“And I’ll help you rebuild the engine,” Mickey added. “Hey, check out this awesome landing gear.”
“Maybe when you get the Fokker flying, Dad, I’ll dig up a Sopwith Camel somewhere and we can have dogfights.”
“And I’ll whip your tail off!” Mike said as he swiped at his tears.
“Are you going to put a machine gun in it, Grandpa?” Peter asked.
Mickey scrambled up to examine the controls. “Yeah, where would the machine gun go, anyway?”
“It goes right up front there, so the Red Baron could fly and shoot at the same time,” Mike said. “That was real flying. Man-to-man.”
Mickey crawled into the cockpit and began firing an imaginary machine gun, complete with sound effects. “Wait a minute, Grandpa. How could he shoot without hitting his own prop?”
“That’s a very good question.” Mike stepped up on the lowest wing and pulled himself up beside Mickey. “The earliest planes were hard to arm because of all the wires and struts in the way, not to mention the tail and the propeller blades. The pilots used to say, if you released a canary in the cockpit and he got away there must be an important wire missing.”
“How’d they shoot, then?”
“Well, they didn’t shoot at first. When World War I started, airplanes were such a new invention that they only thought to use them for aerial reconnaissance and artillery spotting. In fact, enemy pilots used to wave at each other as they flew by.”
“No way!”
“Yep, that’s the truth. Then one day a British pilot in a Bristol Scout fired a revolver at a German plane. The poor guy was so startled he landed and was taken prisoner. He became the first airman to ever be shot down. Then the arms race was on.”
Peter scrambled up on the wing beside Mike. “Did they have bombs too?”
“You know what the first bombs were? Bricks! They just tossed bricks at each other. Bombs were too heavy. The planes couldn’t get enough altitude with them on board. Or sometimes they’d throw out a grappling hook on a rope to try and grab the enemy plane’s prop.”
“But in the old movies I saw them firing machine guns during their dogfights,” Mickey said.
“That’s right, because sooner or later someone figured out a way to do it. A French stunt pilot invented the first interrupter gear so he could fire through his prop, but when his engine failed the Germans captured his plane. They hired Fokker, the guy who designed this triplane, to steal his idea. Fokker figured out how to synchronize the machine gun with the prop, and what followed was known as the “Fokker scourge.” Once they solved the problem of shooting past their own prop, the Germans shot down so many planes that the Allied pilots were called ‘Fokker fodder.’”
“The Red Baron was awesome!”
“Hey, whose side are you on, Mickey? But I’ll admit, the Germans did have some fine pilots . . . Baron von Richthofen, Oswald Boelcke, Max Immelmann. They were real aces. In fact, both sides had some great heroes. They went up with no parachutes, little or no combat training, and sometimes barely enough flight training. They made up combat maneuvers as they went along.”
“Why’d they make them up?”
“Well, new planes were being built and old ones redesigned so fast they didn’t have time to test them properly. Sometimes just a small failure meant the pilot would be trapped in a disabled plane. There’s the story of one poor fella who was trapped in a spinning plane with no escape and decided to end it all as quickly as he could. He gave the engine full throttle and dove straight toward the ground. Much to his surprise, the plane came out of it, and the pilot lived to tell about his new discovery—how to recover from a deadly spin.”
“Grandpa, you know everything,” Peter said.
Steve lifted Peter off the wing and set him down on the ground. “That’s because Grandpa went to school. And so should you.”
“What about Grandpa’s birthday cake?” Lori asked.
“That’s for supper. You’ll see Grandpa then. Come on, now. Time to go.” Cheryl herded them into the car.
“Bye, Grandpa. Happy birthday!”
After the kids left, Mike and Steve pored over every inch of the new plane together like two excited children. “Look at this beautiful relic!”
“Do you think you can find all the parts you’ll need, Dad?”
“What we can’t find we’ll improvise.”
“All these wires and struts. They’re something else!”
“Look at those three gorgeous wings, would you?”
“I like the square body design.”
“And the tail! Look at the way it slopes.”
“Not much room in this cockpit, is there?”
“You’ll have to go on a diet, Steve, or you’ll never fit”
“Pete thinks we should buy you a machine gun for Christmas.”
“It could use a new paint job too.”
“And a bath. It smells awful.”
“It’s the castor oil. They used it to lubricate the engines. Gosh, that smell brings back memories.”
At last they locked up the hangar and walked the short distance across the tarmac to Dolan Aviation’s cluttered office. Exhilarated, Mike could hardly get his mind back on the day’s work. Steve was smiling, too, as he picked up the morning mail and paged through it.
“Hey, Dad . . . what’s this?” his smile faded as he ripped open an envelope from Dr. Cole, the aviation medical examiner. “It’s your flight physical renewal notice. Haven’t you renewed this yet?”
Mike’s flight of euphoria came to an abrupt crash. He hadn’t renewed it because he knew he couldn’t pass the required physical exam. “You know what they say about old age—the memory’s the first thing to go . . . and I forget what’s second.”
“This is serious, Dad. You’ve only got, what . . . not even a week until the end of the month to renew it.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it.”
