A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
Cowboy Up
Chapter 6. Endgame
Detail from Brokeback Mountain special edition by SpyrousSeraphim. My thanks.
Summary: The title says it all, really. The last chapter and the mystery of Piers Nivans is finally revealed. It's sad in places, but hopefully you'll find the end uplifting. A new game awaits.
Claire looked on in shock as the handsome face of Piers Nivans was slowly revealed by the image scrolling down her computer screen. A Piers Nivans who had died sixteen years ago. She couldn't believe it, she certainly didn't understand it.
"Keep calm, Claire, it's a mistake, or his father, or uncle, or something equally logical. It's not Piers, how could it possibly be?" But the eyes, they were unmistakable. And those two little moles on his left cheek. Whoever it was was identical. The same color hair, the same golden skin. It was Piers.
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
Cowboy Up
Chapter 5. The Simple Tenses
Detail from Brokeback Mountain special edition by SpyrousSeraphim. My thanks.
Summary: The Simple Tenses: Past, Present and Future. They all seem to be coming together at the Lazy-R. Chris Redfield is more concerned with living in the present, whilst sister Claire plans for a brighter future. But is the past catching up with the beguiling Piers Nivans? Previously: Andy and Piers both stopped joshing the moment they walked into the kitchen. Chris had his back to them. He was holding Claire tightly. Her head lay on his shoulder, and she was crying ... .
************************
Claire looked up as they entered, and smiled through her tears. She saw that Andy had his arm around Piers' shoulders, they seemed to have sorted things out between them. She beckoned them in with a hand.
"It's OK boys, these are happy tears. C'mon, group hug."
Andy looked somewhat embarrassed. Claire fixed him with the look. "Would you refuse a lady's request Andy Walker?"
"Um, I reckon not Miss Claire, if'n you puts it that way."
"I do!"
They all embraced.
"Are we good Andy?" Chris asked his old foreman.
"Yes, Boss. Didn't rightly know what to think a'fer, but your young fella set me to rights." Piers smiled. And so did Claire.
"Bless you Piers, you've bought my old brother back, thank you." she said
The hazel eyes whirled, "It's meant to be." Piers said simply.
Claire couldn't be sure, only she thought there was a hint of sadness in Piers' voice. But she was feeling emotional, and she quickly dismissed the thought as they all sat down to supper for the second time that evening. She was just pleased to see her brother so happy and content.
During the meal, as the men noisily helped themselves to the beef stew and vegetable hash she'd prepared, Claire tried to collect her thoughts. She didn't want to steal Chris and Piers' thunder; but she had important news of her own too. She'd practiced the pouty face, in case Chris proved stubborn. Given his joyful mood at present, she hoped it wouldn't come to the giving him the sisterly hell!
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
Cowboy Up
Ch. 4. The Fiery and the Snuffy
Detail from Brokeback Mountain special edition by SpyrousSeraphim. My thanks.
Summary: Most things we do in life have consequences. After pleasure can come pain; love and fear often follow on from one another. So when Piers saved Chris's life and then Chris fell in love with Piers, there were bound to be consequences: The Fiery and the Snuffy.
************************
Chris heard Piers sucking-in deeply through clenched teeth, felt him filling his lungs as he tried to steady himself under Chris' sweating body. For the older rancher, long years of abstention, frustration, anger, guilt, and now desire, had release through the golden skinned man below him. But it wasn't purely carnal, there was an element that Chris didn't recognize at first ... it had been so long ... love? He slowed down his frenzied pounding, then stopped and listened. Piers seemed to have now ceased breathing ... .
Piers had wanted to cry out, at the pain, at their unwanted intrusion. Just as before, his body had gone rigid. Control Piers, regain control ... his mind still functioned ... but his physical form just seemed to hang there, suspended, frozen between breaths. The stabbing pain again, exploding inside him, like a brilliant white light illuminating an empty room. It was always like this. Was that it then, part of his curse? Pain before, during and after pleasure. Would they always go hand-in-hand? Were they the same thing? A voice burst inside his head, then another, were they pain and pleasure too?
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
Cowboy Up
Chapter 3. Chowin', jawin', fallin'
Detail from Brokeback Mountain special edition by SpyrousSeraphim. My thanks.
Summary: Piers Nivans continues to intrigue and mystify everyone at the Lazy-R ranch, and Chris takes a tumble, or is it two?
Chris was just about to help himself to a generous slice of tamale pie when Piers spoke out.
"Shall I say grace?" he said pleasantly. Chris' hand retreated from the pie and went back to his lap. Claire gave her brother a look.
"Lord, bless this food and us that eats it. Amen."
"Amen." said the others sheepishly.
"Hee hee, that's a proper Cowboy's grace, Boss" laughed Andy, looking at a red-faced Chris. "Merciful short! Ain't heard it here in long while, not since Miss Jane was alive." Every lady was a Miss in Andy's opinion, even the married ones.
Chris lifted the pie dish and offered it to Claire. "Er, yes, quite, ladies first."
Claire gave her brother another look, even more incredulous than the first. "Why Christopher, thank you, wonders will never cease!"
"So Piers, what are your first impressions of the Lazy-R?" asked Claire as they helped themselves to the various dishes laid out on the big kitchen table.
"Like I've come home." replied Piers. Chris glanced at him quizzically. "Like I belong I mean." added Piers, catching the look. "You're like family."
"Um, where is home?" asked Claire, fishing.
"Down on the coast, south of San Francisco." Piers smiled, but didn't offer any more.
"Have we met before Piers?" Claire was nothing if not persistent, another Redfield trait. "You seemed to know me this afternoon."
"How could I forget you, with that wonderful red hair? A mutual friend's party perhaps? There were so many after college." he smiled disarmingly.
Claire appreciated the compliment and the smile so much she forgot her next question for a moment. And then, just as she remembered it, Chris butted in.
"Give Nivans some space Sis! Let the man eat first, questions later. You gotta' try this cowboy cabbage Nivans, and the chicken and dumplings. Claire's dumplings are real sweet."
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
Cowboy Up
Chapter 2. First Impressions
Summary: The mysterious young stranger seems to be getting under Chris Redfield’s skin. But who exactly is he?
"Oh, er, well, if you're not Peter Carney, who the hell are you?"
"Piers, Piers Nivans."
Chris Redfield stared hard at the young man. He was trying to regain control of the situation. A situation which, at the moment, confused the hell out of him.
"So let me get this straight, you're not Peter Carney?"
"Nope." Nivans smiled.
"Any reason why he didn't make it?"
"I made him a better offer."
"You what!"
"I made him a better offer than your job here."
Chris looked dumbfounded, so the young man continued pleasantly. "Oh, he wasn't really suited for it, preferred a life on the ocean waves. You'll thank me later, I'm sure." Another smile.
"I see." said Chris, although he didn't. "OK, forget about Carney. What about you? I need a junior hand on my ranch. Have you got any experience, references? Mr, er ... ?"
