We talked over a plan. I would go in the boat, since I had canoeing experience. Billy would drive down to Millville; wait for us to float down. Take along fishing gear to kill time, provide an excuse to any one that asked what he was doing there. I was needed to keep the jon boat moving fast, two can keep the boat going in a straight course better. We would find this woman, take her with us; drive us all back to Doc’s home; all without any one seeing who was in the auto. Next day Mr. Mueller is to pick up the boat with his wagon. Float boat hauling was a favor he often did for his neighbors, wouldn’t seem unusual.

  Doc knew the river was rising; knew a young woman was to about give birth; knew where to find her. How he knew he did not then say. Going down stream on a river that flowed from long pools to fast shallows, through rocks and snags, would be a difficult, challenge the likes I never expected to meet. I had paddled in canvas canoes, flimsy as leaves floating on the water.

  The wooden jon boat was designed by the river, built for the one purpose of floating down stream with the current. Very long, long as twenty feet, narrow, only as wide as a person sitting. With the weight spread out, it would slide over shoals . It was designed perfect; I felt it move with ease with my full strokes.

  As we paddled through the stretches of still pools, Doc offered parts of information. She was a girl from the wild hollows, a virgin girl. She had been taken and raped, raped by many. She escaped to a person that hid her. A birth would give evidence of the crime. Those men would then have to reckon with their crime. They would not allow that.

  Now near full dark, Doc called. “Turn, pull hard left “. Moonlight illuminated the flow of the current. Another stream was entering the river. “We must go upstream a ways “. Paddling with full power stroke, we gained slowly on the current. A silhouette of buildings stood over the tree line. At the water’s edge a woman with a lantern waited.

  She spoke a word or two to Doc, led us on a road of an abandon iron smelter town, as ghostly a path as any nightmare. Passed the debris of the ore, passed the huge stone kiln that appeared in the dark looking like a temple of the Mayas, led us up the steps to a school house. A woman lay on the floor, whimpered when she saw us. With our holding her, we walked her to the boat. Once in, we lay her low, covered her with a canvas. The added flow from the rising river, buoyed us over obstructions, sped us to the meeting place.

  Bill had the lantern lit, less we miss the take out. Without a word we transferred our passenger. Arriving back at our camp, the rising river had already risen over the gravel bar, taken our tent and gear. Doc instructed us to help take the girl to his home. Billy carried his lit lantern. Doc, ushered us in to his dwelling; laid the girl in his bed, lit a bright mantle oil lamp. For the first time we saw the face of the girl. She was very young, only into her teen years. She was pale with pain, exhaustion; not looking pretty. Doc made preparations. We sat down at a kitchen table to wait for the birth; both of us fell asleep with our head and arms lying on the table. Sleep was broken by the girl’s scream of pain. Doc said it was nearly time.

  .

  Without a word I lit a fire in the stove. It did little to warm the air, dampened by the sense of the ordeal to come. Doc was hovering around the girl, consoling her in whispers. Called us over to assist, we watched the baby emerge. He let it slip into his hands; asked for rags to clean the birth fluids. The baby sucked air, and cried, filling the room with warmth beyond heat.

  THE IMMORTAL GREEN LIGHT

  Waiting out the day, off to ourselves, we discussed the questions that bothered us. How had he learned about the mother to be? The telephone wires were not yet strung down to these hills. Somehow Doc must be tied in with other people. Why was this strange building erected in such a difficult, far off location? Who had built it, for what purpose? There were questions on questions. Should we dare ask for an explanation? Doc himself answered the first question. He carried in a pigeon from his coop. “My little messenger boy has returned “. Tells me the storm has passed, the river will be normal in a day.” If he was willing to reveal one secret; we might be ready to tell more.

  Right off I ask,” Did you build this place yourself?” “No, no; it’s much older than even me. It is from the time before the war with the North. Back then a group that had come directly from the old country had been settled here. I don’t know much about why; land here is poor for crops, very cheap to buy. That might be one answer. All I know for sure is they settled here. When the war with their armies came to this wilderness, they left all they had built; faded into the hills.”