“You had your physical already, right?”
“I told you, I saw the doc a couple of weeks ago.”
“Then let me run the personal information forms in this afternoon for him to sign. Otherwise you’ll be grounded next Monday. Sunday will be the last day you can fly.”
Mike grabbed the forms from Steve’s hand. “I’m going by there later today. I’ll drop it off myself.” He hated to lie to his son. But he hated the truth even more. Suddenly, he could no longer hold back his tears.
“Steve . . . I want to thank you again for the plane . . .” Mike clasped his son in a fervent embrace.
Chapter 10
Tuesday, October 20, 1987
The entire Faith College community mourned the death of their former president and professor, Reverend Horatio Wesley Brewster. The administration canceled classes. The college chapel was packed to capacity for the memorial service. But Wilhelmina couldn’t mourn for her father. She had mourned for him months ago when his last stroke had separated them forever.
As the distinguished speakers delivered her father’s eulogy, she felt no relief in knowing that he was finally at rest, restored and whole. It bothered her that he hadn’t died living as Mike has phrased it. Instead, he’d languished slowly, dying bit by bit. It seemed like an unfair ending to such a fruitful, productive life, and she could almost understand Mike’s desire to end his own life quickly before his dignity and usefulness eroded away.
She thought about her own life, the emptiness and vanity of her daily existence since her retirement. Could it even be called living? Her life was meaningless, serving no good purpose, yet Mike Dolan, who had so much to live for, so much vitality and zest for life, had to die. Why was God so unfair? As she listened to the glowing words of praise for her father, Wilhelmina sank deeper and deeper into depression. She hoped her friends would mistake it for grief.
When the funeral service ended, Wilhelmina’s family, former colleagues, and friends gathered at her house. Mourners packed the living room and dining room, spilling over into the hallway and kitchen. Their somber faces,
gloomy voices, and dark clothing depressed her even more. She wished they would all go home.
She made coffee in a daze. Piled the food provided by the church ladies onto serving platters. Poured tea. As she carried a tray full of dirty dishes to the kitchen, her brother Larry followed her, closing the door to the dining room behind them. “Are you all right, Wilhelmina? You’ve hardly said a word to anyone all afternoon.”
“I’m fine, Larry.”
“Father wouldn’t want us to mourn.”
“Yes. I know.”
She filled the sink with soapy water and busied herself with the dishes. She wished he would leave. Instead, he stood frowning at her, playing with the watch chain that dangled across the front of his dark, three-piece suit. Another one of his sermons was imminent.
“It’s your retirement, isn’t it? That’s what’s really bothering you.”
Go away. Just go away and leave me alone. She kept her hands underwater so he wouldn’t see them trembling. “Nothing’s bothering me, Larry. I’m fine, considering that our father has just died.” She hoped he would mistake the quaver in her voice for grief.
“You’ve had since last spring to make plans and get yourself organized so you can enjoy your retirement. But all you’ve done is sit around and mope. Everyone’s worried about you.”
“Who says I have to do anything? It’s my life! If I choose to sit around all day, what difference does it make?”
“You have too much talent to waste like this, Wilhelmina.”
“Besides, I’m not just sitting around. I’m going to teach some private students.”
“From the college?”
Wilhelmina remembered Lori’s first piano lesson, with Mrs. Treble Clef and Mr. Bass Clef, and blinked back her tears. “You would never approve,” she mumbled.
“What’s that?”
“And I’m also working at the Cancer Center.”
“Yes. Peter told me.” He pulled out his watch and absently snapped the cover open and shut as if he had another appointment and she was wasting his time. “We thought you’d be on the Center’s board of directors. We had no idea the job would involve contact with the patients.”
Wilhelmina slammed a cup into the drain board so hard she nearly broke it. “Cancer isn’t contagious, Larry. And don’t you and Peter have anything better to do than discuss my life?”
His face wore the pained look of a martyr. “This isn’t like you, Wilhelmina. Peter and I are both concerned about you. We think you should pull yourself together.” He snapped the watch open and shut again as if to emphasize his words. “What would Father say?”
“Father is dead. I can stop living my life to please him. And under no circumstances will I start living it to please you and Peter!” The look of shock on Larry’s face was well worth the uncharacteristic outburst. She grabbed a towel to dry her hands and stalked into the dining room.
The scene there hadn’t changed. She busied herself at the food table, rearranging the platters, moving the sugar bowl closer to the coffeepot, lining up the silverware in neat little rows. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. She looked up. Her brother Peter and Dean Bradford were glancing furtively at her while they talked. She picked up a plate with an entire chocolate layer cake and marched over to them.
“Here. Have some cake, Dean Bradford.” She shoved the plate into his hands. His eyes grew wide. “Peter, could I see you for a minute, please?” She grabbed Peter’s arm and propelled him into the kitchen with her.
“Now, Mina, don’t overreact . . .” He tried his charming, politician’s smile on her, but it froze under her icy glare.
“You have no right to interfere, Peter. I told you not to go begging for my job.”
“I wasn’t begging. We were just discussing some possibilities, that’s all.”
“You have no right to do that! Maybe I don’t want my job back. Did that ever occur to you?”