"Nivans, but I prefer to be called Piers."
"And I prefer someone with references, and who shows some respect for their employer!"
"Oh, so I've got the job? Thank you."
"What, no ... ! I don't know... dammit!" Chris had suddenly felt flustered. He took a deep breath, and started again. "Your references!"
"They're from the highest authority, trust me."
Chris held his hand out. He was scowling now, and he was getting hot in the midday sun. He seemed to be a supporting actor in something he didn't quite understand. Not for the first time since meeting this strange young man, he shook himself out of his thoughts.
"References!"
"I left them at home, in the rush. Can't go back now."
"No, I suppose not ...Wait! Who's running this conversation? I'm the boss, you'd better understand that Nivans!"
"Piers." Another devastating smile.
Chris scratched his head, he had to force himself not to return the smile. "Can you ride?"
Piers nodded towards the tan saddle and a couple of holdalls sat under the tree. "Got all the gear."
"That's not what ... Oh, never mind! Pick up all the gear, and put it in the back of the truck."
Piers collected his belongings, and put them into the flat-bed of the old Ford.
"Nice, you like antique cars Chris?" Piers said conversationally.
Chris looked at him, he knew his jaw was dropping. He decided attack was the best form of defense. "Are you gonna' put a shirt on? The sun's fierce this time of day. And I prefer to be called Boss, or Mr Redfield."
"Nope, I'm fine. I like being warm. It's the cold I don't like ... you?"
"I like the fall ... wait, listen, you'll be no good to me sunburned Nivans! Have you any idea about ranch work? And by the way, the winters here are really cold, you ready for that?"
"I, I don't burn. Don't know if that's a blessing or a curse. And yeh, I know what I know, I'll put a shirt on come winter."
It was the first sign of hesitation the young man had shown. Chris grasped at it, still trying to regain control.
"Any reason you don't burn, Mr Nivans? Most people with your coloring do, normal people."
"Ha, ha! I'm not normal then, Chris ... by your standards."
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
Cowboy Up
Chapter 1. Angel?
Detail from Brokeback Mountain special edition by SpyrousSeraphim. My thanks.
Summary: Chris Redfield is a rancher, plain and simple. Then a mysterious young man turns up, seeking employment. And Chris soon finds himself in unfamiliar territory.
"Yeehaw! Ride him, Uncle Bob!" The dust swirled around the legs of the big black stallion as it bucked and reared, trying to dislodge the unfamiliar weight now on its back. The horse's mouth and nostrils were flecked with foam, its flanks were shiny and streaked with sweat.
He had only been on a minute or so, but to Bob, it already seemed like forever. Of all the horses he'd broken over the years, none had ever felt quite like this one. He could sense the power in every muscle, every sinew of the horse, as it twisted and turned beneath him. And as he tried to counter, then second guess, each and every move, he realised it had become a battle of wills, not just a simple bust.
Chris waved his black Stetson in the air, his brown eyes wide and bright, his heart pounding in his chest. He wished he was in the saddle himself, but that was his uncle's right, as the ranch's owner. One day, perhaps .... And the big stallion was magnificent, Chris had kept his eyes on him from the first time he saw him as a yearling, over two years back, up near the high ridge. He had never asked his uncle that the horse be his. But secretly, he dreamt it would.
Andy clapped a strong hand on Chris' shoulder.
"Boy, ain't that something. Boss has got his hands full today." The foreman gave Chris a friendly, toothy grin. He too, had broken a few broncs in his time, as his missing teeth testified.
"I wish ... I wish ..." started Chris.
"Don't say it, Chris, if you say it, it won't come true, boy."
Suddenly, without warning the big horse wrinkled his spine. He kicked off with his hind legs, and then dug his forelegs into the dirt and dust of the small coral. And Bob Redfield never saw it coming, only the dirt and the dust as they rushed towards him.
The smiles faded from Chris and Andy's faces. They both heard the 'snap' as Bob hit the ground head first. His legs twitched briefly and the rowels on his spurs squeaked as they slowly stopped spinning. Then there was a sickening silence.
"Oh Jesus, no!"
Chris leapt down from the top rail and ran over to the prone figure. Bob's head lay at an odd angle to his shoulders. Chris knew he was dead, even before he gently rolled his uncle's body over.
"Easy, Chris!"
Andy knelt down beside him as Chris closed his uncle's eyes. The big horse stood still in a corner of the coral, looking at them balefully.
"Sonofabitch!" Andy went for his gun, but Chris stopped him.
"Let him loose Andy, just get him out of my sight."
It was Chris Redfield's first order as the new owner of the Lazy-R ranch.
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
The Tale of the Two Lifeguards
Chapter Three.
In which there are new endings and old beginnings, and we bid farewell to our friends . . .
Image by my good friend hi-host here on tumblr. Thanks Lenny.
Unaware of the drama playing out at the little wooden pier, Old José and his wife, Anita, locked up their cafe for the day. They locked all the doors, front, back and sides. They pulled all the shutters shut and closed all the windows, side by side, front and back too. And when they had finished, Anita took up the lantern whilst José switched of all the electric lights. Then they opened the secret trapdoor and descended the stone stairs, locking the trapdoor securely behind them.
The stairs twisted around and down. Soon they could feel the heat, rising warm air condensed into sparkling drops of dew on the cold stone walls as they descended yet further. A blue glow began to strengthen and light their way, then Anita blew out the lantern, for there was no need of it any more. The warm water before them glowed with its own magical light, now blue, now green. Wisps of steam danced and chased one another over the water's surface, for they were magic too.
Anita took José's gnarled hand in hers and together they walked down the last steps that led into the glittering water. And as their bodies submerged, and the wisps of steam clung to their bodies, so their legs glowed blue and green, just like the water, and then they turned into fish’s tails.
"Has he chosen yet?" asked José.
"No, not quite yet . . ." Anita replied, ". . . but Piers is staying on the island again tonight. It won't be long now."
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
The Tale of the Two Lifeguards
Chapter Two
in which Piers is promoted, Christopher is dropped,
and as for poor Polly . . .
Image by my good friend hi-host here on tumblr. Thanks, Lenny.
Piers couldn't wait for the final ferry boat of the day to leave the little island of Tabarca. At last he could pack up his lifeguarding bits and bobs from the big beach, the one that wasn't very big at all, and meet Captain Chris down at the little wooden pier . . .
A short while later, he was making sure his yellow rescue boat was securely moored, whilst keeping a watchful eye out for unwanted visitors. He could hardly believe he'd met a merman, and such a handsome, friendly one. And he could only imagine the fuss there would be if anyone else got to know. They would probably try and capture Chris and examine him, or put him in an aquarium. He shuddered at the idea; people could be so cruel, especially to creatures that were different. For a moment he was lost so deep in his thoughts that he didn't notice the brown-haired head that rose silently alongside the boat.
