The Faller Brad Bennett   © Copyright 2024 by Brad Bennett

Photo courtesy of the author.

John studied the French countryside. It appeared safe enough...lots of open country spread across wide grass fields. In the distance, he could see a wooded area, but that was good, too far away for a sniper. The dirt roadway was rough, bouncing him around in the back of the small truck like a toy doll. The vehicle's wooden bench was hard on his ass. But it was a lot harder for the five captured German soldiers crammed in with him. They could barely move...packed together with their hands tightly bound.

John reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it and took a deep breath. He noticed the young soldier beside him was watching.

"Bitte?" the young German asked, motioning to his mouth.

John smiled. "Sure." He placed the cigarette in the soldier's clasped hands.   

"Danke," the soldier said. He took a deep drag, smiled, and handed the cigarette back.

John nodded, "Danke."

Suddenly came a far-off roaring noise...getting louder! John glanced down the long roadway. Circling fast was a yellow-nosed fighter plane turning to make a run at them! He jumped up and pounded hard on the roof of the cab. "MESSERSCHMITT! Stop the truck! Get out! Get out!"

The driver slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop.

"Raus! Raus!" John yelled to the prisoners. The men quickly jumped, more accurately fell, out of the back of the truck.

The aircraft was almost upon them, its engine screaming. John helped those who were stumbling and guided them to the safety of the ditch. The fighter's twin cannons opened up with a deafening staccato of bullets, stitching down the roadway until they hit the truck, ripping the back to pieces. The fighter disappeared in the distance, but everyone stayed hidden, afraid the menace might return. Finally, after ten minutes, the driver, and the Lieutenant riding with him, popped back up. The officer motioned for John to regroup the prisoners. The hands-bound Germans were scattered up and down the embankment. Suddenly one of them jumped from the roadway and began running for the far-off woods. “HALT!” John yelled, running forward. Then the other prisoners jumped from the roadway and also began sprinting across the field.

"Shoot them, Corporal, screamed the officer. “Don't let them get away!”

John raised his rifle, then hesitated. “I can't shoot tied prisoners!" He yelled back.

The Lieutenant was furious. “GOD DAMN IT, SHOOT THEM! That's an order!” The officer yanked out his pistol and began firing, but the small weapon was no good for the distant moving targets.

John tucked his M1 Garand under his chin, took aim, and fired. The farthest man away fell. He aimed at the next man. “Halt. Halt!” He yelled out, but the man kept going. ”He fired again...the second farthest man fell. John tried wounding the next man, aiming for his shoulder. The runner faltered, then kept on. John crammed in another ammo clip, his voice screaming, “HALT, HALT!” repeatedly firing until all four runners were down.

The Lieutenant came forward. “There's one going in the woods!” he yelled, pointing to the trees.

John started running across the field to where the wounded German had entered the forest. The man's trail of blood was a giveaway. John tracked him through the foliage and found him lying on his back, his chest gurgling with a deep rasp. He had been shot through the lungs. The soldier raised his hand, blood spitting from his mouth. He was horribly wounded. "Kill mien!" he pleaded in broken English. John raised his rifle.

The two men standing back at the truck heard the rifle crack. They winced. All the soldiers were down now. The air smelled of gunpowder and death.

On returning to the bullet-ridden vehicle, John recognized the prisoner he had given the smoke to. He checked for the fallen man's breathing. He was dead. John took the soldier's tags and walked back to the truck. The Lieutenant approached him. “Are you Ok?” He asked.

John didn’t answer. He went to the roadside, and sat silently, with his head in his hands.           

After the war in 1948, John Schindler met Janine Bennett. She was hitchhiking to the little burg of Monmonth in the Willamette Valley. She heard there was a waitress job there, but she had no car, so she walked. John saw her, hit the brakes, and immediately stopped. It was a no-brainer, pretty young girl, good-looking young vet. They immediately hit it off, and it was only a short time before they married.

But there was a snag. Janine was recently divorced with a four-year-old son. That would be me. My nickname was Sonny.           

John worked as a faller, the elite of the loggers. Fallers had the highest-paying job of all the forest workers up and down the Pacific coast. His job was to bring down the giant Douglas firs that towered over the land. However, he would also be the first to be laid off after the big trees were cut. Then he had to move on and find a new hiring site. But the job did have an upside, it allowed him a lot of free time at home between jobs.

Over time, the young married couple produced two more children, Johnny, Jr., and Mary Ann. However, Janine still worked, and looking after three kids soon proved a problem, my presence wasn't sitting well with John.  

