A memoir from my Junior High School days. This was written to a prompt titled “Why Not?”

Why Not

A Memoir

Ernie Stricsek©

It was early March 1967. My friends and I were champing at the bit to go fishing, but the opening day of trout season was still over a month away. The windows that ran the entire length of one wall of 7th grade classrooms at East Paterson Memorial Jr. & Sr. High School faced the Passaic River and after several days of temperatures in the low 40’s, we noticed the jagged line of winter ice flows jammed on the river’s banks were melting, exposing large swaths of shoreline. This observation made us more antsy to drop our lines.

During lunch, my friend Gary rushed to our table in the cafeteria, boiling over with excitement. He glanced out of the window during his algebra class and immediately became engrossed with what was happening on the river versus what equations Mrs. Nanfeldt was reviewing on the blackboard. Gary had seen a car pull over on the shoulder of River Road, and two guys with fishing rods began casting their lines into the water along an ice-free stretch of shoreline. Another one of my friends, Mike, asked if he saw them catching anything. He didn’t, but only because he was caught gazing out the window and “Granny Fanbelt”, as we called her with great fondness, scolded him and closed the shades. But what Gary had observed was enough, and he was trying to convince the rest of us to go fishing in the Passaic. The Passaic River was not a very pristine body of water. Marcal Paper, the Forstmann and Botany 500 textile mills had pumped dyes and chemicals out into the river for decades. Carp, suckers, and, maybe a stray catfish, were the only fish anyone could catch in the near putrid waters. One stood more of a chance of catching a shopping cart or tire.

None of these facts seemed to faze Gary. He just wanted to fish. We tried to reason with him. The shoreline across from the high school was ice-free, but what was it like elsewhere? None of this deterred Gary. He was aiming for a closer spot to fish, near Pizza Town USA, where Route 46 passes over the river.

Mike and some of my other friends weakened under Gary’s enthusiastic onslaught. I remained skeptical and didn’t think it was a good idea. A kid named Tommy D, who was not part of this circle of friends, was sitting nearby and had been listening to our conversation. He blurted out, “Why not?”. We turned to look at him. He repeated, “why not?” Tommy D had been in my Sunday School classes from First Communion through Confirmation. He had a know-it-all attitude and enjoyed poking fun at people. He said he lived near the area we were talking about, and it was clear of ice. Tommy claimed to have been fishing there for days now and had caught several big goldfish. In his typical Tommy way, he challenged our fishing skills, telling us we couldn’t catch a cold.

Backing off a bit when we bristled at his jibes, he said he would lead us to this “hotspot”. The key word being lead, meaning he wanted to go with us. I was totally against this. Through those years of Sunday school, Tommy D would refer to me as ‘Tennessee Ernie Ford or Ernie Bilko. When he grew weary of those names, he’d call me Ernie ‘Swipestack’. You can imagine my hesitancy in making him part of our group. After a few more ‘Why nots’ and twisting of arms by Gary, Mike and other friends, I caved. Plans were made to go fishing after school the next afternoon.

We met at Tommy D’s house the next afternoon, after I finished my paper route. The ground was still too hard to dig for worms, so we raided our family’s pantries for cans of corn to use for bait. Taking into consideration the cool weather, and the thawing ground might have muddy spots, my friends and I were dressed appropriately. However, Tommy was still wearing the clothes he had worn at school, which were a pair of copper-colored slacks, while beneath his jacket was a black sweater and cream-colored shirt. On his feet were a pair of black loafers. I never saw a fisherman dressed like that. Ever. Even to this day. Tommy led us off in a single file.

Taking a dirt path off the shoulder of Route 46, we meandered through a narrow, wooded area and emerged to see a wide semi-circular plane of marsh grass and reeds. To our left, about 100 yards away, coursed the Passaic River. Between clumps of reeds and grass, we could see large patches of mud and standing water. It didn’t look good. Mike told Tommy he was full of garbage, there was no way he could have cut through this swamp to go fishing. Tommy’s face reddened, and he said, “I’ll show you,” and he took us onto a narrower path leading to the river. The path tilted slightly to the right as we walked past areas that ranged from dry to muddy to small mucky ponds.

Suddenly Tommy shouted and disappeared from sight. The path tilted more sharply to the right and his smooth soled loafers failed him causing him to rocket off the trail into a watery morass. Initial surprise and anger turned to fear because he was stuck to the knee-deep in the muck beneath the water. Tommy panicked, believing he had fallen prey to the boogeyman of all children – quicksand! But he wasn’t sinking. He was stuck in the much.