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
The Tale of the Two Lifeguards
Chapter One
in which we make some introductions
Image by my good friend hi-host here on tumblr. Thanks Lenny.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago now, possibly as long ago as last Wednesday, Piers Nivans got into his bright yellow safety boat and set out for the tiny Mediterranean island of Tabarca. He did this at precisely eight o'clock every morning in the summer, leaving his parent's home in the little fishing village of Santa Pola, and returning there precisely twelve hour later. But this particular Wednesday morning proved to be special, as we shall see in a while.
Piers worked as a lifeguard during the long, hot summer months, swapping his grey student books and grey student clothes of the rest of the year for a bright red rescue float and bright red shorts. And the bright yellow safety boat, of course, which was much more fun than his grey scooter. Now this is not to say Piers' winter life was dull, rather that he liked grey. It helped him blend in with the crowds and buildings in the big city where the University was. Piers liked to blend in there, because he didn't much care for crowds and buildings and cities. What he did like was the sun and the fresh open air. And what he loved, was the sea. The beautiful aquamarine sea that surrounded Tabarca with its crystal-clear waters. And what he loved best of all was . . . well, let's see shall we?
The very exclusive beach at Marbella beside the blue Mediterranean, playground of the rich and famous.
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain, where he spends his golden years lolling about on the Costa del Sol, counting the mega-yachts in the harbor, and sipping champagne with oil sheiks and oligarchs:
"How was your month, Dear?"
You probably haven't noticed, but I've been absent from the pages of the Blue Truck for some time this year, but I do have a good excuse: several, in fact.
We all know the old gag - a man comes home from work to find his wife frazzled and drinking, and he asks, unthinkingly, "How was your day, Dear?" Well, for 2019 I've dispensed with having days. I'm having months.
Just since late spring, I've had three bouts of surgery, two of them for prostate cancer. And to put the icing on the cake, my beloved Labrador, Lulu, died at the end of June. I'm not seeking sympathy here, rather I'm trying to make light of life and all the terrible trials and tribulations it throws at you from time to time. Putting it all down on paper seems to help. I don't know how exactly, but I've found it to be a form of closure. A means of bringing order to the chaos perhaps? Sometimes in life, if you don't laugh, you'll cry. And laughter, as the old saying goes, is the best medicine. And so, for me, is writing.
This tale also helps to debunk the mythical notion held by my Editor; namely that my retired life here in Spain is some sort of hedonistic paradise, akin to living in Palm Springs, say, or Palm Beach. Sure, there are some nice meals, sunshine and blue skies, but there's tears and tantrums too. Whatever our own personal desires, Life marches blithely on . . . and on. But there's always hope. If you're patient, and you keep faith, there will be light at the end of any tunnel. Just don't expect Life to give you an easy ride along the way!
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
Hold the Roses
Introduction
Captain Chris Redfield decides celebrating Valentine’s Day in the traditional way is not for him. His second-in-command on the battlefield, and his partner at home, Lieutenant Piers Nivans, comes up with an alternative celebration; but Alpha Team have other ideas for their two commanding officers.
You and I (Nivanfield) by the talented tuzkiyoushi, at deviantart. My thanks.
Chris Redfield’s house, the 'Old Cave', as his partner Piers Nivans called it, was now sold. And their new home, given the military codename the 'Deuce of Hearts', had the builders in. Barely three months after having left, they found themselves back in Chris's suite on the top floor of the Officers’ Mess.
It had quickly become obvious to both of them that it would be impossible to do all the work on the Deuce of Hearts on their own, much as they had wanted to. So with their renovation plans drawn up and approved, they had reluctantly turned the work over to a local construction company in Williamsport. Chris had simply said, "Make it so" to the project manager as he showed the man the detailed plans. He left it to Piers to make the detailed caveats.
"I shall be watching, closely." the young Lieutenant had said in the cold, clipped voice he usually reserved for his training classes. "I'm a trained sniper." The man laughed, nervously.
"Of course Mr Nivans, as you wish."
There was a lot of Piers in the internal changes. As he and Chris had agreed, their new home would be 'old' outside and 'new' within. And naturally, they both wanted the work to be completed as soon as possible.
Chris smiled at the man. "Don't worry about Piers. He's a bit OCD, as well as being our best shot. Ha! What he means is stick to the plan, it's always the best advice." Chris grinned amiably as he patted the project manager on the back with a large paw. The poor man staggered under the blows. And he could have sworn he heard the Lieutenant growl . . . .
"That went well." said Piers cheerfully after they'd left the builder's office.
"Yeh, bad cop, bad cop, never fails." Chris chuckled.
"Hmm, I thought you were meant to be the good cop?"
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
The Season of Giving
Decorating the House by xTh13teeNx here at Deviantart . . . always a favourite!
Late October, 2016:
"My, my, who’s getting to be a big boy den? Yes oo is, yes. Oo's a big Wuffy Ruffy?"
Piers rolled his eyes; listening to Chris doing baby talk was like listening to fingernails scraping on a chalk board.
"Does oo like a tickle? Oo does? Ha, ha, ha!"
Chris and Piers were relaxing in their home, codenamed the Deuce of Hearts. Their GSD puppy, Ruff, lay on his back at their feet; his legs in the air. Chris bent down and rubbed Ruff's belly again.
"He's growing so fast. I think it might be time for Danny to give Ruff the facts of life lesson Ace. You know, like we had at High School? Blow-up dolls, fumbling with condoms on bananas."
Piers raised his eyebrows. "Er, well I don't know what you were taught; we had some poor young TA slotted for the job, cute guy. I still remember his red face when he . . . er, anyway it's rather different for animals, it's more an instinctive thing. And besides, I don't think Ruffy needs our help or training from Danny anymore."
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim, now resident in Spain:
This Nivanfield short was written in response to a fan who asked for a Thanksgiving-themed tale. Being English, Thanksgiving is not part of my culture, so fingers crossed I have the detail right.
Captain Chris Redfield is center stage here as he gives a speech before the meal. This is a man who doesn't like making speeches. He prefers action, not words, and he's making it off the cuff. He sees inspiration in the faces looking at him, not a set of notes in his hand.
Happy Thanksgiving! Tim.
Giving Thanks
He smiled at the irrepressible Finn Macauley. Alpha teams’s very own "exploding" expert, who seemed to be wearing a turkey-shaped beanie that evening.
"Oh my! Captain Redfield, what a big one you've got!" The young girl opened her eyes wide in surprise and delight. "I’ve never seen one so ...” she was almost lost for words. "… so enormous!" she giggled.
"Ha, ha! That's just what Piers said!" Chris turned around. "Didn't you Ace?"
Piers was busy turning scarlet. "Chrisss!" he hissed, "Tone it down; we don't want everyone to know."
"The best part of 30 pounds—it's a monster, all solid meat!" Chris beamed proudly, as if he'd reared it himself.
