Parkie, Tanker,
Tiger of Tobruk
by
Tom Sheehan
Hardly
with a hop, skimp
and a jump did
Frank Parkinson
come home from
Tobruk, Egypt,
North Africa,
madness, World
War II in general.
A lot of pit stops
were made along
the way where
delicate-handed
surgeons and associates
did their very
best to get him
back into working
order. From practically
every vantage
thereafter we
never saw, facially
or bodily, any
scar, bunching
of flesh, or major
or minor skin
disturbance. There
was no permanent
redness, no welts
as part of his
features, no thin
and faintly visible
testaments to
a doctor’s
faulty hand or
to the enemy’s
angry fragmentation,
as if he were
the ultimate and
perfect patient,
the great recovery,
the risen Lazarus.
But
he was different,
it was easy to
see, by a long
shot.
Parkie.
Tanker. Tiger
of Tobruk.
And
it was at the
end of some trying
times for him
when I realized,
one afternoon
as we sat looking
over the sun looking
over Lily Pond,
a redness on the
pond’s face
as bright as an
ache, the pond
face we had skated
on for almost
twenty years,
where we had whipped
the long hand-held
whip line of us
and our friends
screaming and
wind-blown toward
the frosted shore
on countless coffee
and cider evenings,
that he had come
home to die.
The
September sun
was on for a short
stay, and we had
bagged a dozen
bottles of beer
and laid them
easily down in
the pond, watching
the flotilla of
pickerel poking
slowly about when
the sediment settled,
their shadowy
thinness pointing,
like inert submarines
or torpedoes,
at the bags.
Our
differences were
obvious, though
we did not speak
of them. The sands
of North Africa
had clutched at
him and almost
taken him. Off
a mountain in
Italy I had come
with my feet nearly
frozen, graceless
pieces of marble
under skin, thinking
they might have
been blown off
the same quarry
in which Michelangelo
had once farmed
torsos. Searching
for the grace
that might have
been in them,
I found none.
I kept no souvenirs,
especially none
of Italy and its
craggy mountains,
and had seen nothing
of his memento
scenery, but once
saw a pair of
tanker goggles
hanging like an
outsize Rosary
on the post of
his bed at Dutch
Siciliano’s
garage where he
roomed on the
second floor.
In each of his
three small rooms,
like the residue
of a convoy’s
passing still
hanging in the
air, telling of
itself at the
nostrils with
sharp reminders,
you could smell
the oil and grease
and, sometimes
you’d swear,
perhaps the acid-like
cosmoline and
spent gunpowder,
rising right through
the floorboards.
We
left the war behind
us. As much as
we could. But
with Parkie it
was different…pieces
of it hung on
as if they were
on for the long
ride. I don’t
mean that he was
a flag waver or
mufti hero, now
that he was out
of uniform, but
the whole war
kept coming back
to him in ways
he had no control
over. There are
people to whom
such things befall.
They don’t
choose them, that’s
for sure, but
it’s as
if they somehow
get appointed
for all the attendant
crap life gets
filled with.
And
Parkie had no
control over the
visitations.
I
don’t know
how many times
we have been sitting
in the Angels’
Club, hanging
out, the big booms
long down the
tubes, when someone
from Parkie’s
old outfit would
show up out of
the blue. It was
like Lamont Cranston
appearing from
the shadows; there’d
be a guy standing
at the door looking
in and we’d
all notice him,
and then his eyes
and Parkie’s
eyes’d lock.
Recognition was
instant; reaction
was slower, as
if neither one
believed what
he was seeing.
There would be
a quiet acceptance
of the other’s
presence, they’d
draw their heads
together, have
a beer in a corner.
Parkie, as sort
of an announcement,
would speak to
no one in particular
and the whole
room in general,
“This guy
was with me in
North Africa.”
