Bring it home

The following is based on a true story from the accounts of my Grandfather.

A tear of sweat slid down his brow and onto his cheek. But he never flinched. His focus was on one absolute certainty, that with two outs, a second strike and facing the end of the ninth inning, it was all up to Alan to bring his team home, and show these Yanks how the game of baseball was played by the boys under the Southern Cross. His arms were heavy and his hands were blistered, the lack of wrapping around the bat digging into his skin, but still he never flinched.

His adversary, standing at the mound was the biggest man Alan had ever seen. At 6ft 5, the Yank was as imposing in width as he was in height. He was an Engineer, brought on with a US division who’s prime objective was to keep the airfield in operation during their joint occupation in New Guinea. “You got this, Stevo! Bring us home mate!” a Private called on third. Mugzy was his nickname, and the man was as loud as any cannon fire.

The Giant wound his arm with his elbows high, like a boxer, all brawn and no grace. This was all the information Alan needed to read through him. Like a right hook, the giant pitched, directly down the centre exactly as predicted, and Alan connected as much as any pro could. The surrounding beach knew it even before Alan did as he watched the game ball fly over the made barracks, pass the twin 50.Cal bunkers, pass the motor blockades, and set with the red sea below the low tide of Milne Bay. The beach of 8000 strong cheered in a drunken cloud as Alan Stephens, a Private in the Australian infantry, brought his boys home, looked on by the 1500 Yanks that ducked their caps as gracious losers.

The joint divisions formed what was the bulk of the offensive forces as part of Operation RE. The mission was simple enough, the Yanks maintain control of the airfields and prevent any air raids, and the Aussies were to search and destroy any enemy activity, that is when the Japanese got here. For several months now, intelligence had been banking on the belief that the Japanese would be sending a Fleet to retake the Southern side of New Guinea, and that a reinforcement fleet were expect any day. But that was weeks ago. And ever since there had been no air raids and no orders give. So the division saw to themselves to become an occupational force, and dug in on the beach and made it there home, where the units of both nations joined as one and shared everything, from training regiments, supply runs, food, booze, and of coarse recreational sports.

By the time the sun set, the combined caches of the Yanks and the Southern boys had all been spent. Several weeks stationed on an isolated beach, waiting for the command of forward or backward allowed all the time in the world to be spent on festivities, and no exception was made for the closing of the fifth Milne Bay World Series. But Alan would not be found among the cheers and applaud, he instead would be found on the shoreline, with his feet in the sand enjoying his middy and his eighth can of Yankee import. He does not sit away from his mates because of his dislike of company, he does it because he does not want the celebrations to be about him. Starting on his ninth import, and staring out to the horizon under full moonlight, playing with the winning game ball he found washed along the shoreline, Alan is reminded of how he yearns for the return of normality, of the simple life, returning to his garden bed in his backyard, fertilizing the turnips and re-potting the succulents, of weekend Rugby matches and his love for not just the home grown Cricket League, but for his deeper love of American Baseball. Oh how Alan wished one day to see the game grow to the heights in his homeland as it is in the states. But for the meantime, he would have to make do with what he had, which was time, and the beach. And as he continued to stare aimlessly over the calm black horizon of the Pacific ocean, an idea sprouted in his mind. Maybe it was the beer talking, or the heat stroke he received several days earlier, but nevertheless a brilliant idea was forming. By the medical barracks was a small stash of US issued surf boards, and Alan felt like going for a swim.

With all regiments distracted on the bonfire now raging centre the sleeping barracks, taking a board was as welcoming as the open sea itself. And so Alan pocketed the game ball into his trousers, and swam out pass the breakers. Perhaps he just wanted to be a little closer to home. Whatever the case, Alan knew what he was doing. He paddled and paddled until his already exhausted arms couldn’t paddle no more. He paddled so far out so quickly that he could no longer hear the cheers of his brothers, nor the crashing of waves on the shoreline. He thought to swim back in but his arms needed the rest, and so he laid down on his back, and pondered over the clear night sky, waiting for his arms to recover. As he waited the gentle sailors breeze brought him a comfort like no barracks ever could, and the rocking of the tides put him soundly to sleep.

By the time Alan woke up it was not from his own admission but from the blistering flare that was the sun now having climbed to its peak in the sky. It scorched Alan to regain his senses, along with a dull headache and a dry mouth. He no longer recognized any of the land mass that now made up the coastline. How long was he out? How far could he have drifted? These questions among many others churned in his mind. It was only when the answers arrived that terror of his situation began to sink in. It wasn’t the thought of being lost at sea, nor the thought of Sharks or any manner of sea creature that may be in waiting underneath him. It was the thought of the Japanese Fleet, and the promise of reinforcing Rikusentai divisions that did. They could be on any beach north of the Allies, and Alan had to make it back for land as soon as possible. Though dehydrated and hungover, he paddled as hard as he could, somehow finding a strength and stamina that he never knew he had. He paddled so hard for so long that he became convinced he was setting records.

“Come on Alan. Come on! Bring it home, mate!” Alan said to himself, both in mind and outwardly.

“That’s it! That’s it. Bring it home! Bring it home!”

With what felt like hours, Alan looked up to see what was left. He asked himself whether land mass was suppose to get smaller as you swam toward it or not, until the revelation hit him like a wall. He was not getting any closer to land at all, we was in fact floating further out to sea and even further down the coast. With no certainties, Alan knew the best course of action to take was not to battle against the current but to go with it, and so Alan remained a Sailor on a vessel with no Captain.