As I grew older, it was decided it was best if I stayed with John's widowed mother on her farm in the Willamette valley. She was living alone and gladly took me in. Occasionally John and Janine would visit and leave the other kids there to visit. Over time, John was beginning to subject me to harsh treatment whenever he came by. He was tough on his own kids, but for some reason, he singled me out. His personality could change to a meanness that was scary. I became wary of him and kept my distance whenever he was around. Of course, it didn't help when he drank. Then he could be terrifying. Once, he found me playing near the farmhouse. He came over and started a verbal assault, railing at me for being weak and worthless. He threatened me and told me he'd take me out and dump me somewhere on the side of the road, like the many stray dogs that wandered onto the farm. But then, inexplicably, he would be friendly the next time he came. Then just as quickly, he’d go back on the attack. It was scary as hell. He was a big lumberjack, bull strong from carrying a heavy saw in the woods. But I was never afraid he would physically hurt me. It was always verbal.

Then one day in mid-summer, when I was about thirteen, he did something unimaginable. I remember he drove up in the yard, opened the car trunk, and motioned for me to come over. He pulled out a small shotgun and handed it to me. "It's yours," he said. "I want you to have it."

 This sudden change was unreal. Even more so was why? Why now? Maybe he realized I was growing up, I had no real father, so perhaps he judged I was ready. He was going to train me to be a hunter like him.

John’s favorite pastime was hunting for pheasants in the high, open fields beyond the farm, and there were plenty of them in the myriad of fencerows that surrounded the area. “We’ll go out this Saturday,” John said, “and get us a rooster.”

  So that would be the day I went hunting with my stepfather. We were up early that morning and started through the woodland behind the house. There was a little trail winding up the hill where I often played. But now I was a real hunter with a real gun, not a boy with a toy, and even better, I was with him like his real son.

  We started into the forest, and I trailed behind him carrying the shotgun. This area I loved, and it had special meaning for me. Once, it was my fantasy place. But now I was growing up, and I must put those childish things away. Then came an event I will never forget, a tree limb was blocking part of the trail. John turned to push it aside, and at that exact moment, he saw me holding the shotgun, I had accidentally pointed it at him. He whirled and swatted the gun back.

"God Dammit, Sonny!" he snapped at me. "Don’t EVER point a gun at a man!"

I pulled back in fear. "I'm sorry, I forgot."

"You hold that gun straight up. You hear me?" John's voice was stern. His sudden change was frightening. "Do you know what it's like to shoot a man?" He asked as if I might. "You pay attention."

  As we walked on, I realized I had been charged with serious responsibility. Before, I had carried the gun happily. Now, it had become an awful burden, and I tried to think of nothing else but the position of the barrel.

Soon we reached the end of the woods, where the trail led down into a little ravine, then back up to an old wire fence that skirted the fields. I followed him down, picking my footing carefully. I had come through here many times, but not toting a shotgun. John bounded the fence effortlessly and stood studying the open field. I struggled with the wire, trying to steady the gun, then my hand slipped off the stock. I attempted to re-grab it, but it came up and it pointed at John. At that precise moment, he turned and saw the barrel.

"YOU GODDAM STUPID ASS!" He shouted. The words exploded out, ringing my ears. John rushed forward and snatched the shotgun from my grasp.

"DAMN, your stupid ass!" He shouted again. He yanked open the gun chamber, ejecting the shell to the ground. "SEE THAT!" he railed, pointing at the shell. "That can take a man's head off. You don't listen, do you? You're too goddamn stupid. Well, you won't last long as a hunter." John's tirade was relentless. I stood trembling in silence. John's explosive words seemed to be absorbed by the tall fir trees, lining the fileld, almost as if they were listening...standing like a silent crowd of gathered witnesses to my humiliation. "I knew a kid in the army who was thick-headed like you!" He railed on. "He got blown to bits the first day we hit the beach!" John picked up the shell and crammed it back into the breach. "You're a bastard child. Do you know that? Your father, whoever he is, is probably dead. And that's how you'll wind up if you don't start listening."

He shouldered the shotgun, grabbed me, and shoved me forward. "Get moving, goddamn you. I'll carry the gun."

My hands were shaking. I wouldn't cry, I told myself. I wouldn't let the man see me cry. Suddenly a shrieking pheasant exploded from the fencerow. John brought the gun smoothly to his shoulder, traced the bird's flight, and fired. The bird fell like a stone.

