Ray Hoy - Jack Frost 01 - The Vegas Factor Read online

  Dad, I still can’t believe you’re gone. When they called me out of formation on that terrible December day back at Ft. Huachuca and told me to report to the orderly room on the double, I remember wondering if I’d done something wrong. But when no one would look me in the eye, I knew it was something else. And when the company clerk slid emergency leave papers across the desk and told me to sign them, my heart started to ache.

  The company commander was sitting in his office with his door open, and when he heard me asking questions that no one wanted to answer, he finally stood and walked up to me, a strange look on his face, and said, “You don’t have time to make a call home right now, soldier. You’ll have to do that from the airport in Tucson. There’s a Jeep outside waiting to take you to the airfield. Good luck.” And he turned on his heel and walked back into his office.

  A first lieutenant flew me to Tucson in an L-19 “Grasshopper” (a small plane that looks a lot like a Piper Cub). You know how I hate to fly, and that flight was a real roller coaster ride, with a lot of turbulence.

  But my mind wasn’t really on the flight.

  I called home the minute we landed in Tucson. Mom answered, and I asked if everything was okay. Her voice was so weak I could hardly hear her. She said, “Oh, Bud, your dad died …”

  And God, as much as I regret it now, I asked her to repeat it, because I didn’t want to believe what I knew I had really heard. I said, “What? What did you say, Mom?”

  And she said it again, crying now. “He died … he died, Bud. He’s gone.”

  I don’t remember exactly what I said to her, something to the effect that everything would be okay, that I would be home in a few hours. And when I hung up, I remembered thinking what a ridiculous thing that was to say. How could everything be okay, ever again? For Mom, for me, for any of us?

  I’m not sure how I got there, but I found myself walking in the darkness near the aircraft taxi-ways. I remember standing there watching the big prop jobs line up for takeoff, listening to the roar of their engines. The cabin lights were on inside the planes, and I could see the faces of passengers peering out. I wondered who they were and where they were going. I wandered around out there for a couple of hours, while I waited for my plane.

  It was a long, terrible flight back to Illinois, fighting back the tears while I sat there, surrounded by strangers.

  After your funeral we all went back to the house. The neighbors brought food over, as neighbors do, but no one really felt like eating. We just sat around and drank coffee and talked about this and that, and sometimes not at all.

  And then Mark broke everyone’s heart when he climbed up on Uncle Doug’s lap, thinking it was you. He began searching through Uncle Doug’s bib overall pockets, and everyone suddenly realized he was looking for your railroad watch to play with, like he always did when he sat on your lap. I can still see the tears in Uncle Doug’s eyes, and that great sad look on his face.

  A lot of us got up and left the room. I went outside and stood in the cold air for a long time. My young son had summed it all up when he did that. He wanted to be close to his grandpa, just like the rest of us.

  Dad, I stayed home as long as I could, taking my entire 30 days leave for the coming year. But then I had no choice but to go back, leaving Mom there alone. It was the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do.

  You know, I’ve written to you several times since you’ve been gone. It makes me feel better, like maybe you’re still here. I still have those letters in my footlocker. I haven’t shared them with anyone, but I might send a copy of this one to Mom. It will probably make her cry, but I think it will also bring her some kind of comfort. It does me.

  Well, we’re getting close to the time this atomic monstrosity is scheduled to blow. I’m sure it will be spectacular.

  I miss you, Old Man. I wish we could go fishing together again. And I wish you were here to see this with me.

  I love you, Dad.

  —Bud

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