"Ok Chris, it's huge, I have to admit, but get over it. Stop showing everyone, please!" Piers wished he could disappear, but he'd left his shemagh in the truck with Ruff. Its familiar smell helped the puppy settle down when he was left alone.
"Ha! If you've got it, flaunt it!"
"It's a turkey Babe, not a new plan or an assault rifle or your d—.” Piers checked himself just in-time. "I mean, I don't know if it will even fit in the oven." He pouted; he knew who'd have to cook it.
"Then we'll get a bigger oven. Do you sell them here ..." Chris peered at the commissary checkout girl's name tag, "... Mary-Jo?" He gave her his best 'little boy lost' smile.
"Oh yes Captain, over in Major Appliances. Two aisles down and on the left at the back."
"Remember those co-ordinates Ace, you might need them later … on my tab please, Mary-Jo. Oh, and have a wonderful Thanksgiving yourself." He left her a large tip as she bagged up their purchases, except for the turkey that was … she didn't have a bag big enough for that. They headed out for the car park.
A guest post by my British truckbuddy Tim, now resident in Spain, in honor of National Coming Out Day:
Having asked Piers Nivans to move in with him, Chris Redfield begins to have doubts - about himself.
You don’t see too much discussion in the Nivanfield fandom actually between Chris and Piers on their sexuality. This tale is my take on the subject, laced with some personal experiences; because, like so many writers, there is more than a little of myself written into the principal characters.
As ever, your comments are most welcome.
Am I Gay?
Love Wins - My thanks to flashconan at deviantart, most appropriate!
Chris suddenly looked up from the magazine he was reading. "Piers, am I gay?"
"Well, you're not always light-hearted, and er, you're certainly not carefree babe."
Piers knew that wasn't what Chris meant; but it bought him some time whilst he came out of the book he'd been lost in, and focussed on Chris' question instead.It was December 2013, nearly Christmas.They'd only been living together in Chris' old house for a month or so, but already Piers had come to expect occasional questions like this from Chris.Questions that seemingly came out of the blue, regardless of any current conversation or activity.They often took Piers by surprise, but he always tried to answer them earnestly if he could.His Captain, now his partner and lover, was not overly talkative.Taciturn was a better description.Piers had found Chris's private life mirrored his military image.He was a man of action rather than words, and the few words he did use would sometimes shatter the silence like the sound of a bullet leaving a gun.
"What?Carefree?No, you know what I mean.Am I, um, am I . . ?"
"Homosexual?"Piers used the word that his Captain still somehow found difficult to articulate.As if by saying it, some unspoken taboo would be transgressed and broken.
"Well, you invited your same-sex Lieutenant to share your house and your bed, not to mention your job and your life.Yeah, I'd say you were gay.Why?Aren't you sure?" Continued after the jump . . .
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim, now resident in Spain:
Part 1 was posted last week; here is the conclusion. Your comments are welcome, as ever.
This and That
Part 2: Trivial, and not so trivial, pursuits
Morning Kiss by xTh13teeNx at DeviantArt.
Always a favourite 3D artist of mine.
Piers woke to see brown eyes directly opposite his. Two pinpoints of light indicated they were watching him intently. Somehow, he slowly realized, he had ended up on a level with Chris whilst they had been asleep.
"How did I get here?" he said drowsily.
"You were shivering, and, er, I had a nightmare."
Piers was immediately wide awake and alert, his voice full of concern. "You did? Are you Ok Babe?"
"Yeah, I did what you told me to do, wake myself up from it; when it got ….”
"Hush, it's all right now."
But Chris wanted to talk it through, so Piers let him. Better out than in.
"It was weird. We were sleeping in a tent, on a mountain side, right on the edge of a big drop."
Piers cursed himself for using for using the word 'edge' earlier. He never knew what might lead to one of Chris' attacks. An image, a song, or, like now, a single word. Much as he wanted to, he knew he couldn't wrap his Captain in cotton wool. But what he could do was limit the damage if and when such an event occurred.
Piers smiled reassuringly. "Life on the edge see? Like we talked about earlier, that's all."
"Oh yeah. Well, then there was this earthquake or something, the ground was shaking. Then there was this deep rumble, it was an avalanche. I threw myself over you just before it hit, and that's when I forced myself to wake up."
"Good thing too." Piers had encouraged Chris to do this; anything to prevent a nightmare from prolonging and possibly triggering a PTSD event.
"So what did it mean, Ace?"
Piers didn't know what it meant. He was an expert in many things, but reading dreams and nightmares wasn't one of them, if indeed such a thing were even possible. However, Chris was now looking to him for an answer, and it was Piers' self-appointed duty to find one.
"Hmm, the earth shaking, that was probably just me shivering."
"Ah, yes, I see! And the rumbling?"
"Well, that was either your stomach, or mine, probably both, heh, heh! I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. Listen, here it goes again."
A guest post by my British truckbuddy Tim, now resident in Spain:
Another tale about Captain Chris Redfield and Lieutenant Piers Nivans, collectively known as Nivanfield, and soldiers in the war against bio-terrorism. They are partners both on and off the battlefield.
This started out as a writing exercise for me, just pure dialogue with little or no description. Once I'd finished it, it called out for a continuation, so it became a two-parter, with the second half written in my more usual descriptive style.
Don't worry about the references to people and places off the page. At heart, it's just a simple tale about two men very much in love; talking, caring and creating the bonds that bind them.
This and That
Part 1: Nothing really....but everything
Nivanfield by Alois Morgan at DeviantArt. A wonderful example of the genre's fan-art.
The latte-topped head lay pressed against one broad pectoral, whilst slender fingers spread out across the other. But even spread out, they couldn’t span its breadth or depth. However, they could detect movement and the left ear, the one that wasn’t pressed between golden skin and hard muscle, could hear sound. Hazel eyes glanced upward and full lips opened. Piers spoke.
“Hello you.”
“Hello.”
“Been awake long?”
“A while I suppose….I’ve no idea of the time.”
“About seven thirty seven.”
“About?”
“Within two or three minutes.”
“How do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Within two or three minutes…..most people are lucky to get within an hour. Even after all my military service I can only guess within fifteen minutes or so.”
“I don’t know really. It’s like an in-built program, just ticking away.”
“Ticking. Ha!”
“You wanna get up?”
“Not especially.”
The slender fingers found a large brown nipple and rubbed the nub. “You wanna’….?”
"No, just happy lying here….with you….”
“Sure?”
“Yeah, very sure….and keep that hand where I can see it. I know you. Next thing I’ll be moaning and you’ll be groaning and the moment will have passed.”
“What moment?”
“This one, right now, at seven thirty eight, give or take…”
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain.
Hello again, dear reader!
You may have wondered, whilst idling away some passing moment during the last two years, 'Whatever became of that guy Tim who used to write the occasional pieces for the Blue Truck?' (You did, didn't you? Do say yes!)
Well, long story short, back in 2015 the winter blahs turned into the summer blehs and I entered a bout of depression. Then I discovered a fan fiction genre called 'Nivanfield' and it pulled me out of the hole.
