Vernon’s fingers moved along the envelope’s sealed flap. He’d carried it for months. A crowd of travelers milled on the platform, waiting to board. Queuing. That’s what these folks called it. He loved all the little differences from home. Steam rose past the window.
A mother and her little girl sat across from him. The mother stowed their suitcase and fussed over the little girl’s wool coat as they settled in for the journey. The little girl stared. He was used to it.
“You’re short.” She proclaimed as though she’d made a drastic discovery.
“Indeed I am, little lady.”
“Rebecca Joan Fletcher, you apologize this instant.” The mother stared down at the little girl as she pulled off her coat. She looked up at Vernon. “I’m so sorry. Apparently, we’ve yet to learn any manners.”
“No need to apologize, ma’am. She’s an observant little girl.” Vernon winked at her.
The mother folded the girl’s coat and her own onto her lap as she watched Vernon. “You’re a Yank.”
Vernon smiled. “You two outta be on Vaudeville. Born and raised. Yes, ma’am.”
“But your uniform … are you a pilot?” The mother looked down at the golden wings pinned to the chest of his blue uniform.
“I feel like I should pay you to tell my fortune. Yes, ma’am. Right again.”
“My word … I didn’t know there were any Yanks here. Where are my manners?” She reached out her hand. “My name is Martha.”
Vernon tucked the letter under his cap, leaning forward to take her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Vernon.” He reached to shake Rebecca’s hand. “Nice to meet you too, little lady.”
“My name’s Rebecca.” She shook his hand, ratcheting it up and down with all her might.
“That is a pretty name, Rebecca. How old are you?”
“I’m six and three-quarters.”
“Well, hot dog. Some of my friends back home call me three-quarters.”
The little girl’s eyes widened, and she looked to her mother for permission to laugh. The three of them chuckled.
“Folks here call me ‘Shorty.’ That’s what you can call me, Rebecca.” He winked at her again.
Rebecca beamed at him.
“How long have you been flying here, Vernon?” Martha emphasized his name as she frowned down at her daughter.
The train lurched as it started away from the station.
“I crossed the pond in April of forty.”
Martha’s eyes matched her daughter’s in surprise. “Oh dear, have you been flying against the Nazis?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s what I came here for.”
“My Da is fighting the Nazis too,” Rebecca announced.
“I feel safer already, little lady.”
Rebecca nodded approvingly. Martha’s face tightened. Vernon looked at her, and she shook her head. He nodded.
“Do you like magic, Rebecca?”
She smiled and moved to the edge of her seat. Vernon folded the letter along its well-worn crease and put it into his coat pocket. He pulled out a coin and flashed it in front of her. She clapped, her eyes following it intently.
“What are the magic words?” He held up a fifty-cent piece for her to see Lady Liberty.
She shrugged.
“Abra.” He swept the coin through the air. “Cadabra!” He twisted his hands in a final flourish and showed her his empty palms.
Rebecca laughed. “Where did it go?”
“Well, I’ll be …” Vernon leaned in and popped off his seat to get closer to her. She held her hands mid-clap as her eyes followed him. He reached up with the palmed coin, pulling it from her ear. “You’ve got some dirty ears, little lady.” He held out the coin for her to take. She peered at it in wonder and looked up at her mother.
“Someone’s getting a bath when we get home.” Martha smiled down at her.
“I don’t need a bath!” Rebecca took the coin from Vernon and examined it, hoping to see the magic it held.
Martha mouthed, “thank you.”
He nodded as he sat back down.
“How many Yanks are here with you?” Martha put her arm around Rebecca, who was still playing with the fifty-cent piece.
“I can’t be sure about that. There were three of us flying with the RAF. But who knows how many fellas joined the army and whatnot.”
“Were?” Martha frowned.
“Oh no, nothing like that. It’s just there’s more of us now. So many they’ve started callin’ us the Eagle Squadron.”
Martha smiled. “Well, on behalf of all Brits, I thank you, Vernon. You and your Eagle Squadron.”
“My pleasure. I just wish I could fly over and give a Brooklyn handshake to ole’ Adolf.”
“Is that where you are from? That’s New York, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Can’t wait to see it again.”
“Did we interrupt your reading a letter from home?” She gestured to his coat pocket.
“Oh, no …” He looked down. “Well, I’m a bit embarrassed to say.”
“I’m sorry, I’m prying.”
“Not at all.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the envelope. “It’s from a girl I’m sweet on, and I got it before my first fight.” Vernon turned the letter over in his hand, playing with the dogeared corners of the envelope. “I didn’t open it, and the flight went well. So I thought I’d keep it sealed as a sort of good luck charm. I figured I’d get more letters.” He smiled.
Martha nodded. “Well, she’s a silly girl. She should be proud to have a brave man like you.”
Rebecca looked up from her investigation of the coin’s properties. “Mama! You called her ‘silly’!”
“Mothers are allowed to use that word.” She squeezed Rebecca. “Give Vernon his coin back, please.”
“You go on and keep it, little lady.”
Rebecca shot a look at her mother, squeezing the coin against her chest. “Oh, can I? Please, Mama?”
“Very well. Thank Vernon.”
“Thank you, Vernon.” She parroted her mother.
Martha leaned against the window. “Where are you coming from? Did you have a leave?”
“I sure did. I spent New Years off base. How about you two?”
“Coming from a visit to my parents, but we still don’t feel safe staying in London.”
“I can surely understand that.”
“Vernon.” She hesitated. “I don’t mean to be a busybody. But I think you ought to read that letter.”
He unfolded it, his eyes moving across the neat handwriting he’d stared at for months. “I don’t know.”
Martha closed her eyes. “Good or bad, I’d give anything to read a letter from Rick.”
Vernon nodded, more to himself. “You might be right.”
Martha was asleep in minutes, and Vernon watched the English countryside glide past the window. The steady rattle of the train made him think of the subways back in the States. It cost a nickel to get out to Coney Island. He could still smell the cool Atlantic air and taste the chilidogs. That’s where he met her. Her crazy hair blowing in the breeze off the ocean. Years later, he’d asked her to marry him right next to the hot dog stand where they first met. It was days before he would leave for England and he was sure she’d say yes until the moment he asked.
His finger traced over his name on the envelope, imagining her hands forming the letters. He still put her picture in his cockpit before every flight. Seeing her smile up at him took the edge off the fear. He was her Vern. He turned the envelope over and put his finger under the flap but it wouldn’t move. How could he line Jerrys up in his sights and pull the trigger without hesitation, but he couldn’t bring himself to tear open this letter?
He refolded it and slipped it into his pocket, and watched Martha sleep while Rebecca played with her new coin. He’d be home soon enough.
Pilot Officer Vernon Charles “Shorty” Keough (1911–1941)
For this week’s submission to
’s Stories From The Jukebox weekly writing prompt is based on “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourn. Listening to Ozzy’s lyrics I could think of no crazier train than the countless trains soldiers took into danger. His words ring true, “Millions of people living as foes; maybe it’s not too late; to learn how to love and forget how to hate.”Brooklyn native, Shorty Keough survived the Battle of Britain but was lost on a mission in February of 1941, his body was never recovered. This fictional story is to honor those men who were the first Americans to take up arms to defend England and Europe from the Nazis.
Javier, this is such a thoughtful weaving of history and imagination. You gave Shorty Keough a moment of warmth and humanity on that train, which makes his real sacrifice hit even harder. A beautiful way to honor courage through story.
Javier, this piece hums with quiet humanity. What struck me wasn’t the combat but the letter Vernon carries like a second heart, unopened, too sacred to risk changing.