  Billy broke in, “If they meant it to be a meeting hall, they couldn’t have put it in a worse place to get to, so why here “. Doc said, “Possibly for protection “. There is a secret about this place. “Can you say? “ ” Dare not; I’m afraid I let slip more than is good for you to know. There are men in these hills with closed minds; they hold on to old ideas. There is nothing the ignorant fear more than a new idea. Call them vigilantes; they use violence to force people to hold on to their old way of thinking. They have kept doing this even after the Civil War.”|

  “You know, tomorrow you must leave. You ought not come back here, not for a long while, not ‘till this is all worked out. I don’t want you two to be mixed up any more in this then I have already got you. There is a group of folks here I trust, we’ll get this girl to a safe home. Tomorrow, stop at Clarence’s place; ask him to haul back my jon boat. You need not explain more; he knows much. In town buy something to eat; let them hear about my guided fishing float. They all say rising waters are the best time to catch fish. Help Clarence load the boat, then get on the road fast. Don’t tell your full names to anyone. You will be safe then.”

  With dawn, we gather our equipment and what gear that we found left on the gravel bar. Then the awkward stall to say something grateful to our friend. He had been near full silent as he fried biscuits and served them up with jam. He stood at the door, put up his hand. “Stop, I have something for you to take with you!” We waited. He walked to the side wall, opened a built in cabinet; slid open a back panel, reached inside and jostled a latch.

  Rumbling shook the walls. The double wall lowered itself into the cellar; revealing a stained glass window that had been layered between the walls. Light from the rear wall windows lit up the glass. Absolutely stunned by the sight, I stopped breathing, gasped for air. My mind spun with questions. Instead the doctor explained, “This is the secret to take with you “. Keep it until the time comes that is safe to tell. I am only showing you what they hid. The mystery of it is not fully understood by me. We stared, approached it, touched it. Billy gave his description, “It looks like it is all green glass, then you see it’s made up of other colors. It does not show a picture of anything. It is circles in circles, that makes a big circle, then more circles that makes up this huge round green window. All woven together to make a splendid sight, like many people all singing together the one song. It is a wonder “.

  Doc then finally said, “I study it day after day, asking, why they move it here, or build it in this wilderness. What did it mean to them; I doubt if they worship it. I may be the symbol of their creed. More likely it held them together. I have few answers; know only that, I must guard this window. There are certain persons here that will destroy anyone that does not hold to their way of thinking.” I asked, “Why do you show it to us. Are you afraid for yourself?” Doc, speaking slowly, “My heart wants to believe it contains knowledge for the good of mankind. I hope you may be the ones someday to discover its meaning.”

  PART TWO - ROAMING RANGERS -

  We dare not return the next year. The following year brought war. Most of those war years I sat on an island in the Pacific waiting for the go ahead to invade. Bill did not sit, he fought. He fought at the Normandy Invasion, fought at the Battle of the Bulge. Saw much too much of blood and death; saw all the evils that hatred could devise. Saw piles of ashes once cities, piles of bodies once human. Saw starved people, deliberately starved by men of hatred. Men consumed by hatred, dedicated themselves to hatred, hatred that devoured their souls. By the end he realized he had become infected with the same hate.

  War time was past. Everybody wanted to get back to a normal life; get back to the life before. We went to war as boys, determined to be live as independent men with a full time job. Even so those adolescent dreams lingered, dreams of sporty cars, lots of money, thrills and gals galore.