He never gave
a name. All of
them were odd
lots, all of them;
thin like Parkie,
drawn in the face,
little shoulders
and long arms,
nervous, itchy,
wearing that same
darkness in the
eyes, a sum of
darkness you’d
think was too
much for one man
to carry. They
would hang on
for days at a
time, holing up
some place, sometimes
at Parkie’s
and sometimes
elsewhere, drinking
up a storm, carousing,
and one morning
would be gone
and never seen
again, as if a
ritual had taken
place. A solemn
ritual. Apparitions
almost from the
slippery darkness!
Dark-eyed. The
nameless out of
North Africa and
whatever other
place they had
been to and come
from. Noble wanderers,
it seemed, but
nameless, rankless,
placeless, itinerants
from who knows
what!
Parkie
never got a card
or a letter from
any one of them,
never a phone
call. Nothing.
He never mentioned
them after they
were gone. That,
to me, was notice
he knew they would
never be back.
It was like a
date had been
kept, a vow paid
off. It wasn’t
at all like “We’ll
meet at Trafalgar
Square after the
war, or Times
Square, or under
the clock at The
Ritz.” Not
at all. The sadness
of it hit me solidly,
frontally. I had
had some good
buddies, guy’s
I’d be tickled
to death to see
again if they
walked in just
like his pals
did, and I knew
that I’d
never see them
again. Things
were like that,
cut and dried
like adobe, a
place and a job
in the world and
you couldn’t
cry about it.
Part of the fine-tuned
fatalism that
grows in your
bones, becomes
part of you, core
deep, gut deep.
The
sun‘s redness
shivered under
breeze. Pickerel
nosed at the bags.
The beer cooled.
Parkie sipped
at a bottle, his
eyes dark and
locked on the
pond, seeing something
I hadn’t
seen, I guess.
The long hatchet-like
face, the full-blown
Indian complexion
he owned great
allegiance to,
made his dark
visage darker
than it might
have been. With
parted lips his
teeth showed long
and off-white
or slightly yellowed,
real incisors
in a deep-red
gum line. On a
smooth gray rock
he sat with his
heels jammed up
under his butt,
the redness still
locked in his
eyes, and, like
some long-gone
Chief, locked
in meditation
of the spirits.
For
a long while he
was distant, who
knows where, in
what guise and
in what act, out
of touch, which
really wasn’t
that unusual with
him before, and
surely wasn’t
now, since his
return. Actually
it was a little
eerie, this sudden
transport, but
a lot of things
had become eerie
with Parkie around.
He didn’t
like being indoors
for too long a
stretch, he craved
fresh air and
walked a lot,
and must have
worn his own path
around the pond.
It went through
the alders, then
through the clump
of birch that
some nights looked
like ghosts at
attention, then
down along the
edge where all
the kids went
for kibby and
sunfish, then
over the knoll
at the end of
the pond where
you’d go
out of sight for
maybe five minutes
of a walk, and
then down along
the near shore
and coming up
to the Angels’
where we hung
out.
Most
of the guys said
when you couldn’t
find Parkie, you
knew where to
find him.
He
looked up at me
from his crouch,
the bottle in
his hand catching
the sun, his eyes
as dark as ever
in their deep
contrast. “Remember
that Kirby kid,
Ellen Kirby, when
we pulled her
out of the channel
on Christmas vacation
in her snowsuit
and she kept skating
around for a couple
of hours, afraid
to go home. We
saved her for
nothing, it seems,
but for another
try at it. I heard
she drowned in
a lake in Maine
January of the
year we went away.
Like she never
learned anything
at all.”
Parkie hadn’t
taken his eyes
off the pond,
stillness still
trying to take
hold of him, and
he sipped and
sipped and finally
drank off the
bottle and reached
into the water
for another. The
pickerel force
moved away as
quickly as minnows.
Their
quickness seemed
to make fun of
our inertia. If
there was a clock
handy, I knew
its hands would
be moving, the
ticking going
on, but I seriously
wouldn’t
bet on it. We
seemed to be holding
our collected
breath; the sun
froze itself on
the water’s
face, the slightest
breath of wind
held itself off.
