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ATLANTIC
A short fiction by Radu Pintea
I
It was a late spring afternoon on the shore of Mogo
ş
oaia Lake ,the resting ground of Bibescos – part of them – part that I had known once in dreadful circumstances, stillhaunting my mind and of those my age who lived them and outlived just to slowly, realslow fade away off the swiftly changing record of time and leave behind them just twonumbers and a name painted on wood, etched on iron, scribbled on granite or marble Timeitself taking a special good and lasting care of them through its loyal soldiers wind, rain,ice, mould, rot, rust and dust.Slt. Mihai, shot down in Valea Leurzei on August 19, 1943 and slt. George, GoldenCross of Aeronautic Virtue shot down in line of duty on September 19 1944. Both of themat just 22 years of age …
 
Every now and then from the lake behind I could overhear loud splashes so crisp Ialmost knew how much would weigh on scale the carp that has made them in its joyful jumps about its purposes only by carp known.Way up in front, somewhere at the topmost side of one of the old oak trees of the palace a squirrel darted here and there in a code only to squirrels known.With the setting sun in the back (wartime diehard habit with and air force pilot) atone time I saw my shadow spreading ahead of me absurdly long against the marble tilesof my former squadron pals I had barely known in the hospital about sixty years ago. Theexplanation surfaced briskly: this was the only difference between them and me.
 
We all lay in camp hospital beds and the only things that told us apart were the placeswhere shrapnel had entered the flesh. In our tetanus shock induced delirium, drenched inour own sweat and shaking the beds with out crisis we raised loud collective prayers toGod to keep Paul (Agarici) alive so he could revenge all of us those downed and hurt, anddying.It was only me who survived to enjoy seeing our prayers went home and the ace of aces rumors claimed everywhere from Vladivostok to Berlin angels themselves weredefending his wings ended the war unscathed after countless acts of bravery awarded by allarmies at war.I had been hit during the third wave of bombing the Vega Refineries near Ploie
ş
ti city. I still don’t know not even today, who shot me, as no one of the downed pilots
1
 
 blown off the sky could reckon such a detail. Cert este c
ă
to
ţ
i credeam c
ă
ne-a doborâtîngerul lui Agarici. Ether was cramming full with warnings and signs foretelling of his presence in the air. Strange, but in those days all downed pilots nurtured deep in their heartthe conviction that they skipped death only because they’be been hit by what we used tocall “friendly fire”.All told and done, I deserved best for getting shot down. I had came a long way just to bomb my own country, my very birth place, my own street, and, if I may trust mymemory a bit yet, my very own house. My folks used to live very closed to the Fuel Tanks,and exactly the Fuel Tanks had been the main target planned to be destroyed at all costs.For me it had been the occasion to go back home, to to something for my folks.And this was the only way I managed to do it. I hoped they were not at home at thattime.
II
The bimotor waited muzzle up on the rocky cliff facing the unseen ocean beyondsome undulating mild slopes whose tops were spreading now and then small puffs of sandunder the whimsical breeze blowing from the sea.The man frowned. He liked the bitter algae scented wind, but not its direction too. If he should have to go on that noon, as he planned long time ago, the wind from the seawould be against him and his old bimotor, making even more difficult the attempt he planned for so long.He fondled the little tail flaps then patted the silverlike worn out fuselage, then heslipped the hands into the pockets of his tarpaulin pants, took a deep breath and he peeredat leisure just a couple of feet above the horizon line, into the free air, rady to soar.His aim was to cross the Atlantic.- Why not me? he mumbled. Them freaks made it so many times them war days ,then why not me now, when it’s peace all around and nobody is going toshoot at me as if I would be one of them wildebeest? Yes sir, why not me?- Speak alone, old man? asked a voice from the rear. The old man shuddered.- To Ben Johnson. Did she come yet? Nope.The newcomer carried two khaki tin canisters, one in each hand, and a smallsack hanging by his shoulder.- I got some extra outfit, he said. Gas and some food. He put he stuff down by thegateway The old man sighed.- So, she didn’t come, he said.- As I said before, no.- Maybe she’s busy, the old man moaned.- Maybe. Want an advice? Bail this flight.- What? Never. Me and Ben Johnson can make it all right. No, man, thanks for advice, but I have in mind to do it.
2
 
- See? The trade winds blows against. And besides, this here junk is far too old for your own safety.- Hey, hey, don’t call Ben Johnson for a “junk”, hear? It is powered by two Pratt &Dawson engines sound and tough and all right just fit to cross the Atlantic. Them war daysa lot of people made, and mind you, there was the war waiting for them sure thing at theend of the journey.- Who’s this Ben Johnson anyway? I don’t reckon to have seen the script last timewhen a made the final revision. Looks like brand new painted them black letters.- He saved my life. We were in North Africa. He had a big mustache and laughed allthe time. He used to say about everything is more or less worth a shit and then helaughed. He was my corporal when we were in North Africa. He was from some place in Alabama, he said. He died when he saved me. He was 23 years old, me – 25.I see, the newcomer said, scratching the side of his nose.Leaning against the plane, he took another good look at it then patted gentlytwotimes its bulk. The old man said:- I know people used to draw naked girls on the cockpit and call their birds juicynames. I called my plane with my corporal’s name who saved my life sometwentyfive years ago. I guess that wouldn’t bother him too much where he is now.- Why, sure not.- Then we met Rose and me and we made love and we married an there was a war allaround us. And then …The pilot halted. The mechanic didn’t know the story any further and maybe hedidn’t want to know either. What’s the point to learn somebody else’s story? Nothing.- And then the peace came, the mechanic said. The old pilot stared at him quizzically.- Yeah, he admitted.- No mail?- No mail this time. No courrier, no load – nothing. Just Ben Johnson and me. It’sgoing to be an off flight.- The wind, the mechanic said.- What about wind?- It’s stronger now.- That’s right. As the time goes by the things always grow harder. You’ll see for yourself later on. I’d better go now. So long, kid.He grabbed the two canisters and the sack and fetched them inside.- So long, old man.The old pilot turned his head from the door.- Speaking of wind, much obliged for not making fuss. I hate publicity and camerasand yelling crowd and stuff. And after all this is nothing special, really, just another regular cross ocean flight. So many freaks made it.- But you are no frak. You are a good old man.The old man smiled.
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