  Bill found me in the book, called me. He had plans for us, an offer of a great job for me. His army training would prove practical. As an Army Ranger he had learned how to climb. A dare devil by nature, he was tops in his group. My army mechanic training would fit with the career he had in mind. We were to be smoke stack repair men. Be independent, be our own bosses, roam the country. Go from factory town to factory town. There were shoe factories and parts factories, breweries and power plants, all had smoke stacks. America was gearing up for peace time. Next call he told me he was calling from a military hospital; told me that his wounds were healing fast; nothing that would hinder his plan. He had connections, relatives that would invest in equipment for us. Had I known where he was now building his dream, I might not have fallen for to his enthusiasm. He did not explain his injury. Later I learn he was healing at the mental hospital

  More phone calls, talked about job locations, tools of the trade, all building up to our venture together. After a month or so of phone calls we got together in person. For most of that day we sat in my rental room and talked. We exchanged information about friends, “Had he seen Betty, how is Tom, get may letters from Tilly, where is Allen now? “ Bill listed names of the battles he been in, noticeably skirted around going farther. That was okay by me, other soldier buddies had described the horrors. I much preferred to keep this reunion on a light note. Bill was rambling on with humorous army stories, and then he seemed to pause to gulp air, “Over there I lived in a world of hatred, hating myself for hating. In the worse days, I forced my mind to look back to that place of quiet peace were people lived in harmony with nature, to the clear blue running river, the sunflowers, to that wonderful window of green glass. That kept me from going over the edge. Do you think it would be okay for us to go there soon?” I said sure we will, but we have to get this business going first.

  SMOKESTACK RANGERS

  True to his promise Bill’s uncle lent us the bucks to get us on the road. He had worked at the ammunition plants during the war; had more money than he needed. We both had some cash of our own, this went into tools, ropes, pulleys, winches, and personal stuff, might say personal tools, since we both had our favorites. Uncle Allen’s investment money went to buying us a 1947 Packard Clipper, dark green color, not flashy; so as to give our clients the impression that we were serious businessmen. The Packard had heavy enough suspension that it could pull our trailer loaded with gear and materials needed to do the job.

  Uncle Allen turned out to be more than an investor; he became in time our part time manager. It was him that we had to give credit for getting us aimed in the right direction. At the start we would drive from factory town to factory town, knock on the office door and ask if they need smoke stack maintenance. They did not look at us as professional; took us to be shoddy workmen or even con men. Instead of our random search, Allen ran ads in business papers, made contacts ahead; promoted us the Smoke Stack Rangers. He arranged our job locations, so they were located along a route, keeping us from wasting our time driving, here and there, then over there again. Our territory was anywhere between the Appalachians and the Rockies, wherever there were factory towns; including the west half of Ohio to East Texas, but mostly in the middle. The far northern states didn’t have enough people to work in factories. The southern states had not yet talked the factory owners to move south. The south had rich land, poor people. If you didn’t own land you were share croppers. These folks, mostly Negroes, lived in shacks that weren’t much better than those from the slave days.

  When we came to a new town, the local newspaper men would come and take pictures of us high on the smoke stack. At times Bill would put on a rope act like he was a circus stunt man. We were dubbed the Flying Smokestack Ranger, by the newsmen. We kept a scrap book of these photos, used them to promote ourselves. Made a good first impression when we showed them at the factory office.

  I worked from the ground for the most part, controlling the ropes sending up material, even Bill’s lunch, if he was determent to get a job done before the strong winds blew in. I won’t go into all things you need to know about ropes and climbing. Usually we had to climb the smokestacks ladder to set up our equipment first; there is even a right way to climb up a ladder.

  .

  For that first summer we would set up our sleeping quarter right on the factory grounds. At first a tent, then as the chilly seasons came, we would rent a room or go to a boarding house. I sure like those boarding house suppers. As Bill said, he got his fill of sleeping in freezing tents in the army. We had some cash now, could even go for some luxury; considered even sleeping at hotels in deep winter, if we were still working then.

  In late winter we could count on finding a high school basketball teams to watch play. In the summer months the towns had baseball games on Sundays. For small towns, back then, high school football wasn’t the big sport it is now. Not until the schools could afford to light the fields at night, did Friday and Saturday football become the big attraction. Then towns would compete to have the best lighted football field in the county, even if that meant paying teachers what they were worth.