There was no ticking,
no bells, no alarms,
no sudden disturbances
in the air, no
more war, and
no passage of
time. For a moment
at least we hung
at breathlessness
and eternity.
We were, as Parkie
had said on more
than one occasion,
“Down-in
deep counting
the bones in ourselves,
trying to get
literate.”
“We
just got her ready
to die another
time.” The
church key opener
in his hand pried
at the bottle
cap as slow as
a crowbar and
permitted a slight
“pop,”
and he palmed
the cap in his
hand and shook
it like half a
dice set and skipped
it across the
redness. The deliberate
things he did
came off as code
transmissions,
and I had spent
hours trying to
read what kind
of messages were
being carried
along by them.
They did not clamor
for attention,
but if you were
only barely alert
you knew something
was cooking in
him.
“You
might not believe
it,” I said,
“but I thought
of her when I
was in the base
hospital in Italy
and swore my ass
was ice. I remember
how she skated
around after we
pulled her out
with that gray-green
snowsuit on and
the old pilot’s
cap on her head
and the flaps
down over her
ears and the goggles
against her eyes
and the ice like
a clear, fine
lacquer all over
her clothes. I
thought she was
going to freeze
standing up right
on the pond.”
Parkie
said, “I
used to think
about the pond
a lot when I was
in the desert,
at Tobruk, at
Al Shar-Efan,
at The Sod Oasis,
at all the dry
holes along the
way, but it was
always summer
and fishing and
swimming and going
balliky off the
rock at midnight
or two or three
in the morning
on some hot-ass
August night when
we couldn’t
sleep and sneaked
out of the house.
Remember how Gracie
slipped into the
pond that night
and slipped out
of her bathing
suit and hung
it up on a spike
on the raft and
told us she was
going to teach
us everything
we’d ever
need to know.”
His head nodded
two or three times,
accenting its
own movement,
making a grand
pronouncement,
as if the recall
was just as tender
and just as complete
as that long-ago
compelling night.
He sipped at the
bottle again,
and tried to look
through its amber
passage, dark
eyes meeting dark
obstacles of more
than one sort.
As much a fortuneteller
he looked, peeking
into life.
All
across the pond
a stillness made
itself known,
a stillness as
pure as any I’ve
known. I don’t
know what he saw
in the amber fluid,
but it couldn’t
have been anything
he hadn’t
seen before.
I
just got the feeling
it was nothing
different.
When
I called him Frank
he looked at me
squarely, thick
black brows lifted
like chunks of
punctuation, his
mouth an Oh of
more punctuation,
both of us suddenly
serious. It had
always been that
way with us, the
reliance on the
more proper name
to pull a halt
to what was about
us, or explain
what was about
us. He drank off
a heavy draught
of beer, his Adam’s
apple flopping
on his thin neck.
The picture of
a turkey wattle
came uneasily
to mind, making
me feel slightly
ridiculous, and
slightly embarrassed.
Frank was an announcement
of sorts, a declaration
that a change,
no matter subtle
or not, was being
introduced into
our conversation.
It was not as
serious as Francis
but it was serious
enough.
His
comrades from
North Africa,
as always, had
intrigued me,
and on a number
of instances I
had searched in
imagination’s
land for stories
that might lie
there waiting
to get plowed
up. Nothing I
had turned over
had come anywhere
close to reality,
or the terror’s
I had known in
my own stead.
No rubble. No
chaff. No field
residue.
Perhaps
Parkie had seen
something in that
last bottle, something
swimming about
in the amber liquid,
or something just
on the other side
of it, for he
turned to me and
said, “I
think you want
to know about
my friends who
visit, my friends
from North Africa,
from my tank outfit.
I never told you
their names because
their names are
not important.
Where they come
from or where
they are going
is not important
either. That information
would mean nothing
to you.”
For the moment
the silence was
accepted by both
of us.