"Go get it!" he barked.

I ran over to the dying pheasant, the smell of gunpowder filled the air. The bird flopped about the yellow grain stubble, speckling it crimson red.

"Pick it up," John shouted.

I grabbed the bird's throbbing legs and hurried back to John, holding it away from my body as I ran. The bird stubbornly clung to life, flopping and quivering.

"Wring its neck." He snapped. I hesitated, staring helplessly at the bird.

"You're a goddamned sissy, aren't you?" He grabbed the pheasant and twirled it around by its head. The bird squawked and died.

We continued onward across the field. I trailed behind him with the dead pheasant. It was appropriate I carried the bird. We were comrades in disgrace. Only the bird would not know any disfavor. It was dead. I, however, would have to live on with my shame. As we marched on, I stared up at the big man's back, his ugly words rolling over and over in my mind. Finally, I could bear no more. I dropped the bird and ran past him. On across the field I ran until I reached the woods. I clambered over the fence and rushed headlong down the trail. I didn’t dare look back. Surely the Hunter could easily catch me. I charged along the winding path, brush swatting my face. I caught my foot on a tree root and sprawled face down in the dirt, bloodying my nose. I got up and ran on. Finally, I reached the safety of the house. I sat on the back porch to catch my breath. There was nowhere else I could go. I waited for another verbal assault upon his arrival. But when John reached the house, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, went to his car, and left. I sat there, both terrified and confused.

Strangely, John’s abuse eased back over the following summer, but I still avoided him. It was as if some antithesis had transformed him, and he was now unburdened. It was bizarre. I never told my mother what happened that day. Not then, not ever.

About a year later, John came by the farmhouse. He had been kicked out by my mother and was leaving for good. He had come by to say goodbye to the grandmother. But then as he left the house to his car he spotted me over behind the yard. He approached me, and stopped. I looked up from playing and caught his gaze. He stood shaking. I had never seen him like that.

“Sonny,” he said. I”... he stood frozen, “I just wanted to tell you I....” But the words would not come. Then he quickly turned, walked back to his car, started it up, and drove away.          

As the years passed, and I grew older, I saw less of John, he and my mother had finally divorced. His drinking and her fighting with him had finally taken their toll. Then one day, when I was in my mid-teens, my mother came by the farm and told me to pack my things. I, and the other children she watched over were going to live with her and her new husband Bob.

His name was Robert Murphy. He owned a large ranch in northeast Oregon and treated me well. He put me to work riding horses on his spread, herding cattle. Soon I became a free-range cowboy, and I enjoyed my new life. But after high school, I decided I wanted to see the rest of the world. I talked to Bob about my plans and he mentioned the military. He had no college, but the Army Air Force needed pilots and they provided him with pilot training. After the war, he returned to ranching, but he kept an old Beechcraft for pleasure flying.

In 1963, I took Bob’s advice and joined the Us Air Force. My mother then drove me to the recruiting station in Portland. From there, I would leave for Texas by train to start my basic training at Lackland Air Force base. After signing all the papers, we sat in the waiting area expecting my approval, but then the officer came out and summoned me privately. I left my mother sitting there with a look of panic on her face. I wondered what was going on. Once in the man's office, he shut the door.

“Son,” he said, “your name, Brad Schindler, doesn’t exist. Instead, we found your birth certificate, your real name is Brad Bennett.”

Now I was both hurt and angry. I came out and confronted my grief-stricken mother, whose secret was now exposed. Then she confessed it all to me.

“I’m so sorry Brad, but Bennett, my first husband, wasn’t your father either. You were born out of wedlock by a Merchant Sailor I met before I married.”

Now everything was explained. In the 1950s, a mother with a bastard child was an outcast. I had grown up and gone through high school with a false name. That night, I boarded the train for basic training in Texas, angry and disillusioned. I vowed never to live in Oregon again.

Lebanon Oregon, summer, many years later

Oregon’s Willamette Valley in late August is special like it always was when I lived here as a boy. Now, I stood, gazing across the grain where I had often played where my mother, Janine, had left me. As a grown man, I still felt the urge to run across this field, climb one of the old apple trees down by the pond, and sit up among the branches, eating the tangy wild fruit. But this visit was for something I’d put off for many years. Now, for me, the time had finally come.

"Still peaceful here, isn't it?" Alicia said, "I always love coming here to visit."

"Did you think of selling it after your mother died,” I asked?

"Oh, not then, but I'm getting on now, and it's a chore to look after it."

