Keith Kirchner lived on the next block down from ours. He must have been five years older than me because he finished school in 1940. He was drafted in the spring ‘41. After basic he went into the Army Air Corps. Knowing the army like I do, I’d say he was pushed into the Air Corps–bombers, a machine gunner. My mother and his used to talk on the phone several times a week; this way we kept in touch with him and his training.
First the telegram came telling that he was wounded. For anybody with a star hanging in the window, any telegram was almost as bad as a death notice. Not knowing anything except he was alive and wounded must have been mighty bad. Slowly the news slipped across the ocean that he was badly burnt and couldn’t write. I wondered if his arms had been burnt off, A month or two later we found out that he’d been awarded a Medal of Honor. Talk about a splash! The paper printed on the front page the whole citation about how an incendiary bomb had exploded in his plane. He’d picked it up and thrown it out the window saving the other men but burning himself just about to a crisp. I was taking chemistry then and had just learned what a bitch phosphorus is. Now I know he was wearing one of those heavy leather flight suits which would have protected him somewhat. I see how he picked the bomb up in the first place. What I can’t understand is how he continued to hold on to the thing.
When he finally came home, we didn’t see him without his long sleeved shirt buttoned all the way up. Of course most of the time he had a tie on. His face and neck were scared something awful and his hands too. Couldn’t hide those parts. I’d wonder what his body looked like naked especially down there, you know.
I have been cogitating about this ever since. I did my time in Korea, All I got was a Purple Heart for being stupid and a Good Conduct Badge for not getting caught. Keith and I’d have a beer ever so often. While we were talking and drinking I noticed that his hands weren’t the color of mother-of pearl but more like unpolished opal. Another time I remember regretting to him not doing something brave and famous like him. He just said, “You didn’t have the chance.”
Class 2154 © 3 September 2008
About the Author
Although I was born in Macon, Georgia in 1928, I was raised in Birmingham during the Great Depression. No doubt I still carry invisible scars caused by that era. No matter we survived. I am talking about my sister, brother, and I. There are two things that set me apart from people. From about the third grade I was a voracious reader of books on almost any subject. Had I concentrated, I would have been an authority by now; but I didn’t with no regrets.
After the University of Alabama and the Air Force, I came to Denver. Here I met Carl, who picked me up in Mary’s Bar. Through our early life we traveled extensively in the mountain West. Carl is from Helena, Montana, and is a Blackfoot Indian. Our being from nearly opposite ends of the country made “going to see the folks” a broadening experience. We went so many times that we finally had “must see” places on each route like the Quilt Museum in Paducah, Kentucky and the polo games in Sheridan, Wyoming. Now those happy travels are only memories.
I was amongst the first members of the memoir writing class. While it doesn’t offer criticism, it does offer feedback. Also just trying to improve your writing helps no end.
Carl is now in a nursing home, I don’t drive any more. We totter on.
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