I did my research, made contact with some writers of the genre whose work I admired, and posted my first 'short' in August 2015. Since I have Russ and the Blue Truck to thank for giving me those first opportunities to try out and develop my writing skills, I've been very keen to post some of my tales here by way of thanks and to re-establish my connection with Russ's magnificent organ.
However, as many of my stories are, ahem, too descriptive for Russ's tender and sensitive nature, finding suitable ones has been a bit of a problem. But this one "Hold me?" has met his stringent editorial standards. I've added some notes at the end to explain more what 'Nivanfield' is, but I hope the tale stands alone as a simple love story. Let Russ know what you think, perhaps there will be others!
'Together 2' courtesy of rwandew @deviantart.com
Hold Me?
Normally it was Chris who ended up holding Piers most nights in bed. Piers didn't suffer the cold very well, never had. Too many sniping ops where you couldn't move, couldn't generate enough body heat. Only the brain remaining active, calculating the windage, distance, checking the cover, scanning for the mark, telling the rest of his tired, aching muscles not to shiver. He was never sure whether his sniping skills gave rise to his ability to think ten steps ahead, or that that skill made him the best sniper in the BSAA. Both qualities had become so natural to him that their precise origin was now blurred. When he was on his own, Piers' idea of bliss was to have both the electric under-blanket and the top-blanket on. But true heaven for Piers was when Chris climbed into the bed and warmed it up before he got in. Claire had always said the 'ol bear had a built-in furnace, and it had been one of the first things Piers had noticed about his Captain all those years ago, when he first met him and fell hopelessly in love.
So when Chris said to Piers "Hold me?" when he got into bed, Piers knew it wasn't because Chris was cold. Something was up, something was wrong. The slight frown on the rugged face, the downcast brown eyes; all signalled problems ahead. But the words . . . the two simple words . . . said it all. Chris didn't want a warming cuddle, or a moment of quiet foreplay before the act of making love. He wanted reassurance, friendship, support, confidence. He wanted, no he needed, to be loved. Like the little boy who'd fallen of his bike and grazed his knee, like the young man who'd lost both his parents, like the brother who'd held his sister tight as they stood together by the graveside, like the soldier who'd lost so many, many friends and comrades.
Piers knew by now that it was better not to ask for a reason. Early on in their relationship he had, when Chris had become silent, or moody. When, unaccountably, he'd burst into tears. He'd asked because he wanted to stop the pain, stop the hurt. And not just Chris'. It tore the heart out of Piers as well. To see his Captain bought low in Piers' eyes meant he hadn't done his job, hadn't prevented the incoming. Now, he knew that had been a naive expectation, that some things were not preventable, or even explicable. It was Chris' nature to 'suck it up', to keep a lid on his inner thoughts and emotions, least they suddenly rose up and overwhelmed him. Over time, as their partnership matured and strengthened, Piers had grown to realise this. You couldn't ask for explanations, not when they weren't even fully understood by the person suffering. Or, more likely, when they didn't want to talk about them. No, Piers had learnt to be supportive, not inquisitive. To be a carer rather than a confessor. Chris would eventually explain if he chose to, though more often than not he didn't. Piers drew some comfort from the fact that such episodes became less frequent as their relationship developed, but they never completely went away.
So "Hold me?" meant all of that and more, a whole luggage-train of emotional baggage. And so that's exactly what Piers did. But being Piers Nivans, he did it with a lot more thought and attention to detail than many would have done. When Chris warmed Piers up, it was a very physical experience. His large arms would surround his partner protectively, his thick legs would entwine themselves around Piers' own. The broad chest and muscled abdomen would radiate and transfer their own inherent heat to Piers' slighter frame. It was an act of enveloping, of wrapping, the physical embodiment of the laws of physics, of thermal dynamics, of energy loss and conservation, of friction and radiation. But on the occasions when Piers reciprocated, it was a more cerebral exercise. It had to be of course, Piers' comparatively slim body couldn't compete with that of his lover's. It was all in the technique. Yes, Piers would put his arms around Chris, as far as they could reach! And he could wrap one of Chris' legs at a time with his own, but it hardly impacted the bear's physical state.
But it was the touch, the tactile nature of Piers's 'hold' that went far beyond the mere surface of his lover's body. It penetrated and soothed Chris' very soul. Piers didn't hold with a hand. It was his fingertips that caressed and softly trailed over Chris' scarred skin. Brushing, stroking, sometimes even teasing. They criss-crossed the rugged terrain underneath them, never staying long, but equally never missing a spot. Sometimes they wouldn't actually touch Chris' skin at all, but float through the brown hairs on his arms, his chest, his groin. Piers' toes too, seemed adept at moving lovingly along a thigh, a calf muscle, the buttocks. Chris never knew what part of his body would be aroused the next, what sensation would follow gloriously on from the last. And in that very act of anticipation, of expectation, those feelings of love and wonder, would also come forgetfulness, of a deadening of the pain and torment, an easing of the taut heart-strings.
It was to Chris' chagrin that he rarely stayed awake long enough to thank Piers. The sniper could tell from the steady, regular breathing, the relaxation of the tension in the hard-muscled body, that his 'hold' was having the desired effect on his Captain. He didn't need the verbal thanks, or seek confirmation of a job well done. To see Chris at peace, content once more in himself, that was all that Piers ever wanted to witness. But sometimes, in the drowsy torpor that comes just before sleep, Chris would smile, the frown would disappear from that handsome face, and the sad brown eyes would suddenly lighten and sparkle.
"Thank you my love, for holding me. Please, don't ever let go."
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain :
Happy Birthday, Bubba!
Russ turned a certain age this week. Knowing he likes a bit of class, here are six classy studs, one for each decade - plus one to grow on. And just to keep that old brain box ticking over, some questions as well.
1. First of all, a wash and brush up for the birthday boy, but whose pool is this?
2. Next, some gentle exercise, Texas style! Ride ‘em, Russ! Name the piece and artist.
3. Some light refreshment next, a young wine, nice full body! Where is it?
4. Well, you might not be a Superman, Bubba, but you do seem a decent sort. Name the artist.
5. I have this image of Russ, wise, magisterial, master of all he surveys. Red suits you! Who and by whom?
6. After a long hard day, a relaxing snooze, you’ve earned it, Russ, but where are you?
7. Finally, a beautiful bronze, but what and by who? That patina is so warm, like mahogany, you want to run your hands over the torso!
Many Happy Returns, and many more of them!
Thanks much, Tim - readers, feel free to leave your answers in the comment box below. (Tim says I scored about a 75, which ain't bad for an old peckerwood from Texas. I tell you what.) I'll post the answers on Monday.
Update, 6/1: Quiz answers are now posted in the comment box.
