COLONEL RYAN HAD been as good as his word, finding Lechaim a place on an American Air Force transport plane flying out of a base in England. Although bound for Sydney, Australia it was scheduled to refuel in Manila, which suited Lechaim's purposes. Almost four weeks had elapsed since he had said goodbye to Ireland. After a short stay with his mother in Brighton, during which time he attended the investiture at Buckingham Palace, he was finally on his way. His official discharge from the Army had not yet come through. However, the authorities could ill afford to place obstacles in the way of a man that was now part of Army folklore, so he had been granted 'special leave' which, in reality, was 'indefinite leave'.
The Victoria Cross invested by the Queen at the Palace eight days before had been packed safely away in one of his bags. It would remain there secluded from the world as indeed he, himself, hoped to be during his stay in the Philippines. Hence the reason for the moustache he had grown and the change of hair colour and style. Before, his hair had been combed back from his forehead but now he had a parting down the left side. His former shock of blond hair - it had grown back quickly after his head injury nearly a year before - was now a dark brown. Clear glass spectacles lent added substance to the change. The obvious shrinkage in his physique in the last three months had also assisted in the transformation and it would take a close examination to identify him as Lechaim Francis Lewis, VC. Lechaim hoped that with this change in appearance, his arrival in Manila would pass unnoticed. In his naivety, he remained blissfully unaware that the sacred cow in the Orient is money - any secret can be bought for a price.
More than twelve hours had passed since he had said goodbye to his mother and boarded the plane. Despite the fact that it had been many hours in the air, he still could not sleep. It certainly wasn't due to a lack of consideration by anyone on board. The crew of the C-130H cargo transport on which he was travelling could not have been more helpful. They knew well enough who he was and were treating him like royalty for his fame preceded him. The aircraft's captain had immediately insisted when he came aboard, “You take my berth, Captain! It will give you a little privacy”. Despite Lechaim's protests, the skipper would brook no refusal. Installed in the pilot's somewhat Spartan quarters, Lechaim lay on the cot set up there listening to the endless noisy drone of the engines roaring around him. Normally, despite the racket, he would have slept, but his mind was in such turmoil that his brain refused to rest. As usual, his dead wife filled his thoughts. Whilst he could accept that Sinead was dead and had been for some months now, he literally felt her slipping away with every mile that passed. No longer alive, it was as though in death she were waiting there in her grave for him and he was abandoning her. He could not let go of that thought and a deep depression was setting in.
Torturing himself even more, he once again pulled the photograph from his wallet. It was a photograph of the pair of them standing on the beach on the second day of their honeymoon; the beach from which just four days on she left never to return alive. The scene in the mortuary flashed into his mind. The way her damp red hair clung to her face as she lay there on the trolley with just a sheet covering her. How the white skin had been torn in parts where she had been dashed against rocks. How that sweet face had been bruised and contorted. How... No! It would do no good to let any more memories of her in death flood in and he made an effort to concentrate instead on memories of her when she had been alive. He smiled as he remembered how the young woman walking towards them on the beach that day had reacted when Lechaim jogged after her. At first, she had appeared startled and started to run away. However, when she realized that Lechaim's intentions were strictly honourable, she was glad enough to take a photograph of Sinead and him together using Lechaim's camera. It hadn't taken the young woman long to recognize the famous couple, and she had then asked if she might be allowed to take a photograph of them with her own camera. “One for my husband! He'll never believe me otherwise!” As Lechaim pictured that excited woman in his mind, it suddenly struck him that it was also the same woman he had seen on the beach the day Sinead had died. But then she had a puppy dog with her. A strange coincidence, he thought, considering how long that stretch of beach had been. On that fatal day, he and Sinead had been a mile or so up the beach from where they had been before. However, on reflection, it seemed likely that the young woman lived near the beach somewhere, so, in all probability, she was always strolling along it. Perhaps not such a coincidence after all.