“That college was your life, Mina. Larry and I both know it, so don’t try to tell us otherwise. And after everything Father did for that school, they owe us a small favor or two.”
Angry tears sprang into Wilhelmina’s eyes against her will. “I don”t want my job back for Father’s sake, don’t you understand? If Dean Bradford asks me back, I want it to be because of me. Because of what I have to offer. Do you get it, Peter? Mind your own business!”
Two explosions in one day. After a lifetime of abstinence. What was happening to her? She stalked from the kitchen for the second time, leaving another stunned brother behind. They would certainly have a lot to talk about now. We were only trying to help. Poor Wilhelmina. She didn’t want their pity, she wanted their respect. But evidently she’d lost that when she’d lost her job.
Back in her living room, people milled around, talking and eating, showing no signs of going home. She felt like a stranger in her own house. She wished this day was over. She was tired of being polite to everyone.
“Wilhelmina . . .” Someone touched her shoulder. She turned around. Catherine Hall looked into Wilhelmina’s eyes and, it seemed, into her heart. “I understand,” Catherine said simply.
And Wilhelmina knew that of all the people gathered there, Catherine really did understand her loss. Eight years ago, after a lifetime on the mission field with her husband, John, Catherine had lost everything in a political uprising. The mission station, field hospital, and church had all burned to the ground. Her husband had been tortured and killed. Wilhelmina’s problems abruptly shrank into proportion.
“Your father was a very great man, Mina. You must be very proud of him. He has earned a hero’s welcome into the courts of heaven. ‘Well done, good and faithful servant.’”
Catherine was the only person who had spoken of Wilhelmina’s father with joy instead of in morbid tones of sorrow. No one else seemed to believe that heaven was paradise or that an 89-year-old man might be glad to leave the suffocating confines of a nursing home to live there.
“Thank you, Catherine.” It was all she could manage to say.
“John and I both owed so much to your father. It was because of his preaching that we went to the mission field. He challenged us with the words of Christ: ‘Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.’”
John had been one of Father’s most brilliant students, a man who could have easily earned degrees and titles and a prestigious position within the denomination. But he had chosen to lay it all aside to work in a backward, unstable third-world country. Wilhelmina had always thought of John’s decision to become a missionary as a terrible waste. Today, for the first time, she wondered if she had been wrong.
“John thanked God for your father’s inspiration and encouragement every day of his life. I often wished your father could have traveled to all the places where he sent his missionaries and seen the millions of lives that were changed because of him.”
Wilhelmina longed to confide in Catherine. “Let’s go someplace where we can talk,” she whispered. They waded through the crowded rooms to the kitchen. Thankfully, it was empty. Wilhelmina plunged her hands into the tepid dishwater and began to wash, struggling for a place to begin. How should she describe her own empty life, the feeling that she had also lost everything? Catherine picked up a dish towel and began to dry, waiting patiently.
“Catherine . . . how did you ever get through it all? I mean, when you lost John, and everything you had worked for all your life . . . how . . . ?” Tears cut her question short.
Catherine finished drying a cup and set it on the counter. “When I felt bitter and defeated and ready to give up, your father ministered to me. He found me . . . I don’t even know how. But he showed up on my doorstep one day in Boston when I was so depressed I could barely function. For a long time he didn’t say a word, he just held me and cried with me. Then he told me that your mother had cancer and was probably going to die, and he talked about his own failing health. He told me, ‘We have two choices, you and I; we ca
n lose ourselves in despair or find ourselves in Christ.’
“He reminded me how the disciples, James and John, had wanted positions of greatness in Christ’s kingdom. ‘Can you drink the cup I am going to drink?’ Jesus asked them. Your father said that everything that had happened to me on the mission field and everything that was happening in his life was part of that cup. We needn’t feel ashamed for shrinking back from its bitter taste. Even Jesus prayed, ‘If it is possible, may this cup be taken from me.’ But in the end Jesus prayed, ‘My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done.’
“Then your father asked me, ‘Is the servant greater than his Master? Shouldn’t you and I also willingly . . . willingly . . . suffer the loss of all things?’”
Wilhelmina remembered her father’s final year of life. He had gradually lost everything—his mobility, his speech, his capacity to think and reason, his dignity But he had been willing to lose it all for Christ’s sake, without needing to know why. Wilhelmina knew that she had been wrong about him. Father had died “living.” She let Catherine take her in her arms and allowed her tears to flow.
“Everything changed for me after that day with your father,” Catherine told her. “Now I find myself doing things that I never dreamed I could have done. But first I had to stop shaking my fist at God and asking why. Instead I decided to say yes to His will for my life, no matter what that meant.”
Wilhelmina dried her tears and looked once again into her friend’s eyes. “Catherine, I’ve been very angry at God. I want to say yes, but . . . but I think God is asking me to do something—to minister to someone—and I don’t know how. How do you tell someone about Christ? How do you bridge the gap when there are cultural differences? What do you say?”
Catherine picked up another cup and slowly dried it, pondering the question as if unwilling to give a pat answer. When she finally replied, there were tears in her eyes.