Across
the stretch of
water the sun
was making its
last retreat of
the day. A quick
grasp of reflection
hung for a bare
second on the
face of the pond
and then leaped
off somewhere
as if shot, past
the worm-curled
roots, a minute
but energized
flash darting
into the trees,
then it was gone,
absolutely gone,
none of it yet
curling round
a branch or root,
and no evidence
of it laying about…except
for the life it
had given sustenance
to, had maintained
at all levels.
It was like the
shutter of a camera
had opened and
closed at its
own speed.
Parkie
acknowledged that
disappearance
with a slight
nod of his head.
An additional
twist was there:
it was obvious
he saw the darkness
coming on even
before it gathered
itself to call
on us, as though
another kind of
clock ticked for
him, a clock of
a far different
dimension. He
was still chipping
away at what had
been his old self.
That came home
clean as a desert
bone; but where
he was taking
it all was as
much mystery as
ever.
The
beer, though,
was making sly
headway, the beer
and stillness,
and the companionship
we had shared
over the years,
the mystery of
the sun’s
quick disappearance
on what we knew
of the horizon,
the thin edge
of warmth it left
behind, and all
those strange
comrades of his
who had stood
in the doorway
of the Angel’s
Club, framed as
they were by the
nowhere they had
come from, almost
purposeless in
their missions.
They too had been
of dark visage.
They too were
lank and thin
and narrow in
the shoulder.
They too were
scored by that
same pit of infinity
locked deeply
in their eyes.
They were not
haggard, but they
were deep. I knew
twin brothers
who were not as
close to their
own core the same
way these men
were, men who
had obviously
leaned their souls
entirely on some
common element
in their lives.
I did not find
it as intense
even with battle
brothers who had
lain in the same
hole with me while
German 76’ers
slammed overhead
and all around
us, Michelangelo’s
marble still looking
for a form to
turn into as it
flew its own shrapnel
route in the awful
trajectories.
The
flotilla of pickerel
nosed against
the bags of beer.
Parkie’s
Adam’s apple
bobbed on his
thin neck. He
began slowly,
all that long
reserve suddenly
beginning to fall
away: “We
were behind German
lines, but had
no idea how we
got there. We
ran out of gas
in a low crater
and threw some
canvas against
the sides of the
three tanks that
had been left
after our last
battle. If we
could keep out
of sight, sort
of camouflaged,
we might have
a chance. It got
cold that night.
We had little
food, little water,
little ammo, and
no gas. It was
best, we thought,
to wait out our
chances. If we
didn't know where
we were, perhaps
the Jerries wouldn't
know either. Sixteen
of us were there.
We had lost a
lot of tanks,
had our butts
kicked.”
He
wasn’t dramatizing
anything, you
could tell. It
was coming as
straight as he
could make it.
Whatever was coming,
though, had to
be pretty wild,
or exorbitant,
or eerie or, indeed,
inhuman. The last
option came home
pretty cold to
me. The hair on
the back of my
neck told me so.
“We
woke up in the
false dawn and
they were all
around us. Fish
in the bottom
of the tank is
what we were.
No two ways about
it. Plain, all-out
fish lying there,
as flat as those
pickerel. They
took us without
a shot being fired.
Took us like babies
in the pram. All
day they questioned
us. One guy was
an SS guy. A real
mean son of a
bitch if you ever
met one. Once
I spit at him
and he jammed
me with a rifle
barrel I swear
six inches deep.
Ten times he must
have kicked me
in the guts. Ten
times! I couldn’t
get to his throat,
I’d’ve
taken him with
me. They stripped
our tanks, what
was left in them.
That night they
pushed us into
our tanks. I saw
the flash of a
torch through
one of the gun
holes. You could
hear a generator
working nearby.
Something was
crackling and
blistering on
the hull or the
turret top. Blue
light jumped every
which way through
the gun holes.
It was getting
hot. Then I realized
the sounds and
the smells and
the weird lights
were welding rods
being burned.
The sons of bitches
were welding us
inside our own
tanks. A hell
of a lot of arguing
and screaming
was going on outside
us. The light
went flashing
on and off, like
a strobe light,
if you know what
I mean. Blue and
white. Blue and
white. Off and
on. Off and on.