Lechaim smiled as he reminisced. My, how he and Sinead had laughed together at the time. “You should have seen her face!” Sinead said, “When you ran towards her! By the way, she pelted down the beach, she must have thought you were a rapist” Tears welled in his eyes as he recalled his retort. “There's only one person that's going to get raped here!” and he remembered then the playful way he had chased her over the sand. The pain behind his eyes was building up again, and he put the photograph back in his wallet. As he did so, he came across the other photograph lying there and he pulled it out. It was the one of Monsignor Michael standing before St. Peters. Studying it, he was reminded that his dreams these last months since Sinead’s death left no room for the warrior that had dominated them before. There had only been space in his thoughts awake and asleep for Sinead alone. He studied the print for some time. The photograph was a poor one because Michael's face was out of focus although the face of his companion standing with him was clear enough. From the man’s dress, Lechaim guessed that the Mosignor’s colleague was a dignitary of the Church as well. It was funny how he was always drawn back to this photograph despite the fact that the markings had been a figment of his imagination. He had quite forgotten that he had stowed it away in the back of his wallet. It seemed of little use now and he went to rip it up but something held him back. It was after all another link to his late wife and he placed it back in his wallet instead.
“You awake?” a voice from the other side of the curtain at the entrance to his quarters asked.
“Yes! Come in!”
It was the pilot, an American Air Force captain, that entered. Short in stature with a slight paunch and short curly black hair, he looked more Mexican that an archetypal American. In fact, he was from Montana. The mandatory sunglasses and cigar were evident enough though.
“Captain, we should be in Manila in two more hours.” As he spoke Lechaim's attention became fixated on the unlit cigar between his teeth, which seemed to fill the man's swarthy face. The brilliant white teeth that held it were friendly enough though. “Look! I've been told to keep your arrival a secret. You know! You were never here!” and he winked at Lechaim conspiratorially. “Don't worry about a thing! I'll slip some pesos to the natives and we'll have you through Customs and out in the paddock in no time!”
“That's very kind of you, Jay. I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble.”
The sound of his name was the sweetest thing when spoken by someone famous. The “Jay” was on his father's side, his mother being pure American Indian. She was Northern Blackfoot and proud of it. Often, when he was a boy, she would tell him tales of her tribe. “Then, my son, the Blackfoot were the strongest and bravest on the north-western plains.” How proud his mother was, and how proud she would be when he told her that he had been speaking to the great English warrior, Captain Lewis.
These thoughts only briefly slipped through his mind as he answered, “Not at all, Captain! Not at all! It's a pleasure...all part of the service!” Before Lechaim could respond, the pilot added, “Just one thing, Captain!”
“Yes?” Lechaim asked.
“Could you write your name here!” he said handing Lechaim a copy of 'LIFE' magazine. On the front, it carried a picture of Lechaim in full uniform being presented with his Victoria Cross by the Queen. The caption read: “FOR VALOUR - CAPTAIN LEWIS RECEIVES ENGLAND'S HIGHEST AWARD “
Lechaim then comprehended. The man was asking for his autograph. It took Lechaim by surprise because until that moment he hadn't really considered himself a celebrity. His mind had been too full of other things. But, there it was and he couldn't deny it. He was now in the public eye, on parade for the world to see. The thought brought him no comfort. The last thing he wanted was to be anyone's hero. Rather, he just wanted to lose himself in another world where no one knew about him and he could be left alone. He was hoping that the Far East would provide such an avenue of escape. Yet, the amiable man before him could not be denied.
As Lechaim took the magazine, the skipper explained, “For my little sweetheart! She'll be over the moon! She thinks you're great!”
Lechaim tried to hide his embarrassment. “Her name is?”
“Millie!” the pilot said proudly.
Lechaim duly wrote, “To Millie from Jay's friend, Captain Lechaim Lewis” and he dated it. The American captain beamed his pleasure as Lechaim handed the magazine back. “That's great Captain Lewis! - That's great! - Thanks a million!” Then his eyes lifted from the cover and he said, “Now you don't worry about a thing! We'll get you through the airport in no time”. With that, he decided at long last to light his cigar, which Lechaim hadn't seen out of the man's mouth. The pilot still didn't take it out as he ran a match down one wall and lit it. “You want one Captain?” he asked fumbling in one of his pockets.
“No thank you!” I don't smoke!” Lechaim answered.
Above the lieutenant's head, the sign with “NO SMOKING” on it started to choke on the fumes of Cuban leaf as he then said, “Okay, Captain Lewis.” Pausing to consider, he then asked, “Would you like to join us in the cockpit?”
Lechaim thought for a few seconds. “Why not!” he replied. “Many thanks!”
As Lechaim made his way forward with the smaller man, he was amused by the American's buoyant mood. “God damn! That's great! Don't that beat all!” he kept muttering as he looked at Lechaim's contribution on the magazine cover. He turned to Lechaim as they were about to enter the cockpit and finally took the cigar from his lips. “My mother will be tickled pink!”