suddenly going in three directions at once. He was gathering up the two dozen or so notes of his plan, stuffing the empty wine bottle under his bunk and grabbing his clerical collar-all at the same time. Outside he knew the Wabash River was up and raging-the fog and spray were all over his cracked and stained windows.
"Help us. . ."
He burst out of the door and saw two people-an old man and a young woman-floundering in swift moving waters near the opposite side of the river.
"Hang on!" he yelled to them, running to the small building which held the controls to the drawbridge. "Hang on!"
He punched the bridge release valve and was relieved that the thing worked on the first try for a change. Slowly the
31
battered drawbridge clanked its way down, landing on the opposite side with a mechanical thud.
Armed with a thick coil of rope and two life preservers up and ready, Fitz was running across the rickety fifty-foot span even before it had secured itself on the other side. He tossed one of the life preservers into the water, nearly beaning the old guy in the process. The man was struggling to hold on to the young girl, but her slight frame made her particularly vulnerable to the rushing waters. The old man managed to grab the life preserver, but in doing so, lost his grip on the young girl. It was at this moment that Fitz knew that the rope and life rings wouldn't do it this time. Hungover and still groggy from the night before, he climbed up onto the bridge railing and plunged into the rapid chilly waters-clothes, collar, and all.
The two potential victims were about twenty feet from the shoreline at this point. Fitz hit the water with a mighty splash about ten feet further out. He allowed the cold, violent current to sweep him into both of them, hooking the old man with one arm, and getting a firm hold on the young girl with the other. Together, they all rode the current. Fitz kicked his feet madly in an attempt to gradually steer them all toward the safety of the bank.
But the water's current was stronger than all three of them.
Several times Fitz found himself underwater, being dragged along the river's rocky bottom, all the while trying like hell to hang on to the pair without drowning in the process. It quickly became a losing battle. He was gagging on mouthfuls of water and gasping for breath. The girl was screaming, the old man was gurgling and Fitz could feel the strength drain out of him as the mighty river violently tossed them about.
Is how it ends? he thought in his last flash of life. A pilot all my life and I wind up drowning?
Now his lungs were filling with water. He was sinking fast. Everything was quickly going to black.
He closed his eyes and felt the world crash in on him. . . .
32
The next thing he knew, he was carrying the two drowning people to shore.
More than a quarter of a mile away, a pair of NS sentries were watching the drama unfold from atop their watchtower.
"I don't believe this," one soldier said. "Did we really just see that?"
The other could hardly speak. "One second they were gone. But now . . ."
"Now, they're alive," the other soldier gasped. "But I don't know how."
"Was it a trick? Just for our benefit?"
"Impossible . . . yet."
The two guards felt a rising panic between them. Like most NS guardtower sentries, these two were forced to work-or at least stay awake-for eighteen hours at a time, six days a week. No surprise then that these men were drug abusers, amphetamine pep pills being their choice.
Were they now paying the price?
"We must we must report this," the second soldier said.
"How?" his partner asked. "What words could we possibly use?"
Shaken and confused, the two soldiers stared at each other and then back to where the incident had happened. They could see the man who'd jumped into the water helping the two near-drowned victims back across the bridge.
"It is the drugs," the first sentry declared. "We've used too many, too long .
. ."
"Yes," the other
"Help us. . ."
He burst out of the door and saw two people-an old man and a young woman-floundering in swift moving waters near the opposite side of the river.
"Hang on!" he yelled to them, running to the small building which held the controls to the drawbridge. "Hang on!"
He punched the bridge release valve and was relieved that the thing worked on the first try for a change. Slowly the
31
battered drawbridge clanked its way down, landing on the opposite side with a mechanical thud.
Armed with a thick coil of rope and two life preservers up and ready, Fitz was running across the rickety fifty-foot span even before it had secured itself on the other side. He tossed one of the life preservers into the water, nearly beaning the old guy in the process. The man was struggling to hold on to the young girl, but her slight frame made her particularly vulnerable to the rushing waters. The old man managed to grab the life preserver, but in doing so, lost his grip on the young girl. It was at this moment that Fitz knew that the rope and life rings wouldn't do it this time. Hungover and still groggy from the night before, he climbed up onto the bridge railing and plunged into the rapid chilly waters-clothes, collar, and all.
The two potential victims were about twenty feet from the shoreline at this point. Fitz hit the water with a mighty splash about ten feet further out. He allowed the cold, violent current to sweep him into both of them, hooking the old man with one arm, and getting a firm hold on the young girl with the other. Together, they all rode the current. Fitz kicked his feet madly in an attempt to gradually steer them all toward the safety of the bank.
But the water's current was stronger than all three of them.
Several times Fitz found himself underwater, being dragged along the river's rocky bottom, all the while trying like hell to hang on to the pair without drowning in the process. It quickly became a losing battle. He was gagging on mouthfuls of water and gasping for breath. The girl was screaming, the old man was gurgling and Fitz could feel the strength drain out of him as the mighty river violently tossed them about.
Is how it ends? he thought in his last flash of life. A pilot all my life and I wind up drowning?
Now his lungs were filling with water. He was sinking fast. Everything was quickly going to black.
He closed his eyes and felt the world crash in on him. . . .
32
The next thing he knew, he was carrying the two drowning people to shore.
More than a quarter of a mile away, a pair of NS sentries were watching the drama unfold from atop their watchtower.
"I don't believe this," one soldier said. "Did we really just see that?"
The other could hardly speak. "One second they were gone. But now . . ."
"Now, they're alive," the other soldier gasped. "But I don't know how."
"Was it a trick? Just for our benefit?"
"Impossible . . . yet."
The two guards felt a rising panic between them. Like most NS guardtower sentries, these two were forced to work-or at least stay awake-for eighteen hours at a time, six days a week. No surprise then that these men were drug abusers, amphetamine pep pills being their choice.
Were they now paying the price?
"We must we must report this," the second soldier said.
"How?" his partner asked. "What words could we possibly use?"
Shaken and confused, the two soldiers stared at each other and then back to where the incident had happened. They could see the man who'd jumped into the water helping the two near-drowned victims back across the bridge.
"It is the drugs," the first sentry declared. "We've used too many, too long .
. ."
"Yes," the other
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