Tommy shivered. His copper pants provided no insulation. He was too far out in the bog to grab our outstretched hands. Mike’s brother slipped and slid along the trail back to the woods and returned with a length of tree branch we could extend out to Tommy. Acting like a tug-of-war team, my four friends and I dragged him from the bog, minus his shoes and socks.

The late afternoon sun was setting and the temperature dropping. Tommy was wet, without shoes or socks, and his teeth were beginning to chatter. He had to get home and get warm. He could move fairly quickly along the dirt path in his bare feet. Once on the pavement, we took turns carrying him along the shoulder of Route 46 until we got to cleaner pavement, and Tommy resumed walking. When we got to his house, neither of his parents were home from work yet. He was grateful for us ‘saving his life’, and never ragged me again about my name after that ‘why not’ fishing adventure.

The First Draft

I was listening to the Outer Cape radio station, WOMR, last week when ‘Uncle John’s Band’ by the Grateful Dead began playing. The opening lines of a poem popped into my head. After listening to the song a half dozen more times, I strung together this poetic take of what writing a first draft is like.

The First Draft

Ernie Stricsek ©

Well, the first words are the hardest words

When creating your first draft

You stare at a hummingbird

Versus working at your craft

Will they draw the reader in

Will my words be profound

Or will I sound crazy daft

At the end of my first draft

“A dark and stormy night”

Wait, why did I write that

How did such purple prose

Make it into the first draft

Words, words, words, words

I’m sounding like a hack

It’s only my first go round

So cut me some slack

A Thesaurus is in my hand

My face looks rather bland

“I’ve used first draft to many times”

My voice cracks and whines

Oh, this word fits good here

And these words look great there

Hot damn, I’m on a roll

Like a river, words flow

Happy New Year

Pittsburgh, the scene of my story. This photo from a Carnegie Library collection shows the “Point” where the three rivers flow, and Three Rivers Stadium.

The prompt for the Monday Chatham Writers Group was to open your story with a sentence using each letter from the greeting “Happy New Year”, in order and with no other word between them. My letters are in bold and italics. I called for help from my reporter for the fictional Manchester Press & Journal, headquartered in Pittsburgh’s Manchester neighborhood. I finally gave my young reporter a name, Andy Wink. My story follows.

Happy New Year

“Hey Andy! Percy Pathemore Yancy’s Next Essay, ‘Would Yinz Eat A Raccoon?’, is going to be published in the City Paper this week. I’d like for you to interview that old buzzard and see just what the hell he means.”

“Why me Chief?” I asked my editor.

“Because you’re in my line of sight.”

“So, if I was in the break room having a cup of coffee, I wouldn’t be getting this assignment?”

“Of course not! I would’ve waited for you to come back into my line of sight. That’s another thing. You spend a lot of time in that break room, drinking coffee and moonin’ over the view of Three Rivers Stadium, n’at.”

Normally, I would accept any assignment willingly. “Chief, I’d rather have pins stuck in my eyes than interview Mr. Yancy.”

My boss took the unlit cigar from his mouth. “You don’t mean that. You’d rather be blind than talk to a guy who seems to have taken a liking to eating raccoons? Come on, kid.”

“Mr. Yancy was my English teacher the entire time I was at Schenley High. English I, English II, English Comp and English Lit. It was four years of hell. Prisoners breaking rocks at Devil’s Island have an easier time.”

“But you must have done ok. You wouldn’t have gotten into Syracuse University journalism school if you were a hack.”

The boss had me there. “Alright, I’ll call him and see if he will let me interview him. That’s if he deems my writing skills worthy enough to grant an interview.”

“That’s the sport! Go get him, kid! Now where the hell’s my matches?” My boss stalked off.

I took a deep breath, grabbed the phone book and leafed to the Y’s section. Mr. Yancy still lived on Walnut Street in Pittsburgh’s Shady Side neighborhood. He used to walk the two blocks from his Victorian style home to Schenley High. I took another deep breath before calling. Mr. Yancy used to smoke a pipe in the teacher’s lounge. He would enter the classroom in his rumpled tan corduroy jacket, suede patches on its elbows, and pipe stem sticking out of the breast pocket. No amount of dry cleaning would ever remove the odor of his favorite brand of tobacco from his jacket. It was so engrained in its every fiber.

