Tuesday, May 10, 2005
The Toughest Man in the World
Speaking of The Murph, two weekends ago our paths crossed for beach camping. It was a crew of San Diego solids, and Marah and I. Honeymoon adventures involving ghosts were shared, frisbee skills were honed, wood planks were widdled to swords (yeah, that really happened), and beers were drank.
One tale Kevin recounted for us can only be called "The Toughest Man in the World". It's about his grandfather. With his permission, I will re-tell it with slight embellishment. (It's a little awkward, this re-telling. Kind of like when you're in a room with someone, and they talk about you as if you weren't there. Good thing social awkwardness is my bread and butter).
The Toughest Man in the World was a B52 tail-gunner in WW2. During one particularly intense flight, his plane was shot to shit. Everyone else on board was killed. He took two bullets in the shin, himself. As the B52 plummeted to sea, burning all the way, he managed to kick out the cockpit glass and eject. Somehow in descent, while staring death in the face, he managed to get his parachute open before crashing into the water. Quite possibly, this sliver of chute time saved his life.
Some Chinese fisherman saw this all happen, and they pulled him out and took him back to shore. Over the next few weeks, they held him in a kind of camp. The extent and purpose of said camp is unclear now, though it was benign enough, because they kept him alive, torture-free. They even treated the gangrene he'd developed from the gunshot wounds. Yes, once a day someone would come to his tent with a spoon, and scoop out the infection. It was the only alternative to amputation. He issued nary a whimper throughout the ordeal. When the Americans arrived three weeks later to bring him home, he simply muttered, "it's about damn time."
When he was older, it gave him great pleasure to freak out the grandkids by showing off the small cave in his leg. He cackled as they recoiled in fear. Of course, these visits were perhaps less frequent than he'd like. See, nomadic is the life of the Moonshiner. And so he zigzagged through east Texas, settling only long enough to make and sell his bathtub whiskey. The enterprise's profits were humble at best, but it quenched his thirst for adventure.
It was an unpredictable, sometimes harsh lifestyle. Years later, he would consider it at night, while dining with his wife off paper plates of roadkill.
"Is dodging the tax man really worth it?", he wondered to himself, picking gristle from his teeth. "Maybe I should settle down, give the wife something solid. Man can't run his whole life."
And so he took up a full-time job in one place, which afforded more opportunities with the grandkids. They came to know him as a man of gesture and silence. On fishing trips, he stood quietly until someone reeled in the catch. He'd then grab it for study. If it was proper for eats, he set it aside. If it was useless or inferior, he'd pound it with a hammer and throw it back. Life was for surviving, which meant no fluff.
Death finally caught up to him the only way it could: by sneak attack. An out-of-the-blue car crash closed the book on him. It wasn't pretty, and I suspect he only let it happen through gritted teeth. But he knew when he was beat. Such was the grace of The Toughest Man in the World.
Speaking of The Murph, two weekends ago our paths crossed for beach camping. It was a crew of San Diego solids, and Marah and I. Honeymoon adventures involving ghosts were shared, frisbee skills were honed, wood planks were widdled to swords (yeah, that really happened), and beers were drank.
One tale Kevin recounted for us can only be called "The Toughest Man in the World". It's about his grandfather. With his permission, I will re-tell it with slight embellishment. (It's a little awkward, this re-telling. Kind of like when you're in a room with someone, and they talk about you as if you weren't there. Good thing social awkwardness is my bread and butter).
The Toughest Man in the World was a B52 tail-gunner in WW2. During one particularly intense flight, his plane was shot to shit. Everyone else on board was killed. He took two bullets in the shin, himself. As the B52 plummeted to sea, burning all the way, he managed to kick out the cockpit glass and eject. Somehow in descent, while staring death in the face, he managed to get his parachute open before crashing into the water. Quite possibly, this sliver of chute time saved his life.
Some Chinese fisherman saw this all happen, and they pulled him out and took him back to shore. Over the next few weeks, they held him in a kind of camp. The extent and purpose of said camp is unclear now, though it was benign enough, because they kept him alive, torture-free. They even treated the gangrene he'd developed from the gunshot wounds. Yes, once a day someone would come to his tent with a spoon, and scoop out the infection. It was the only alternative to amputation. He issued nary a whimper throughout the ordeal. When the Americans arrived three weeks later to bring him home, he simply muttered, "it's about damn time."
When he was older, it gave him great pleasure to freak out the grandkids by showing off the small cave in his leg. He cackled as they recoiled in fear. Of course, these visits were perhaps less frequent than he'd like. See, nomadic is the life of the Moonshiner. And so he zigzagged through east Texas, settling only long enough to make and sell his bathtub whiskey. The enterprise's profits were humble at best, but it quenched his thirst for adventure.
It was an unpredictable, sometimes harsh lifestyle. Years later, he would consider it at night, while dining with his wife off paper plates of roadkill.
"Is dodging the tax man really worth it?", he wondered to himself, picking gristle from his teeth. "Maybe I should settle down, give the wife something solid. Man can't run his whole life."
And so he took up a full-time job in one place, which afforded more opportunities with the grandkids. They came to know him as a man of gesture and silence. On fishing trips, he stood quietly until someone reeled in the catch. He'd then grab it for study. If it was proper for eats, he set it aside. If it was useless or inferior, he'd pound it with a hammer and throw it back. Life was for surviving, which meant no fluff.
Death finally caught up to him the only way it could: by sneak attack. An out-of-the-blue car crash closed the book on him. It wasn't pretty, and I suspect he only let it happen through gritted teeth. But he knew when he was beat. Such was the grace of The Toughest Man in the World.
