Fulmer

He walked into the bookstore early on a Sunday morn He was walking with a cane and a limp and he looked a little worn. I said, “Hello and welcome.” He never turned his head. And it didn’t take me long to realize he hadn’t heard a word I said. When he finally acknowledged me, he said, “I wasn’t being cold It’s just I don’t hear so good...I’m 92 years old.” He said he was an old Navy pilot, and took off air craft carriers too He flew a Curtiss SB2C airplane, hunting submarines in World War II. He talked softly about his tour of duty and asked with a sense of pride If we might have a book in the store with a picture of his plane inside. Together we searched the stacks marked World War II campaign He smiled when I pulled one out and turned to his beloved plane. We put it on the counter and he quickly gained in my affection As he gently rubbed his finger over it and labeled every section. As we both stood together in the bookstore early on that day It seemed to me Fulmer, for that was his name, was miles and years away. I asked so many questions and then I’d ask some more How many people were in the plane...2, did he have any accidents...4. Twice they ran our of fuel but they never were lost or stranded And two times in the haze of war on their carrier they crash landed. Was he ever afraid, of course he was, and he was hurt a time or two How many subs did he blow up..he said more than just a few. He said killing didn’t make him happy or bring him any joy “It was my job to kill the enemy before they could kill our boys.” I respected his reticence..for although he knew it was a war He felt the burden of those on both sides who didn’t make it back to shore. He bought the book, and when I shook his hand he said, “Ill be back for more.” Then he tucked it under his arm and shuffled out the door. As he walked away I was reminded by his honor and dignity That Fulmer and men and women like him are the reason I am free.