It’s Ira!
Now he was standing on the deck of the troopship conveying its human cargo of soldiers to the War in Europe, headed toward Naples now that Italy had fallen to the Allies.
He could feel the letter in his pocket that he had been carrying with him everywhere.
Dear Ron,
Congratulations, Daddy, you have a son!
I didn’t want to tell you that last day. You would have tried to stay and we both know that wouldn’t have been possible. Our little Bobby, Robert Aaron Edison, was born on September 18th. Now there are two of us you have to return to.
Be careful. The Red Cross lady said she would get this letter to you.
I love you!
Gloria
He had received it months later, just before he shipped out, but he had read it every day.
...
“All hands, commander on deck.”
He stood at attention by his bunk.
“At ease, men. The Dewey is transferring a platoon of Marines to our ship by special orders. Must be secret stuff for them to transfer troops from the Pacific. I know it’s already crowded, but we’ll have to double-bunk them. We’re only two days from destination, so it won’t be for long.”
The commander turned and left.
He heard the other men complaining, but with sixteen brothers and sisters back home, it was nothing to him. Double-bunking was a luxury compared to that.
“Edison!”
“Yes sir?”
“Think you can do something about the air in here? You’re a machinist’s mate, ain’t you?”
The chief knew the extra men on board would make it like an oven in the bunks.
He had the fan unit apart in no time. He pulled out the heavy-duty C wrench from the tool kit and began to work. Within minutes the fan was purring again. He hefted the wrench and began to clean off the grease. Beautiful workmanship, he thought as he read the markings stamped on the handle: NEWARK FOUNDRY 3.
Now he had to endure the gauntlet of backslapping and hair rubbing from the happy men.
They all heard the heavy boots tromping down to their level. The door opened and a gravelly voice boomed out:
“Awright, you jarheads! Git yer gear stowed! The Navy is sharing its luxury accommodations with us, so no fights or crap like that. Anybody steps outta line, you gotta deal with me!”
Tired-looking Marines poured into the compartment. One stopped by his bunk, a short, powerfully built, Levantine man, with eyes sunken in chronic sadness.
He stood up and held out his hand.
“Ron Edison, machinist’s mate.”
The guy looked at him.
“Seligman, Ira Seligman, corpsman. Thanks.”
“So who’s the foghorn?”
“That’s our old man, Gunny Crowley. He’s twenty-five if he’s a day.”
...
His mind continued to flip through those past scenes of men under wartime stress, occasionally coming back to the present as he pushed slowly through the crowd. Judges were all around the girl’s display now, but the face he thought he’d recognized wasn’t there, so he kept heading toward the boys’ entry. Then he spotted his son off by himself staring across the room at the red-haired girl.
She’s really cute. I just can’t believe a girl, and a seventh grade girl at that, could do a project called “Avitaminosis A and its effects on baby mice.” She must be smart. But she’s too young for me. I’m sixteen! Uh-oh, Dad’s coming over. I’d like to try and talk to her, but I’d better get back with Galen.
As Galen waited for his friend to return, his mind drifted, too.
I wish Papa and Mama could have come. But they probably wouldn’t be comfortable here. Besides, Papa has to work.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the judges have made their decisions. Let’s start with the younger folks first. For junior high school, best original idea and best in her category: Nancy Seligman.”
Applause rang out from the crowd as the principal read each award category.
Edison grew nervous. Someone else won in their category, a kid from Virginia. He hadn’t quite heard the name, but it sounded like Crowley.
“Now, the winner of the Grand Prize and the science scholarship. This one’s a twofer, folks, in more ways than one. For the second year in a row, our winners are the team of Robert Edison and Robert Galen. Congratulations, boys!”
The project had come out just as they’d planned it, from the design of the circuitry to the demonstration of their device’s ability to restart a frog’s heart with a time-pulsed direct current. But neither one of them dared tell anyone how they had hatched the idea. Even now Edison had nightmares about it. What if they’d been wrong?
...
“Sweet Jesus!”
Edison’s words rang out as they watched the ’51 maroon Ford veering from one side of the quiet stretch of road to the other before finally ramming into the power pole. The hood sprang open and steam poured out of the ruptured radiator.
As they ran toward the car, Edison’s first glimpse of the driver made him stop and spew up his lunch, but Galen kept going.
The guy, who looked old to them, maybe mid-thirties, wasn’t going to have any more birthdays. His head stuck halfway out the broken windshield, his body impaled by the steering post.
Automatically, Edison started thinking about the idea of a collapsible steering column and maybe even some type of restraining belt to halt the body’s forward momentum. Then the nausea hit again. What remaining bile he had in his stomach ended up on the pavement.
“Hurry up, Edison! There’s another guy in here! We need to get him out in case the car goes up.”
They both grabbed the passenger door and pulled. It moved slowly and Edison figured it probably yielded more to Galen’s strength than his own. The passenger had been thrown forward but hadn’t gone through the glass. And there was, of course, no post to skewer him.
Galen was muttering to himself.
“Dr. Agnelli said to always check the airway and neck first—then the mouth, chest movements, heart pulsation.”
He was running his hands along the man’s spine.
“Keep his head and neck still while I lift him out, Edison.