A guest post by my truckbuddy Tim from England, now resident in Spain:
This week we conclude Bill and Ted’s adventures, but first a STOPRESS. Just the other week Russ discovered some papers that showed Bill was assigned for specialist training to Scott Field, Illinois (near St. Louis), with the 371st Technical School Squadron - the dates on the papers indicated he was there at least from July 15 to Sept 9, 1942. Scott Field was the main Radio School for the USAAF during WWII, where both operators and maintainers were trained. So it looks like our guess for Bill’s trade specialisation were correct. Here’s a lovely contemporary ‘linen’ postcard, hand coloured, showing recruits walking past the base’s proud slogan. I wonder if Bill sent one to the folks back in Florida?
Ted and the ‘American’ Merlin
Although America had not then officially entered the war, as early as 1940 plans were being made to build the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine in America. Following failed talks with the Ford Motor Company, agreement for licensed production was reached with the Packard Motor Company of Detroit in September. The first engine ran just under a year later in August 1941. This gave the USAAF access to a more powerful V-12 aero engine than it currently possessed. It also gave Britain an alternative source of supply, away from the bombing of the Luftwaffe who targeted all aircraft-related factories. Here a Merlin is dissected in an American classroom!
The Packard-Merlin as it became known was to power the latest Spitfires, and Ted’s training in late 1943 was part of its service introduction. By the end of the year he was posted to the Air Ministry in London and became a member of the Aircraft Servicing Demonstration Party, or ASDP. This unit was charged with standardising engine maintenance procedures throughout the RAF. Ted’s role was to demonstrate the approved servicing actions, and to go and troubleshoot when problems were identified at operational bases all over the country.
He told me once about an incident he had at RAF Kemble, where they were having trouble with the new engines. His train arrived very late at night, having been held up by bombing, by which time there was no transport available, so he had to walk five miles in the black-out, arriving at the base in the early hours the next morning. He booked into the Sergeant’s Mess and got his room. No sooner was he asleep than the Station Warrant Officer, God’s right-hand man on any RAF base, called reveille and held a general room and kit inspection. Pa remained in bed, explaining he worked for the Air Ministry, and not the SWO!
The SWO was incensed and had Pa hauled off to the guard house on a variety of charges. Fortunately for Pa a phone call was made to London to discover who this troublemaker was. Pa’s Boss, Flt Lt Green, gave the SWO an earful about detaining ‘his man’ and ordered his immediate release. He also gave Pa an earful about maintaining friendly relations with the natives!
Bill goes to Europe
The Packard-Merlin also powered that legendary American fighter, the P-51 Mustang, which flew alongside another great American aircraft, the P-47 Thunderbolt, and it was with this aircraft that Bill now became involved. In early September 1944, he left the 8th Air Force, Rougham and Jackie behind and joined the 9th Air Force, which was headed for Europe. He crossed the English Channel to the newly liberated Belgian port of Ostend, and then on to the south of Brussels.
Another of Russ’s recollections was the clue to P-47 connection:
Daddy said you could tell what planes were coming overhead by the sound of their engines - the German planes, he said, sounded weak and tinny like a sewing machine - weeweeweeweewee - whereas our planes sounded heavy and formidable - WHAAAMWHAAAMWHAAAMWHAAAM. Now what kind of planes those were, or indeed what kind he worked on, I never did know and didn't think to ask.
Now an airman would not compare a bomber with a fighter, but like with like. German bombers famously made a droning noise because they did not synchronise the speed of their engines, so you got a discordant ‘beating’ sound. Bill was most likely comparing fighters. The German Messerschmitts and Focke-Wulfs had V-12 engines, famous for their hi-revving character, hence the weewee, sewing machine sound! The P-51 Mustang had the Merlin, also a V-12, but that made a beautiful burble. The only other US fighter of the time was the P-47 Thunderbolt. It had a massive 18 cylinder double radial engine, which went wham, wham wham!
The move took Bill from the 8th Air Force in the UK, essentially a strategic bombing unit, to the 9th Air Force, which was a much more tactical unit; using small bombers and ground attack fighters like the P-47, operating from bases close behind the advancing Allied troops. Since there was no commonality of airframes or engines between the two units, it’s probable that Bill was still in the radio/radar equipment trade. A common feature would have been the IFF, Identification Friend or Foe, a classified device for identifying an aircraft to friendly radar. It was fitted to most anything that flew by 1944.
The airfields Bill mentioned to Russ were all Advanced Landing Grounds, or ALG’s, and his tales of action suggest he was with close-support aircraft, again suggesting he was working with the P-47 Thunderbolt, which operated in the ground attack role very, very, close to the frontline. A serviceable IFF was extremely important because more aircraft in this role were shot down by their own side than by the enemy!
Although this clip was filmed earlier in France, it gives a very clear idea of what P-47 operations were like. Imagine this with cold, snow, air attacks and an ever present enemy, and you will still only be part way to understanding what Bill was going through in Belgium.
Ted goes to India with Lord Mountbatten
Ted had already started his travels prior to D-Day. Lord Louis Mountbatten had been appointed Supreme Allied Commander, South-East Asia Command. He and Lady Edwina Mountbatten, who usually accompanied him on his travels, had commandeered their own VIP aircraft, a brand new Avro York transport, developed from the famous Lancaster bomber. Here’s Ted standing in front of his beloved York, serial No. MW102.
To cope with the high altitude and humid temperatures it would encounter in Asia, it was powered by the latest Packard-Merlins, so Ted was chosen to join the other groundcrew who flew in an accompanying aircraft. At Lord Mountbatten’s insistence, MW102 had been fitted with plush seating, a conference room and separate sleeping compartments. Like him, it represented the Empire and was designed to impress. Later on Winston Churchill ordered one which was less opulent, apparently.
MW102 also boasted flushing toilets rather than the usual chemical ones, another of the Mountbatten’s whims. This proved notoriously troublesome, and was particularly unpleasant to repair. I once asked Pa if he had ever done this. “No fear, I was there to fix the engines, and that’s what I did. Fixing the toilet was the riggers job!”
Here he is (on the left) in at Ratmalana airfield in Ceylon with some of his mates. I didn’t recognise him at first; the use of Brylcream hair gel, very popular in the RAF in those days makes his hair look darker. But the ‘Turner’ nose gives him away! I’m sure he must have occasionally spoken with Lord Mountbatten, but most matters concerning the maintenance of the Packard Merlins would have been addressed through the plane’s pilot, a Squadron Leader from Scotland. His name was (I think) Duncan, and Pa thought he was an excellent pilot and a well-respected leader to the air and ground crews.
Being on Mountbatten’s team had its perks. In those days, British service men were given a basic ration of cheap cigarettes when serving abroad, but Mountbatten’s men received a tin of 50 Benson and Hedges high-quality cigarettes each time they serviced the aircraft, worth their weight in gold as an alternative currency!