Pittsburgh’s historic Schenley High School. The cost for asbestos remediation forced the school’s closure in 2008.

Walnut Street in Pittsburgh’s Shady Side neighborhood, not too far from Schenley High School. Uncredited photo from Wikipedia.

One more gulp and I dialed his number. He picked up on the second ring. After identifying myself, my trepidation vanished.

“Mr. Wink! It’s a pleasure. I was pleased when I read yinz was hired by the Manchester Press & Journal.”

Did he just say yinz?

He was even more delighted when I told him the purpose of my call.

“An interview? Conducted by my prize student? Of course! Of course!”

After establishing a day and time, Mr. Yancy said, “See yinz next week.”

Yinz again! I definitely heard that! Yinz! In his classroom, Mr. Yancy showed no mercy to students who spoke “Pittsburghese”. His verbal floggings were severe enough to bring many to tears. He even paddled several students for referring to Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple for being, in their opinion, just a “nebby” neighbor, and not a real sleuth. Use of the slang “nebby” was a sin!

I was non-plussed by Mr. Yancy’s choice of words, but his appearance when he opened the door to his Walnut Street home floored me. I wasn’t expecting to see the tobacco infused sport coat. But I was thinking something along the lines of corduroy pants with the wales worn to a shiny luster, topped by a cardigan with suede elbow patches. The transformation of my English teacher was astonishing. A Pendleton flannel shirt and Carharrt overalls adorned his lanky frame.

Seated in the study, he lit his pipe and motioned for me to begin the interview. Mr. Yancy told me a college friend had invited him and his wife to a “Wild Game Cookoff”. They had scoffed at the idea initially. Maybe nibble on some pheasant, or venison, down an IPA or two and call it a day. None of the food was identified until after it was consumed. The Yancy’s ate snake, mongoose, beaver, and ostrich, all prepared with seasonings and sauces like most beef, chicken, and pork dishes. It was the raccoon with sweet potatoes that overwhelmed Mr. Yancy. It was one of the best meals he had ever eaten. He had an epiphany. Yancy became engrossed in the cooking of wild game, especially raccoon. He created stews, soups, fried and filets, but his recipe for maple bourbon glazed raccoon pushed him over the top. His book of recipes shot to number one, and he was in such demand for cooking shows, he shed the smelly sport coat and retired to concentrate full time on his wild game creations.

He peppered his conversation with classic Pittsburghese. Yinz instead of you, gumbands vs. rubber bands, it’s Jumbo, not baloney, alunimin foil. Dropping infinitives was a gut punch for me; “Young Man, this story needs told”, “I can’t think of anything more that needs done, than this.”

Mr. Yancy saw my jaw dropping to the ground and paused for a moment.

“Are yinz surprised with my transformation, young Andy? Don’t be. I was too stuffy, too harsh.”

He apologized for being so tough on me. I was the best student he had ever had the pleasure of teaching. He wanted to see me achieve good things.

When the interview ended, Mr. Yancy wished me a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. We promised to meet again soon. I returned to the Press & Journal and presented a 1,500-word piece to my boss, which he knocked down to 1,000.

“Maple Bourbon Glazed Raccoon. Damn, that sounds good, kid. Sounds good, but I’ll stick to a pastrami Reuben from Primanti’s. Go get me one.”

Bourbon Maple Glazed Raccoon. Photo from recipes section Realtree website.

Primanti Brothers pastrami sandwich. Photo from Primanti Brothers webpage. My favorite Primanti’s sandwich!

Ernie Stricsek, Chatham Writers Group, January 8, 2024

Two Flash Fiction Pieces

I wrote a flash fiction piece to the following prompt:

It’s the middle of the night.
There’s a band of heavy cloud.
You’re in the countryside.
There’s a cold feel to the place.

I titled it “ Smuggler’s Blues”. After I read it, someone asked, “What next?”, which became the title of the second flash fiction piece. I had fun writing these.

Photo from a New Zealand magazine called Buzz. I thought this was how Rutledge’s plane may have looked.

