(Woodbridge Royal Air Force Base, Suffolk County, East Anglia, England, 1960)

There came one night such a clang and a clatter. No,

not Saint Nick, just Mom and Dad home from a party;

specifically a Dining In, a very formal military affair.




From beyond the door Father’s roar fills our ears: “Boys!

Get up! Come see a real general!” My brothers and me

– six, seven and eight – roused out of our beds so late,

stumble into the hallway blinking and rubbing sleepy eyes.




Mother pecks our cheeks, runs a brush through our hair.

We’re in front of military nobility; we need to look fair.




Father was an Ohio farm boy but now protects Europe

from Russian bears. Ever ready to jump in his jet, tonight

he’s a splendid penguin in white shirt and black tux topped

with silver bars. And Mom? Elizabeth Taylor, Hollywood.




Dad, with hearty grin, says: “General. These are my sons.”

Then a quick glance at us and: “Boys. Ten-hut!” We snap to,

good little airmen reporting for duty, rumpled jammies and all.




Father has no medals but the general has twenty or more

smeared across his chest in a bunch of colorful ribbons

clutching crosses, stars, propellers and – holy smokes –

a bronzed and diving eagle grasping lightning bolts!




Above this palette of valor shine shoulder boards

not with colonel’s eagles, but general’s stars. He is

a warrior-god, then, to us. The swellest feller we’ve

ever seen, a little boy’s fighter-pilot dream who would




lead our father into battle. We are lots of awed and

plenty scared when he takes a knee and with great

ceremony shakes our tiny hands and we smell the whiskey

on his breath wafting past his jaunty handlebar mustache.




Dad says: “Look here, boys. The general’s an ace!

He’s got a silver star, a bronze star and air medals, too,

for shooting down Germans during World War Two.”




Struck dumb, mute, eyes agog, we don’t know what

to say. Really, how do you respond to a general when you’re

seven years old? I’d like to be told, because I just didn’t know.




Cigar smoke and Mom’s perfume fill the hallway.

The adults stand grinning. Then Mom gives us a hug

and smacks our butts back to bed, our heads spinning.