  With the cash in our pockets, we were ready for some night time fun. We practiced true Christian virtues: sin on Saturday nights, pray on Sunday morning. Well me, Bill slept in Sundays mornings. Depending on what the small towns offered, we went to dance halls, pool halls, or the off road saloons. If the moon was full, Bill would prefer to roam the saloons. Not that he drank; amazingly he drank not at all, giving only the excuse that he could not hold his liquor. It was those bar gals that the full moon rose over, calling to him.

  His taste in women was sure not picky. Looks, age, dress, did not have to meet a standard. His pick depended solely on which one he thought was ready to step out with him, for an hour.

  I got to admit here, I feared this risk. The army had drilled us on being careful, less we get ourselves infected and bring it home to our girlfriends. Even so I did like going up to the giggling girls at the tables and getting friendly. These girl groups of three or four were young, some I guess under the legal drinking age. If there was a dance floor I would take one or two up to dance. If nobody asked the last girl, I would ask her so she wouldn’t get into a jealous squabble with her friends. Gals can be so mean to one another. The gals called dancing legalized necking; that was usually enough for me!

  However one night, one young giggle gal coaxed me outside for a one night stand. Satisfied me for a time, but I had not been careful, so I worried for months. Swore I would not make it a habit. Besides I preferred relaxing at the bar, drinking beer, playing the pinball machines, teasing the giggle gals. Slept better that way.

  Bill did not always sleep well; nightmares came to him that rocked the room. The war that awful war had cut into his brain, leaving wounds that would not heal. I knew no way how I could cure him! He needed the Wizard’s words.

  In farm country, the towns offer the best fun towards fall. This is when they have their church dinners of all you can eat fried chicken, followed by band music played from a grand bandstand in the square. The county seats usually has a fair grounds on the outskirts were they hold the county fair. We were drawn to these cause they were such a change from the usual choice of bars or movies. Still we had to be careful, cause no matter where we where we were seen as strangers. Small town folks are always wary of new faces, especially new guys in town. They worry that we might be robbers casing the bank, con men out to trick some poor old widow.

  .

  The young bucks saw as competition for the young ladies, many who were real temptations.

  At the county fairs, lots of people came from all over so that we did not stand out. We could be more ourselves. I would have liked to go on those carnival rides, only I felt funny going by myself. Bill wasn’t much interested in rides; I guess he had enough thrills hanging from the smoke stacks. By luck we made friends with a couple of gals that were strolling around the grounds like us. I asked them if they would like to take a ride on the Farris wheel. This blond gal jumped at my idea. Bill says go on I’m going to win a prize for this redhead honey. After me and my Blondie gal finished our share of rocking and screaming on the Farris wheel, we located Bill over at a game trying to win a big Kewpie doll. He must have spent twice as much as the doll was worth. He was showing off his pitching arm for his redhead, so had to win. He was getting wilder, cussing at every missed throw. He was attracting a crowd by all his yelling. I even said to the attendant you ought to give him a doll for all the money he has laid out. Bill had that strange look on his face when like he was angry at something. I think he was embarrassed at himself cause he couldn’t knock down the bottles; he so wanted to show this gal how good he was. Somebody in the crowd yelled the game is rigged. The game seemed fair enough to me. To play you bought three balls to knock down three stacks of wooden milk bottles. You had to knock down all three stacks to win the prize. Bill would knock down two stacks, but in the last stack one or two would not fall .On the next round, Bill would knock down all the bottles in that stack, but in another stack two other bottles would not fall.

  The carnival guy would pick up these last two to show that they were not anchored down, then restack all three piles. Watching closely I saw it, when he restacked he moved the two standing bottles to a different pile, it would be those same bottles that would not fall on the next round. They must be extra heavy. The game was rigged! The crowd all started yelling to give Bill the doll, pressing in on the railing until it bent; then they began shaking the stand to try to get the bottles to fall. A riot was about to start over a damn doll. I yanked off a brace board from the stand and threw it at the bottles. It knocked them clean down. The crowd cheered, yelling give him the doll. The carnival guy handed me the Kewpie doll. Bill grabbed my hand and shook it like I thought he was going to break it off! I gave the doll to his redhead, and we got out of there fast.

 

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