His lips were chapped, his skin blistered and with no escaping the suns kiss, Alan was literally at the mercy of fate and chance. Hunger, thirst and starvation never occurred to him. To think on such things could have meant the difference between life and death. Instead Alan’s thoughts were locked on one thing and one thing only, getting back to that simple life.

On his back, Alan surveys the horizon. A newly forming coastline gives way to a narrow peninsula that spurs out from land like the tip of a sword. And unsheathing from behind it was the bow of a ship. Alan rolls onto his stomach, almost falling overboard and adjusts his eyes once more. It was a Gunship, a modern class. Alan recognized it from the bows narrow design. But what he couldn’t recognize was whether it was friend or foe. The ship made it out past the peninsula and was turning directly for him. Given the stories he had heard about how POW’s were treated in the Pacific, Alan would rather take his chances on the open ocean or the uncharted jungles rather than fall into enemy hands. And so he returned to paddling, reaching feats he never knew he had in him. His strokes chopped the water, disregarding any technique or pacing. He was now just a man running on pure adrenaline and survival instincts. But in spite of his efforts, they were in vein, as the only thing in his line of sight that seemed to grow closer was the Gunship baring down on him. A foghorn sings out, alerting Alan that they have spotted him. It’s only a matter of time now whether he is to be treated as a prisoner or target practice.

Alan’s arms give out on him. They could go no further. It was as if they could sense the impending ships arrival and surrendered of their own choosing. The Gunship rolled up alongside him, and it was the first time since day break that a shadow cast over him. He didn’t know whether to move or to stay absolutely still. Perhaps they would believe him dead and leave him be. Wishful thinking. Another foghorn blasts, this time tremendously louder than the last and it was as if it commanded Alan to move. With next to no strength left in him, he mustered the courage to roll onto his back to face the towering gargantuan that was the Gunship. Everything was a feint blur. Alan could barely keep his eyes open enough to make sense of anything. Silhouettes of numerous heads looked down on him from the starboard deck. A rope ladder is thrown down over the side, and it draws Alan’s attention to several tall thick black letters imprinted along the hull that spelt out ‘U.S.S TULSA’ And it was as if a tremendous weight had been suddenly lifted off of him.

A small crew of Yankee sailors assist Alan up the rope ladder and onto the main deck, where once aboard he is greeted with a warm blanket, a pair of shades, a canteen of water, and a bacon sandwich that seemed to be waiting for him in the main cabin. His mind and senses were on overdrive, still in somewhat disbelief of where he found himself, on the tether of between being asleep and being awake. But as far as the American were concerned, he was wide awake.

“How the hell did you end up out this far?” the Captain asked, which spurred Alan into remembering the room he was in, filled to the gill of Sailors and Officers.

“I ah.. slept through most of it” he answers, sending the entire room into laughter.

“God-damn son. You are one crazy bastard, ain’t ya?”

Alan has had his share of interaction with the Yankee boys back at Milne Bay, and he had since grown a sharp ear to their sense of humor, and joint in on the laugh. But at the same time he was still in disbelief to the how he came to be here. The Tulsa was on a scouting run, patrolling waters of which it would normally have avoided had it not been for the intelligence received regarding the Japanese Fleet rumored to be on the way. It would later be revealed that this intelligence was of immaterial, and the Japanese Fleet would never arrive at Milne Bay.

“Hey, where’d you get that?” a First Officer asked pointing to Alan’s open trouser pocket. He pulled out the game ball still drying from the sea, and was stunned to find it was still in there.

“Baseball fan are ya?”

Alan nods his answer before he can find one for the first question. The Officer walks over to a locker and pulls out a duffle bag. Setting it on the cabin table, he pulls out his own Baseball.

“How’bout a trade?” he said switching with Alan’s, and at first the gesture seemed redundant until he gave the ball a second look and noticed several clear signatures. George Selkirk, Spud Chandler, Marv Breuer, Johnny Lindell, and Joe Gordon. All-Star players from the New York Yankees, and Alan knew each and every one of them.

“You’ll need something to catch em with” the Officer pulled out one more gift, an authentic pro-league catchers mitt, with leather stitching and all. Alan felt like a kid on Christmas morning. Under the absolute absurd circumstance, not in a million years did he ever think this could happen to him. Little words could express what he felt in the moment, but the ones that could were only properly said in the most Aussie of ways.

“Cheers mate!”

The room scoffed another laugh, perplexed by the Australian slang as they were not accustomed to it.

“First Officer. Set a course for Milne Bay. We must bring Private Stephens home”

“Aye aye, Captain”

By the time the laughs settled, and the heat had cleared and the sweat wore off, the Tulsa was already in recognizable waters. Alan looked out from the bow to Milne Bay back in his sights, with the New York Yankees held firmly in his hand, and one helluva story to tell around the nights fire. No one would ever believe him had they not seen it for themselves. Even Alan still found it hard to believe. He even wondered if anyone even noticed his absence. Possibly not. There by and by at the end of it all nothing was changed. Not the regiment, not the orders given, not even Alan. As serendipitous his unexpected journey was, by the end of it he was returned the same man that he left as. Just a man, with the game ball, who was bringing it home.

How fate and chance do so intertwine and align,

under the most cosmic of ways from time to time.

In a place so set in its administration,

who’s owners march in steps of sync and precision,

shall not know of nor learn to see,

the comfort that can only be found through life’s simplicity

The end.