But no real terror
yet. Not until
we heard the roar
of a huge diesel
engine. And the
sound of it getting
louder. And then
came scraping
and brushing against
the sides of our
tanks. Sand began
to seep through
the gun holes
and peep sights.
The sons of bitches
were burying us
in our own tanks!
All I could see
was that rotten
SS bastard smiling
down at us. I
saw his little
mustache and his
pale green eyes
and his red nose
and a smile the
devil must have
created. And his
shining crow-black
boots.”
I
couldn’t
talk. I couldn’t
ask him a question.
A stunned sensation
swept clean through
me. First, disbelief,
a surging block
of disbelief,
as if my veins
had frozen in
place. The dark
pit in his eyes
could be read;
the darkness inside
the tank, the
utter, inhuman
darkness
that had become
part of Parkie
and part of his
comrades, the
imagined sense
of it hitting
me slowly. It
crept within me.
I knew a sudden
likeness to that
feeling; it was
peering over the
edge of a high
place, the ground
rushing up to
meet me and then
falling away and
the long descent,
the torturous
fall becoming
part of me…in
the veins, in
the mind. A shiver
ran through every
part of my body.
And then hate
welled in me,
stark, naked,
unadorned hate,
hate of the vilest
kind.
Parkie
put his hand on
my knee. His grip
was hard. “I
never wanted to
tell you, none
of you. We all
had our thing.
You had yours.
I had mine. I’m
so sorry your
feet are so screwed
up. I wish nothing
had happened to
you. But a lot
of guys’ve
had worse.”
“What
happened?”
I said, letting
his hand carry
most of his message,
letting my own
small miseries
fall away as if
they did not exist.
Not by comparison
anyway. My feet
had iced up practically
in my sleep. I
knew the ignoble
difference.
“The
sand was almost
over all the tank,
and the noise
inside the tank
started. Screaming
and cursing and
crying. Cries
like you never
heard in your
life. Godawful
cries. I know
I never heard
anything like
them. And coming
out of guys I’d
known a long time,
tough guys, valiant
guys, guys with
balls who had
gone on the line
for me. I heard
some of them call
for their mothers.
There was screaming,
and then whimpering
and then screaming
again. And curses!
My God, curses
that would raise
the friggin’
dead. The most
unholy of curses.
Everything dead
and unholy and
illegitimate raised
from wherever
they were being
brought against
the Germans and
that little SS
bastard. He was
castrated and
ripped and damned
and denounced
to the fires of
hell. You have
not heard profanity
and terror and
utter and absolute
hatred all in
one voice at the
same time. The
volume was turned
way up. It filled
the tank. It filled
that makeshift
and permanent
vault. And our
useless and agonized
banging barehanded
against the hull
of the tank. Knuckles
and fists and
back-handers against
the steel. And
the outside noise
drowning all of
it out.”
I
was till reeling,
kept shaking my
head, kept feeling
the same glacier-like
ice in my veins.
And the heat of
hatred coexisted
with that ice.
I was a mass of
contradictions.
Parkie kept squeezing
my knee. The pickerel
kept nosing the
bags, hung up
in their own world
of silence. Silence
extended itself
to the whole of
Earth. The quiet
out there, the
final and eventual
quiet out there,
after the war,
was all around
us.
“Suddenly,”
he continued,
“there was
nothing. The sand
stopped its brushing
and grating against
the steel of the
tank, then the
diesel noise grew
louder, as if
it was coming
right through
us. And powerful
thrusts came banging
at the tank. I
didn’t know
what it was. And
then we were being
shoved and shaken,
the whole structure.
And I heard curses
from outside and
a lot of German
on the air, and
we seemed to be
moving away from
our hole in the
ground. Whatever
it was was pushing
at us. And then
it went away and
we heard the same
banging and grinding
and grunting of
the engine nearby.