"I appreciate you bringing me by here, Alicia. I wish I could have Erica and the kids up from California with me, but maybe next time. I have many things on my mind."

"Well, thank you for coming, Brad. Maybe next time you can bring them up."

"For sure," I said as they began walking back to the car.

"Are you flying back the day after tomorrow?"

"Yes, my work is getting fairly busy now. We're starting up for the fall season in my studio."

They began walking the narrow dirt road flanking the high grain that filled most of the property. The crop whirled and rolled in the wind—a sea of golden waves flowing majestically across the swirling fields. As we neared the car parked on the old gravel road along the property, I noticed the barn's condition and outbuildings. "I see you've rented out the sheds to local farmers. How's that working out?"

"Oh, not bad, but I'm thinking of selling. Expenses are piling up. I'm the only survivor left in the family with Mother gone now, except for my brother John."

I stopped and froze, a feeling of both fear and anger rushed within my body. “Alicia, I'm sorry, but John’s being here is the reason I’ve decided to come back alone.”

“I wondered about that. What are your plans?”

“I’m not sure, but something inside me says I must confront him.”

"Brad, I must tell you, John rarely came around here except to borrow money, or, maybe to see your mother Janine whenever she dropped by to visit for the summer. It was rough for her on her own, but she sure wasn’t going back to that man.”

Old bad memories now flashed across my mind. “Yes, he sure burned that bridge, but it all turned out best for my mom, after he left us, she found a good man later in her life, and moved later down to California.”

“Thank God she did. But you know, Brad, it was only when I recently heard John was in poor health that I got in touch with him. Now, I’ve provided him with a place to stay in an old motel over in Lebanon.”

“Yes, I know, Alicia, that’s why I’ve come to visit. I have many issues with that man.”

“I can see why Brad, he treated you badly when you were young, but if I tell you where he is staying, I will need some assurance from you first.”

“You have it.”

“He’s very old and sick now. I will need your promise you will handle him carefully.”

“I can do that Alicia, but I feel I have to talk with him. He’s been haunting my life now since I was a kid; he owes me that.”

“I understand, but you must honor my wishes as his sister.”

“I will.”

As they drove back to Alicia’s townhouse, I sat in silence, hardly saying a word.

That evening, after dinner at Alicia's, I sat alone in the living room, lost in thought. My mind focused on the last time I had seen John. It was at that old farmhouse where I lived with his mother in the valley over thirty-five years ago.

That was a time in my life I would never forget, and I still held mixed feelings of suppressed hatred towards the man. I thought of how John had humiliated me as a young boy—railed at me, making me feel weak and worthless, how he had terrorizing me on that pheasant hunt. But also, I thought, there were those times when the man was kind and thoughtful, showing attention, like a real father. Even though John wasn’t my real dad, he was the only semblance of a father figure I had ever had. I had carried these feelings of both caring and intense hatred for all these years.

Alicia came into the foyer. She was holding a teapot with a towel. She pointed to my cup, "More tea?"

"No, thank you, Alicia. I'm good."

Alicia sat in the other chair and quietly studied me as we sipped our tea. “Okay," she finally said, smiling. "What's up, Brad? Tell me your plans now.”

“Can I borrow your car tomorrow, Alicia? I need to do something, and I'll have to do it alone."

"Oh, oh! So, you’ve decided you want to see him.”

"Yes, there is no other option for me.”

Alicia set her teacup down. She obviously had prepared herself for this. “Brad, that man has troubled me as well since he and I were kids growing up together on that farm."

“Yeah, he’s good at that.”

"You know, John was the best friend a sister could have before he left for the war in Europe, but when he returned, he was someone I didn't recognize. He put us all through hell with his up-and-down personality."

"I sensed that about him, but I never knew him before the war. Mother married him later. As a child, I saw someone who cared for me, but then he would just as suddenly turn on me and treat me like a mongrel dog."

“Brad, there were some things my mother learned about him that she never revealed to the rest of the family. She’s gone now, so I think I can tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

“After the war, John was treated at Walter Reed Army Hospital for post-traumatic stress.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“They said John fought in a special unit in France. He worked behind enemy lines as a sniper, his hunting skills were used for scouting out German soldiers hiding in the forests, but his unit also suffered high fatalities. John was one of the few who survived, but he needed treatment at war’s end. However, back then they didn’t know how to help GI’s with that condition, they called it shell shock.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about that.”