Smuggler’s Blues

When his plane’s engine began to sputter, Rutledge kept his cool and, with the aid of a brightly lit full moon, discovered a broad meadow to land in. He cut the engine just before touching down. The plane bounced twice and rolled forward a short distance before pitching nose down in an irrigation ditch. Releasing his seat belt and shoulder harness, Rutledge pushed open the door and dropped to the ground. He took a quick inventory of his surroundings. He knew the Canadian border was a scant 3 miles north. To his left, about 300 yards away, a large barn and farmhouse stood in silhouette on a slight rise. About 100 yards to his right was a thicket of woods he had noticed just before landing. A band of thick clouds passed before the moon, pitching the landscape into blackness. As the adrenaline rush of his crash landing dissipated, Rutledge became aware of how cold it was. When his vision became accustomed to the dark, he looked at the farmhouse again and speculated how helpful its occupants would be at 2:00 AM. Before approaching the house, two things needed to be done. “How long will it take me to hide 100 kilos of cocaine and $400,000 in that thicket of woods?” Rutledge wondered. From the distant farmhouse, a dog began to bark.

What Next

As the sound of the barking dog reached his ears, Rutledge glanced at the farmhouse and thought, “What next?” From where his plane was nose up in the irrigation ditch, the thicket of trees was 100 yards away. Rutledge estimated he had about fifteen minutes to stash the coke and cash in the woods before anyone in the house checked to see why their dog was barking.

Markoff sat in the safe room of his farmhouse, staring at the display screen of his shortwave radio. At 1:50 AM, the static ceased, and a symphony playing the first few lines of the “Hungarian Rhapsody” filled his headphones. When the music stopped, a child’s voice, speaking Czech, recited a series of random numbers. He jotted them down in a notebook. After a brief pause, the child repeated the numbers. Verifying the sets of numbers matched, he tapped out a reply, removed his headphones, and switched off the radio. Exiting the safe room, Markoff was nearly bowled over by the greeting from his 90-pound Samoyed.

“Tucker! Glad to see you too, my friend,” he rubbed the dog’s favorite spots behind his ears, “Okay, boy. Okay. We’ll go out, hold on, it’s freezing out there.”

Tucker shot out into the yard the second the kitchen door was opened. Markoff pulled on his parka, walked out onto the porch, and stopped. Tucker stood rigid, tilting his head slightly, looking out into the meadow. The clouds blanketing the moon made it difficult to see what attracted the dog’s attention. He barked once, then grew restless and barked again.

Markoff went back into the house and grabbed a pair of powerful night-vision binoculars. He returned to stand next to Tucker, rubbing behind his ears again. “Hold on, boy, let’s see what’s got you so worked up. I wager it’s your moose buddies.”

Switching on the binoculars, he lifted them to his eyes and scanned the meadow. What the hell! Something was out there, but it was at the limit of the night-vision range. He clipped a leash to Tucker’s collar. “We need to get closer, boy.” When Markoff estimated they had crept forward about 100 yards, he stopped and peered through the binoculars again. He was stunned by what he saw. A small plane was nose down in an irrigation ditch, its cargo door hanging open. It didn’t appear anyone was around. Lowering the binoculars, he looked back towards his house, then toward the thicket of woods just beyond the plane. Something was moving. Lifting the binoculars to his eyes, Markoff saw a man bent forward with a heavy rucksack slung over his shoulders. He was moving as fast as his load would allow, bearing directly for the trees. The night-vision image was clear enough to see the man’s puffs of breath condensing in the frigid air.

Markoff lowered his binoculars and absentmindedly rubbed behind Tucker’s ears. “What’s next, my friend? What’s next?” Tucker answered by head-butting his thigh.

The real life Tucker, the pup in my story. Tucker belongs to our friend, Jill, who provided the photograph.

Note: My second story begins with the character, Markoff, listening to a “numbers station” on a short wave radio. Numbers stations have been monitored for decades because they are believed to be used for communicating messages to spies and foreign agents. If you Google “The Conet Project” there is a wealth of information of how these stations are tracked and what methods are used to communicate. I find it fascinating. An example follows.

An Uninvited Guest

The prompt for The Chatham Writers Group was “your worst fear shows up on your doorstep”. My story is about a writer confronting his worst fear.

An Uninvited Guest

The study smelled like mahogany and leather. A Banker’s lamp on a large desk cast a soothing glow through its green shade. Light danced along the reddish-brown walls from a crackling fireplace. Angstrom was ensconced in an easy chair more tired, worn, and wrinkled than he was. His positions in the chair would range from slumped to sitting upright to leaning forward with elbows on his thighs. Deep in thought, he gazed at the fire, taking occasional sips of an amber liquid from a Glencairn perched on a side table.