Lord Louis and Lady Edwina apparently enjoyed an ‘open’ marriage and broad sexual tastes – both male and female. I wonder then if Lord Mountbatten, whom Pa idolised, advised him on some book purchases he made in aptly named ‘Happy Bookstall, Preedy Street, Camp, Karachi’ Two slim volumes, one was the Karma Sutra, and the other the Ananga Ranga. Very daring and risqué, possibly even illegal in England at the time! Perhaps it was the novelty value, or perhaps it was a source of relief for a single man away from home? And here they are, hardly used!
Amongst his memorabilia is a Security & Censorship chit, issued by the Karachi Airport Security Section, listing various censorable items, which included gramophone records, literature for the blind and playing cards! Obviously the Kama Sutra and its companion volume made it out somehow!
Ted’s travels in the far-east also included New Delhi, where he looked up the local Masonic Fraternity, as well as Columbo in Ceylon and Karachi (then also in India), but he rarely spoke of his times there. In later life he was never one for foreign food or travel, and I think the far-east must have taken him right out of his comfort zone as a young man who, until the war, had seldom left his home county. A shame, the thatched accommodation at Ratmalana looks rather exotic under the swaying palms here! However, the clue was in the name; Pa said, “The place was full of rats, great big horrible ones, and snakes and scorpions . . . I didn’t like it there.”
Bill in Belgium and Germany
Bill told Russ that he served in a number of ALG’s whilst in Europe, but those he specifically mentioned were Chaleroi, Namur and Liege, all in Belgium, and finally Aachen in Germany. If you look these names up on the map, you will see they reflect the progress of the Allies advance east into Germany. Life on these ALG's was very basic, with no hangars and the maintenance conducted in the open, there were very few comforts. Most airmen lived in tents, and what buildings they had were designed to be transportable, and so were flimsy and poorly insulated to say the least. It would have been physically tough.
The units were always on the move, sometimes backwards, as the front-line battles ebbed and flowed. And the enemy was ever present. The Germans were adept at leaving behind small, hidden groups of snipers and commandos as they retreated who would then attack and disrupt the advancing Allies as they moved over them. Russ recounts:
I did ask Daddy once if he ever shot anybody in the war; and he said quietly he wasn't sure, maybe. Apparently at some time or times, there was shooting by his unit at some Germans in the vicinity. He used some gun or rifle, but didn't know if he'd actually hit anyone; and how would you. Seems odd that air corps ground crew would be shooting at the enemy - I wonder if that was during the Bulge, when the Germans were trying to take back the ground they'd lost - no way of knowing now, though.
It’s quite possible this was during the famous Battle of the Bulge. The winter of '44-'45 was one of the worst in many years, as a result there was little flying by either side during the battle. But there was plenty of action on the ground; and the ALG’s at Namur and Liege were only 20 miles north of the battlefront.
However, on Jan 1st '45, the Luftwaffe launched Operation Boddenplatte (Baseplate). They threw everything they had at some twenty front-line ALGs. Although they achieved tactical surprise, and destroyed many allied aircraft on the ground, these were quickly replaced, so the Luftwaffe did not achieve the air superiority they had sought. Instead, their own losses in men and machines, which by now were irreplaceable, were such that they never mounted an effective massed operation again. This scene was typical of many ALG’s after the attack.
Russ again:
Of course, I don't remember all the stories now - really only one, about one day at the airfield somewhere in Belgium, the alert sounded and the Germans were flying over, I suppose bombing or strafing the place - everybody was running like mad for cover towards an old stone bridge nearby, I don't know if they had air raid shelters on those forward bases or not. Anyway, the whole time Daddy was making for the bridge amongst the crowd, he was calling for his good buddy, some little guy called "Shorty," natch, and telling him to hurry up and come on. Daddy was worried because he couldn't see Shorty anywhere. But lo and behold, when they reached the bridge - why, there was Shorty himself - he had run so damn fast, he had beaten all the long-legged boys to shelter! Very amusing, to hear my daddy tell it. . . .
Around the same time another incident took place that showed Bill’s moral convictions and sense of decency. Russ continues:
He had lots of funny stories like that, and made light of the grimmer aspects of things. Though he did say at one time, there was a German plane shot down quite nearby - other guys in his outfit had rushed over to it and were picking souvenirs off the dead pilot, his medals and scarf and pistol and such like - which Daddy wouldn't have anything to do with it, he thought it was wrong.
Death of a pilot – Herbert Maxis
Such incidents were not uncommon – Here is the sad tale of a young German SNCO pilot, Herbert Maxis:
On 1 January 1945, during Operation Bodenplatte, JG 53 (a Luftwaffe Fighter Squadron) had orders to attack the airfield at Frescaty, south of the ‘Bulge’ near Metz. Before reaching the target Herbert Maxis’s ME109 took hits from an American anti-aircraft position, the 455th AAA Bn., 'A' Battery stationed at Oberfelsberg. Maxis force landed only 200 yards from the American positions and was shot and killed climbing down from his aircraft. In some accounts the gun battery crew are reported to have believed the German was going to pull a pistol although he may have been merely pressing his hand against a body wound. Before the M.P.s arrived, the pilot had been stripped of his boots, flying jacket, Lueger pistol and dog-tags. Pte Billy Taylor of the 739th FA Bn remembers:
"The pilot carried out a perfect belly landing. Before I could get to the aircraft the pilot was shot dead and his flight tunic pulled off the body. He was lying in a pool of blood across the port wing root, his arms stretched out over his head. He had thick black hair, looked about 20 years old, perhaps less, and bore a strange resemblance to one of my cousins. He had been shot by one of my friends, Smith, as he was getting out of the aircraft. A grave registration detail took away the body and the next day, officers from HQ came to question Smith - they didn't think much of the fact that a German pilot had been shot in cold blood and left lying in his underwear. There was talk of courts martial but this idea was quickly abandoned when the brass learnt that the pilot had opened up on us at low altitude with everything he'd got."
Bill also witnessed the dawn of a new method of warfare when he spoke of seeing German rockets flying over. During those final months of the war in Europe, from September 1944 to May 1945, some four thousand V1 missiles and V2 rockets were launched against targets in Belgium. Mainly aimed at the Allied port of Antwerp, others were fired at Liege and a few at ALG’s. It would have been the VI, the Doodlebug, or Buzz-Bomb as it was known, and the precursor to today’s cruise missiles, that he saw. Their ominous buzzing noise must have sounded quite chilling as they passed overhead.
VE-Day
Then suddenly, and thankfully, it was over. With the final surrender of Germany’s armed forces, Victory in Europe, VE-Day, was declared on the 8th of May, 1945. Winston Churchill announced the news to a war-weary nation. Bill and Ted probably listened to this on the BBC. It was a momentous occasion and one we commemorate today on behalf of our fathers.
Doubtless there was much ‘clearing up’ to be done before the active units could begin to withdraw and the occupying forces take over in Germany. It was not until October that Bill left England and headed for home. For Ted it would be a while longer. But the end to their adventures was now in sight.
