A Second Chance

A Second Chance

I had never seen the desert from a jet before. It looked dry enough to
suck every drop of liquid from your veins. I was happy to be 12,000
feet above where there's carpet under my feet and some cold drinks in
the galley. I explored the landscape of sand and sagebrush that
stretched all the way across the horizon. There were some mountains in
the distance, silhouetted behind a dusky sky.
Reticulated trails blazed hot along the desert floor. They stretched
outward like bleached rays you see emanating from moon craters.
Everything was so still; so barren-lifeless.
It was a far cry from pandemonium of whoops and hollers and
rat-a-tat-tats of M60's and mortar explosions and screams of dying boys
as they writhed into gargoyle looking creatures from abject pain.
There's no place to hide in the desert. No elephant grass or black
pine or towering palms. There's no rotting timber for gun placements or
jungle canopy to block out any vestige of light.
In the desert, you might as well be naked as a jailbird. Nothing can
hide in the desert. Even from such heights, I could spot a midget doing
a duck walk. But in the jungle, it's something else entirely.
I learned how to blend with the jungle. I learned to distinguish
between the acoustical cacophony of bird and beast. But their silence,
accompanied with muffled human voices and their soft pattering of feet,
or the inadvertent ping of metal upon metal, signaled danger or
imminent death.
A high-pitched wheeze interrupted my pensiveness. "See anything
son?"
It was the old man who sat next to me. He was already asleep when I
took my seat next to the window. He was skeletal with bloated veins
that ran down his forehead and terminated at his eyebrows. His eyes
were glossed over with a viscous film, and he had tight, jaundiced
lips.
"No sir," I said. "Just desert-a whole ocean of it."
"Mind if I take a look?" he asked.
"Sure." I leaned back as far as I could to allow the old man access to
the window. He squinted as he craned his neck, but I don't know how he
could see anything out of those dead eyes of his.
"I worked in the desert some time ago," he said, shaking his head
slowly, like it was something he'd rather forget.
He then slid back into his seat and winced like old men do when their
bones ache. "I dug holes for a thousand poles; from Tucson to the
Colorado River," he said. It was 3 years of pure boredom and monotony.
You set a pole, and then lineman string some wire-set another pole,
again the wire. Your only diversion was when you had to blast a hole
into solid rock, or when one of our guys got bit by a rattler and had
to sweat it out. There were no doctors to be had out there. We did what
we could." The old man then gazed sullenly at my Dress Green's. "Nam?"
he asked.
"Yes sir," I said. "I'm on my way home. Twenty-one months is long
enough."
"How was it?over there-in the jungles, that is?"
I just shrugged, not really wanting to talk about it.
"I understand son," said the old man. I didn't want to talk about it
much either. War is something you keep to yourself. No one who hasn't
been there would understand anyway."
I looked at the shriveled up man wrapped in a matrix of diaphanous
skin. His neck was thin as a pencil and his legs stretched out in front
like two wooden staffs. He reminded me of my grandfather during his
last days. I noticed an expression of sadness and regret. I was curious
enough to ask him, "Were you there?"
He nodded gravely. "I was there. It was another life and another war,
but I was there."
"Then you know," I affirmed.
"I know that trying to kill somebody you never met thousands of miles
away isn't natural for young boys. Picking up a machine gun after
playing in the swimming hole with your friends and smooching with your
high school sweetheart is a sobering wake-up call."
The old man's voice dropped and his eyes lowered as he added, "I also
know the feeling of shivering in a muddy trench while gas vapors float
along the ground choking out the cries of your comrades. Different
time, but same lousy war."
"Yeah," I concurred with shared experience. "I lost a good buddy and
came close to losing another. My buddies and I were gonna start a rock
and roll band when we got out of Nam. Ol' Booty-that's what everybody
called him; he could shatter windows with his voice. And Carter, man
could he play guitar. He'd pound those strings so hard you'd think he'd
put a whole right through the wood. Ol' Booty and Carter took a mortar
round while we were on patrol. Ol' Booty was killed, and Carter lost
both arms. I stopped Carter's bleeding long enough to get him to a
chopper and to the hospital. They were able to save him. I'm on my way
to see him now. I haven't seen him since he left Vietnam, eleven months
ago"
For a moment, the old man seemed occupied with a distant memory of his
own and then said to me, "Your friend Carter is lucky to have a friend
like you."
"Lucky?" I said. "Carter has no arms. I got a lousy medal. How can you
call that lucky?"
"Because he's alive," the old man said. "There's nothing more precious
than life, with, or without arms. Then with bony knuckles, he rapped
hard on two solid legs.
"Lost mine in France; the battle of Belleau Wood." he said. The
Germans drove a tank right over them. When I came to, I was lying on a
gurney in an ambulance with two stumps where my legs used to be. I
passed out again and woke up three days later in a hospital in Paris. A
year later I got some wood legs strapped on and tramped around the
country doing odd jobs. I finally got around to marrying and raised
five kids. I got nine grandchildren and three great-grandchildren.
That's why I say life is precious."
"Then I guess you're the lucky one, sir," I said. "I just hope Carter
makes out like you did."
"It would never have happened if a brave soul hadn't risked his life
and carried me off the battlefield under fire and to the ambulance. He
got me there just in time. I never got to thank him. I'll never forget
his name though. I got it from a chap at the hospital in ended up in
the bunk next to me. He knew my lifesaver and saw him drop me off in
the ambulance. His said his name was Franklin Benjamin Downey."
The name hit me like a club. "Franklin Benjamin Downey? That's my name.
I was named after my Grandfather. I knew he fought in France during the
First World War. He told stories about Belleau Wood-but?"
The old man and I became speechless, though our mouths were wide open.
We stared at each other like that as people do when a great coincidence
occurs that might be better construed as some divine intervention. Then
he focused his dead eyes on the rectangular name tag on my chest.
"Downey," he confirmed, stretching both syllables.
I was thunderstruck. "What are the chances?" I said. "Meeting the man
whose life my Grandfather saved fifty years ago on the other side of
the world. I wish he were still alive so I could tell him the
news."
The old man's eyes drooped sadly and asked, "You mean he's passed
away?"
"Yes," I said. "About three years ago. He had a stroke."
"Then I believe this is more than just a chance meeting, son. I believe
the Good Lord put us together for a reason."
He looked at my confused expression and continued. "All my life I
carried this guilt for not so much as thanking the man who saved my
life. I always meant to look up your Grandfather, but I allowed myself
to be distracted with excuses. Now I believe God has given me a second
chance by meeting you. Please allow me to thank him through you."
Not sure of what to say, I just nodded and the old man grasped my
forearm warmly and said, "Thank you, Franklin Benjamin Downey. Thank
you for risking your own life to save mine."

The plane landed in Dallas and I shook the old man's hand on the
tarmac. He said I should be proud of serving my country and what I did
for Carter. Soon, a joyful assemblage of children and adults were
showering him with hugs and kisses. Later, he waved goodbye from a
station wagon teeming with family.
Later that day, I met Carter at his home. He was cradling a baby in his
new arms. His wife sat at his side. Both beamed with proud smiles as
they showed me their new girl. Carter said, "We named her Francis,
after you. Hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," I said, flattered. "I'd be offended if you hadn't.
Then, Carter's teary eyes locked on to mine for a moment and his
expression said it all. Despite the loss of his arms, he was a whole
man, happy and content. And I knew I was his friend forever.