So engrossed he initially didn’t hear the ring of his doorbell. Only the loud banging of the large brass pineapple door knocker finally roused him. Angstrom looked at his watch. “What the hell, who comes calling at ten p.m.?” He looked over his shoulder, squinting in the direction of his front door. He couldn’t see the door; it was two rooms away, but he thought by looking hard in its direction, the wretch who was creating a racket at such a late hour would leave.

“Angstrom! Open the door! I know you’re in there. I see the flickering light of a fire! Open up!” The brass knocker beat a tattoo on the front door.

Angstrom exhaled, long, disgusted. He pushed himself up from the comfort of the leather chair and stomped to the front door. “Do you know what time it is? Leave me alone!”

“I need to tell you something, something serious. Let me in, I won’t be long.”

Angstrom let out another long exhale, unlocked and opened the door. He guided his visitor to the study and motioned for him to sit in another well-worn leather chair near the fireplace.

Settling back into his chair, he asked, “So what is this thing of great importance to tell me at 10 o’clock in the evening?”

“Oh, you know all too well why I am here. The same reason I visited you before.”

“You’re mistaken; you have no business here.”

“I know you stare at that fire for hours….” The visitor stopped for a moment and looked at the Glencairn. He tried to speak again, “You stare, um… uh. Excuse me, what’s that in your glass?”

“Just some 12-year-old Red Breast.”

The visitor licked his lips. A long moment passed. Angstrom sat motionless, eyebrows raised, “what were you going to say about my staring?”

“Good God, Man! You are indeed a scoundrel! You sit there nursing a grand 12-year-old Irish whiskey and offer me none? Where are your manners? You scoundrel!”

Angstrom procured another Glencairn and poured his visitor two fingers of the Red Breast.

“Why are you here? Go see Cameron. You can hector him.”

“Hah! I’ll never visit Cameron! The pages he writes aren’t fit to line the bottom of a birdcage! He puts words on paper without thought. ‘This is a good word. I’ll fit it here. Same with this exclamation point. Bah, writer’s block is one thing he’ll never suffer from! But you, on the other hand…”

Angstrom didn’t let his visitor finish his sentence. “Nah, your game is not going to work this time.”

“Oh, I believe it will!”

“No, this is how it starts. You show up at my doorstep. I let you in, and the next thing you know, we are talking as though we are two 19th-century Gilded Age twits. Then I start writing like a stuffy old bird. I don’t talk this way.”

A sinister smile began to form on the visitor’s face, “But Angstrom, you weren’t writing anything. You were staring at your fire.”

“I was doing some research in my mind. And there’s the second seed of doubt you plant. I begin to overthink my story and get bogged down in the details. I begin to worry if my readers will spot incorrect dates, locations, things that are out of place for the time.”

The visitor was now grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

“Finish your drink and leave. You need to go so I can begin to write about our encounter.”

The grin disappeared, replaced by a look of defeat.

“Yeah, the blockade is cleared. When you finish that whiskey, you will return where you came from.”

Angstrom was struck by his resemblance to the visitor, who was now deflating like a balloon. He never finished his whiskey; writer’s block drifted up the chimney with the fire smoke.

Angstrom’s eyes flew open. The dream of his encounter with writer’s block energized him. He quietly slipped out of bed to avoid disturbing his wife and went to the study. Flipping open his MacBook, he typed an 800-word story about overcoming writer’s block and fired it off to his editor. He reached for his notebook and furiously began to plot his next novel.

Other People

The following story was written to a prompt for the Sturgis Library Writing Group titled “Other People”. I had been researching some of the activities of the First Day of the Battle of Gettysburg and decided to write a short historical fiction piece using my recurring character, James Bartlett, a young topographical engineer officer in the Union Army of the Potomac. After my story, I’ll provide some of the historical facts.

Lieutenant Bayard Wilkeson at Gettysburg. One of the central characters in my story. Print is from Battles & Leaders of the Civil War

Other People

Captain James Bartlett slowly made his way through hospital tent looking for Bayard Wilkeson. The two had met at Fredericksburg back in December and became fast friends. Poised and confident, Wilkeson seemed older than 19. Bartlett had heard his friend’s artillery battery had suffered severe pounding that morning and it was rumored that Wilkeson was wounded. Ambulances laden with casualties were caught up in the retreat from the fields north of Gettysburg and had delivered their cargoes of misery to the field hospitals that had been hastily erected below Cemetery Hill. He was hoping to find someone from Wilkeson’s unit that could tell him of his friend’s whereabouts. Bartlett had searched through two tents already, calling out for anyone from Battery G. But nobody had answered. He would have to report to headquarters soon, he’d have to find it first, so this would be his last tent for now. The sounds in the hospital defied description. The moans of the wounded, the soft voices of those calling for their mother, the screech of the bone saws and screams of men losing their limbs were sounds he could never push aside, even after two years of war. Above those spine-tingling sounds, Bartlett heard a voice call out, to no one in particular, “‘Twas those other people again!”