Bill goes home
I’ll let Russ conclude his father’s adventures . . .
Daddy told me he sailed on an old Liberty ship going over; on the return in '45, though, he was on the Queen Elizabeth. Somewhere I have a chocolate tin with a beautiful colour picture of the ship on the lid, which he bought and brought home as a souvenir; my mother eventually used it to keep sewing things in. However, I'm sure the ship was still in wartime camouflage when he sailed on her, and all the lovely interiors removed to accommodate thousands of GI bunk beds.
This clip shows the Queen Elizabeth making that voyage; can you see your Pa Russ?
What I do know is that it was a floating crap game from stem to stern all the way back to the States; and I think Daddy did very nicely for himself in that way. Somewhere I still have his pair of dice, a transparent red, perhaps an early kind of acrylic. Maybe they were transparent to show that they were not loaded, I don't know.
Well that's about all I know. Daddy returned home on the Queen Elizabeth, as I said, and was processed out at Camp Miles Standish, near Boston; then no doubt the long trip home from there was by train. That was October 1945; he told me had accumulated enough "points" to be sent home early, or earlier than some. Daddy had made Corporal during the war; but got busted back to private after returning late to base and being counted AWOL. I wish I knew the details of that; knowing my daddy, I strongly suspect that wine, women, and song were involved. Grin. But before the war ended, he had been promoted back to Corporal.
And certainly he was very fortunate to get through the war entirely unscathed, unlike many poor fellows from all sides. Of course "home" was his parents' house, where he had lived before the war. He had written or telegraphed them that he was back in the States and homeward bound, but without specifying an ETA. Many years later Grandma told me she was headed out the front gate one day with a cage of chickens in her hands, taking them somewhere to sell I guess - and then all of a sudden a car pulled up and out jumped her boy, home from the wars. "And I don't know what happened to my biddies," she said.
Ted’s adventure ends
Ted had returned earlier to England from India, around October 1944. The new year found him at RAF Hawkinge, a famous Battle of Britain airfield, resolving problems some Canadian Spitfire Squadrons were having with Packard-Merlins. Here is a signal, he sent at the time. Click for the original to see the detail. I don’t think it’s classified any longer.
You can see how the his role was not only to assist the front-line engineers, but also to appraise the Air Ministry of the operational status of the aircraft independently of the Squadrons, who may have been tempted to paint a rosier picture. And there was still time for some more courses before de-mob day. Two months after VE-Day, in July, he was at the De-Havilland’s learning about constant speed propellers, and in November, a month after Bill got back home, Pa was back in Derby at Lodge’s, learning about the latest advances in sparkplugs manufacturing. These were not trivial courses. The prodigious power output of the final versions of the Merlin, and its replacement, the Griffin, meant that propellers, sparkplugs, fuel pumps, indeed all associated technologies, had to keep pace as well.
This continued training after VE-Day suggests the RAF had further plans for Ted. Indeed he told me that he was offered employment by both Rolls-Royce and De Havilland’s. But he had other ideas and he left a clue in the notebook from that DH propeller course: The words, written in pencil in that small, neat hand of his, It had to be you. It was the title of a long popular love song. This was to celebrate his love for his childhood sweetheart, Peggy, it was their song.
In fact Ted did not leave the RAF until January 1946, from RAF Cardington, where he had joined in 1939. He remained on the reserve until 1948. His service record records states “. . . he has been most competent, reliable and conscientious. Both theoretically and practically his work has been most satisfactory and he has shown good initiative and has required little supervision.” And in those few clipped words, Ted’s six year adventure also came to an end.
Conclusion
I’ll let Russ sum up in his own words:
Well Tim I thank you so much for shedding light on my father's wartime service by your very clever detective work. As I say, till now I have never thought much or cared to research what he did exactly because he made so little of it. He was drafted, along with 10 million others, went to England, worked on some airplanes. And then came home. So what? No big deal. Not a very interesting story to my young ears. Certainly no glory, no glamour about it.
I never thought till this correspondence of ours that he was effectively at the front line there in Belgium, at risk of life and limb night and day. Which suggests a certain personal courage that was utterly lacking in any of his references to the war. None of those guys pointed to themselves as examples of bravery and fortitude - there was none of this modern attitude so unfortunately common now of "I am the greatest" and so forth. Just the bare fact of duty done, and then they moved on from there.
But now with your deductions I begin to see a clearer, much grimmer picture - and I can locate my father in it. All war is hell, of course, but I know that the Bulge was a particularly ferocious fight. Years ago, having Christmas dinner with a female college friend and her family, I listened with fascination to her dad, a great talker with a lovely old-time accent, tell his stories of the Bulge. He had been a research chemist before the war, and once in the service was made an Army officer - captain, let's say, I don't know the ranks very well. But he and his unit (tanks? artillery? whatever) were there in the Ardennes and in the very thick of it.
In fact, I sat with him and listened long after dinner was over and the rest of the company had moved to the living room. My friend rolled her eyes - she had heard it all many times before, it was "just Daddy's war stories" - but in listening to the old man, I felt some distant connection to my own father, who was no longer around to tell any stories.
As for me, I now see my father taken from a very sociable family environment and suddenly forced to grow up very quickly. There’s a determination, at times bloody-minded, to get the job done to the very best of his abilities. And then, having done that, to return to his family and friends, to carry on where he had left off.
His wartime experiences and his knowledge of aircraft inspired in me a passion for all things aeronautical. My own time in the RAF was heavily influenced by my father’s service. He was my role model and I’m very proud to have grown up in his image.
And for those of you who like to know what happened next:
Epilogue – Marriage and Fatherhood
On the 8th November 1945 Ted purchased a ‘hallmarked, solid gold faceted wedding ring’ for the princely sum of Two pounds ten shillings at Bravingtons Jewellers in London, and the next day he married Peggy, my mother to be. They had three days honeymoon in the Imperial Hotel in London at a cost of two guineas (two pounds and two shillings) a night, breakfast included, and then it was back to the RAF for his final 3 months of service!
When Bill got home to Florida in 1945 he took up his education again. Under the generous terms of President Truman’s GI Bill, he completed a long held ambition and attended law school through ‘46 and ‘47. There followed a whirlwind romance and marriage to Lee, Russ’s mama.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is discord, harmony; where there is doubt, faith; where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy. Grant that I may seek not so much to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love. For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen.
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We cannot all do great things, but we can do small things with great love.
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My Story
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Churches say that the expression of love in a heterosexual monogamous relationship includes the physical, the touching, embracing, kissing, the genital act - the totality of our love makes each of us grow to become increasingly godlike and compassionate. If this is so for the heterosexual, what earthly reason have we to say that it is not the case with the homosexual?
It is a perversion if you say to me that a person chooses to be homosexual. You must be crazy to choose a way of life that exposes you to a kind of hatred. It's like saying you choose to be black in a race-infected society.
If God, as they say, is homophobic, I wouldn't worship that God.
