Putting the well-used sunglasses on his face, he caught a reflection of himself in the large side mirror. Much like the glasses, the intervening years and experiences had left their marks. What had once passed for an almost baby-faced countenance was now the image of a middle-aged man with crow’s feet around his eyes, framed in turn by graying hair that had recently sprouted near his temples. Unseen beneath the uniform felt hat was the thinning of that same hair underneath.
Taking in his weather-beaten image made Micah realize that even in the best of future circumstances, his race was already half run. As in so many other mile markers in life it all seemed to have happened overnight, even when he thought he was paying attention. A few more years and the highway patrolman would be eligible for retirement. The idea struck him with a vague bittersweetness.
Micah stuck an index finger inside the collar of the shirt and ran it around, trying for a bit of relief from the wool material that irritated his neck. Somewhat exasperated, he removed the clip-on tie and unbuttoned the offending collar.
He had been inside this uniform for over ten hours now, having missed the chance for a break at lunch to handle a call concerning a stranded motorist. When his shift was over there had been no time to take the uniform off, even for a few minutes. He had hurriedly parked the black and white Mustang in front of his home and piled into the Ramcharger, having already packed the necessary gear for the trip.
Again, he studied the southeastern sky expectantly. Yet it was actually a sound before any image was seen, the sound of pounding radial engines being carried along in the West Texas wind. He cupped his right hand over his ear and scanned the general area as the droning momentarily drifted away and then came back, stronger than before. Micah's gray eyes probed the horizon, knowing the aircraft would be approaching at low altitude.
It took a few seconds more before he caught the reflection of polished aluminum in the midafternoon sky, and watched it grow larger as the multi-engined warbird drew nearer. The trooper glanced over to a pole across the runway, making doubly certain the bright orange sock was not fouled. Their present location was a long way from any real assistance if something went wrong, and the incoming flyers needed that flag to gauge the wind on their final approach.
He could hear those engines clearly now, all four Wright Cyclone 1820s at full song and filling the air with the throbbing, exhilarating tempo that made Micah feel more like a ten-year-old kid again, rather than a grown man nearing fifty. Enthralled, he watched as the Boeing Flying Fortress loomed larger, coming in and swooping over the main runway of what was once a World War II era emergency airfield. Micah felt an involuntary chill run along his spine, as if the time frame of the present had temporarily given way to the airborne ghosts of a near gone past.
As the B-17G cleared the field it banked gracefully to the left, setting up for its final approach and landing. Suddenly, from the point opposing the Boeing’s path, another powerful engine made its presence known, coming in low and fast from the west. Micah whipped his head around just in time to see a beautifully restored Messerschmidt 109G streak in from the opposite direction. Crossing the field at better than 275 MPH, the pilot executed a snap roll as it shot past the lumbering Flying Fortress. Finishing the imaginary firing pass, the 109 Gustav pulled into a tight half Immelmann as Micah recovered from its stupefying appearance.
‘Max…’ Micah thought to himself. ‘I should have expected something like that.’
Standing on the worn tarmac and watching the two vintage military aircraft go about their business, Micah mused again over the circumstances that first brought Max and Tio Zeke together, and then so tightly bound them. Having been in his own war and tasted of the searing experiences attending to it, he still marveled how the former mortal enemies could have grown so close.
Nearly a half century prior during the darkest, bloodiest period in modern history, these two men had represented the opposing sides of the greatest catastrophic armed conflict man ever made record of. In it Zeke Templar had formed a singular goal to bomb Nazi Germany back into the Stone Age, while Max Grephardt tried to shoot down anything that had wings and Allied insignias. Both had been relatively successful in their respective endeavors.
But due to chance and shared fortunes of war friends they had become, enjoying a close relationship that existed since about the time Micah was born. As a young boy whose own father had fought the Japanese and still carried an intense animosity in regards to them, he had asked his uncle about this near implausible occurrence.
Tio Zeke had thought it over before answering, his memories returning to other times and other places. Finally, he responded.
"It was war, nephew. And in war you do things that you have to in order to survive and protect your own. You fight for your home, your loved ones and all that you hold dear in this life. It was that way for me and I know it was the same for him. And now, it’s over with.”
“Let me tell you something else,” Micah’s uncle continued. “Max Grephardt is as good a man as I have ever known and he honors me with his friendship. I hope that someday you can understand all this better and