Then the blue
and white light
again as a torch
burned around
us and the tank
heated up, and
lots of screaming
but all of it
German. And there
were more engine
noises and more
banging and smashing
of big bodies
of steel. Finally
the turret was
opened and we
were hauled out
and canteens shoved
in our faces and
the other tanks
were being opened
up and guys scrambling
out, some of them
still crying and
screaming and
cursing everything
around them.”
He
reached for the
last bottle in
one of the bags.
The bag began
to drift slowly
away in wavy pieces.
The pickerel had
gone. The bottle
cap snapped off
in his hand. I
thought of the
tank’s turret
top being snapped
open, the rush
of clean air filling
his lungs, a new
light in his eyes.
“Then
I saw him,”
Parkie said. “The
minute I saw him
I knew who he
was. General Rommel.
He was looking
at us. He looked
me right in the
eye, straight
and true and bone-steady
and no shit at
all in it. I didn’t
think he was breathing,
he was so still.
But I read him
right off the
bat. The whole
being of that
man was right
in his eyes. He
shook his head
and uttered a
cry I can’t
repeat. Then he
took a pistol
from another guy,
maybe his driver,
a skinny itchy
little guy, and
just shot that
miserable SS son
of a bitch right
between the eyes
as he stood in
front of him.
Shot him like
he was the high
executioner himself;
no deliberation,
no second thought,
no pause in his
movement. Bang!
One shot heard
round the world
if you really
think about it.
He screamed something
in German as if
it were at the
whole German army
itself, each and
every man of it,
perhaps lifting
to whatever god
he might have
believed in because
it was so loud,
so unearthly,
and then he just
walked off toward
a personnel carrier,
not looking at
us anymore or
the SS guy on
the ground, a
nice-sized hole
in his forehead.”
He
drained off the
last bottle, mouthing
the taste of it
for a while, wetting
his lips a few
times, remembering,
I thought, the
dry sands, the
heat, the embarrassed
German general
walking away on
the desert, the
ultimate graveyard
for so many men,
for so many dreams.
“They gave
us water and food,
the Germans did.
One of them brought
up one of our
own jeeps. It
was beat to hell,
but it was working.
One German major,
keeping his head
down, his eyes
on the sand, not
looking at us,
pointed off across
the sand. We started
out, the sixteen
of us, some walking,
some riding, some
still crying or
whimpering. Some
still cursing.
The next day we
met some Brits.
They brought us
to their headquarters
company. We were
returned to our
outfit. Some guys,
of course, didn’t
get to go back
on line, but were
sent home as head
cases. Can’t
blame them for
that. I kept thinking
about General
Rommel, kept seeing
his eyes in my
mind. I can see
them now, how
they looked on
his face, the
shame that was
in them. It was
absolute, that
shame, and he
knew we knew.
It was something
he couldn’t
talk about, I
bet. If he could
have talked to
us, we might have
been taken to
one of their prison
camps. But he
knew he couldn’t
do that to us.
Make amends is
what he had to
do. He had to
give us another
chance. Just like
we gave Ellen
Kirby another
chance at drowning.”
In
his short flight
he had circled
all the way back
to the Kirby circumstance
and all that played
with it.
Francis
Dever Parkinson,
tanker sergeant,
survivor of Tobruk
and other places
in the northern
horrors of Africa,
who walked away
from death in
the sand on more
than one occasion,
who might be called
Rommel’s
last known foe,
who rolled over
three cars on
U.S. Route 1 and
waged six major
and distinct bouts
with John Barleycorn
thereafter in
his time, who
got to know the
insidious trek
of cancer in his
slight frame,
whom I loved more
than any comrade
that had shared
a hole with me,
who hurt practically
every day of his
life after his
return from Africa,
hung on for twenty-five
more torturous
and tumultuous
and mind-driven
years. They found
him one night
at the far end
of the pond when
nobody knew where
he was for two
days. A handful
of damp earth
was squeezed into
one fist, and
the metal crypt,
perhaps, was long
gone, just as
were the days
of Africa and
its two dark eyes.
©
2010 by Tom Sheehan
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