“What “other people”?” a second voice questioned. Bartlett couldn’t place the accent. It sounded more Russian than German.

“You know who I’m talking about. Those damn Dutchmen in Eleven Corps. They turned tail and ran again. The whole line began to fold up ‘cause of them.” the first voice replied.

“DAMN YOU!” the accented voice roared.

Bartlett watched as the voice’s owner struggled to stand. A blood-stained bandage was wrapped around his head and one pant leg was sliced to reveal another bandage on his thigh. The ruby red chevrons on his jacket sleeves indicated he was an artillery sergeant.

“DAMN YOU!”, he bellowed again. Stabbing his crutch at his accuser, he continued, “I’m in the 11^th Corps! We did not run!”

Wounded men nearby called out defending the 11^th Corps. “It’s true, they didn’t run.” Their chorus of voices shut down the accuser. The argument exhausted the artillery Sergeant and he tried to lay back on his bed of straw. Bartlett stepped over to help ease him down.

“Thank you, sir. Most kind of you. “Other people”, I am sick of hearing “other people”. Our ancestors were once “other people”.”

“No trouble Sergeant. I have many friends who traveled here from Europe. I understand and I wish this animosity didn’t exist.”

Bartlett helped the Sergeant get comfortable then said, “You are in the 11^th Corps artillery. Do you by chance know a Lieutenant Wilkeson?”

“I know him very well Captain. He’s my battery commander. We were wounded by the same shell.”

“He’s wounded you say. Where is he?”

“I am sorry sir; he was badly wounded, and I hope is under the care of Rebel doctors.”

“How badly wounded?”

“His leg was nearly severed.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, the Sergeant removed a pocketknife and passed it to Bartlett, “He used this to complete the job.”

Bartlett recognized the knife immediately; his friend’s initials were etched into its bone handle.

Seeing Bartlett’s distress, the Sergeant gently grasped his shoulder and said, “I am sorry about your friend, sir. Keep his knife. You can give it back to him when you see him next.”

The man who accused the 11^th Corps of cowardice called out, “I am sorry about me saying “other people”, Sergeant. We were wounded fighting together. Please accept my apology. I don’t need any more enemies.”

Historical Notes

At the time of the Battle of Gettysburg, nineteen-year-old Lieutenant Bayard Wilkeson led Battery G, 4th U.S. Artillery, in the artillery brigade of the Army of the Potomac’s 11th Corps. The majority of the soldiers in the 11th Corps were immigrants from Germany, their regiments and brigades led by officers named Von Gilsa, Von Steinwehr, Schimmelfennig, Schurz, Amsberg. But many had combat experience and were excellent soldiers.

Their reputation as “cowards” came about during the Battle of Chancellorsville in early May of 1863. The Corps suffered the brunt of “Stonewall” Jackson’s surprise attack and were routed. This came about due to poor leadership by Corps commander, Major General Oliver Otis Howard, who dismissed reports of a large body of Confederate soldiers lurking in the thick woods on the exposed flank of the Corps. However, the rout earned the 11th Corps the nickname “The Flying Dutchmen” (Dutch being misrepresented for Deutsch).

During fighting North of Gettysburg on July 1st, Lt. Wilkeson and his battery rushed to aid the beleaguered division of Francis Barlow, who foolishly advanced to an exposed position. Wilkeson commanded his battery, from atop his white horse, with such devastating efficiency that he attracted the attraction of several Confederate artillery batteries. While exposed, a shell from a Rebel gun passed though Wilkeson’s horse and practically severed his leg. Carried to the nearby Adams County Almshouse, he removed the remains of his mangled leg with his pocket knife. Bayard Wilkeson died from shock and loss of blood a few hours later. His father, Samuel Wilkeson, was a reporter for the New York Times and was at Gettysburg covering the battle. He found his son’s body after the Confederate retreat on July 4, 1863.

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