“We'll never know what he went through, Brad. That's how he got a free pass. He endured that horror, and then, he suddenly found himself back here in a normal life.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Yes, Brad, as it did for me. I hated that man until I found out about his disorder, but the sad part is Mom wouldn’t let me tell anybody else. John was ashamed of his problem; he felt he would be branded a coward, so he had sworn us to secrecy.” Then Alicia told me about the shooting story. “It was in his records when he came back to Oregon.”

“And so he suffered through this all these years?”
“Yes, sad but true, a needless blame he had endured.”

“Alicia thanks for telling me this, it will help.”

“You’re welcome, Brad. I hope you will find some peace. It’s getting late now. I’ll leave the car keys on the desk for you. Good night, and good luck.”

“Good night to you, Alicia.”

The following morning was cloudy, with a brisk wind coming up. I hugged Alicia goodbye and then backed her car out of the driveway and proceeded towards the freeway.

It would be about a 20-minute drive to Lebanon. I would have that time to think about how I would handle this. The thought of seeing this man again was evoking old fears. The closer I got to Lebanon, the more nervous I became. John still loomed as a demon in my childhood memories. I thought I had put that man away, but now, the thought of facing him again was chilling.

The address was an old, rundown motel. I parked the car. I got out and nervously approached the door—heart racing, hands trembling. I thought of turning around, run! Get the hell out of here! But somehow I braced myself—knocked and waited. I heard some shuffling going on behind the door. It opened!

Standing in the doorway was a thin, frail, weak old man, bentover and crippled, a shadow of the man that I once knew.

"Sonny!" he exclaimed. "It is so good to see you. I've missed you so much. Alicia phoned me that you were coming.”

I had no words whatsoever to express my shock. I did not recognize this man, yet somehow I knew it was him. I took his hand, now all apprehensions had fast melted away. “Hello, John,” I said. “It's good to see you too.”

I followed him inside and closed the door. John held his arm up. "Could you help me with my walker? I'm afraid I’m a bit wobbly these days." I took his arm and held him as he took hold of the walker, then made his way to a chair near his bed.

"How have you been, Sonny?" he said after he sat. "I've heard so much about you." He motioned to a printed folder on a small table near the bed. "Alicia gave that to me." I recognized it as an old art promotion piece I had been cited in years ago; I had sent it to Alicia. “I knew you would do well, son. I'm so happy for you.”

"Thank you, John. But it’s not that big a deal, I get recognition sometimes in art design, but I’m certainly not getting rich. But tell me, how have you been doing all these past years?"

John’s eyes widened, and he smiled broadly. It was apparent he was rarely asked to talk about his life. “Oh God, let me tell ya.” he began. "I got hurt real bad in the woods. This dumb-ass rookie fell a tree on me while I was sitting on a log eating lunch. They fired the son of a bitch, but it pretty well ended my career. I’ve been laid up for quite a few years, and now I'm on a pension. Alicia found this motel rental with help from a local VFW group."

“You know Alicia cares for you, John. You're lucky there."

“Oh, for damn sure, Sonny, but she's a rarity. The few people who do come by to visit me can hardly wait to get out of here. I never hear from them again.”

As they sat and talked, I kept asking myself, who was this gentle old fellow before him? I didn't know him.

When it finally came time to leave, John asked for one last request. "Sonny, could you please fix my bed? A slat has fallen out, and now it’s damn uncomfortable to lie on."

This was a shocker. For once in my life, John is helpless and needed me. “Of course,” I said. I kneeled, slid under the bed, and adjusted the slat. Then, when I came back out, I noticed other things were amiss in the room. John’s small TV was awkwardly placed. It would be difficult to watch from its poorly set angle. "How bout I rearrange some of the furniture for you, John, okay?"

"Thank you so much, Sonny, I can't move anything, unfortunately; not much I can do here alone."

I put the TV near his bed and adjusted the height. I then looked around the room for more deeds to do. I could feel my lifetime of mixed hatred evaporate. My self-pity now became a slap in my face. This poor, elderly man was suffering and abandoned, and all I had on my mind all these years was a long, continuing hatred. What a waste of emotion I had placed upon myself.

When it was time to leave, I helped John back up. This visit had been an experience of self-realization. I now felt nothing but empathy for this man.

At the door, John extended his hand for a goodbye shake. I took it and held it tightly. But now, before I left, I had a final question that needed to be answered. After all this time of wondering, I knew I must ask it.

"John, years ago, when I was a boy and I last saw you, you were standing in the yard at that old farm house, you were going to tell me something, but you didn't. Instead, you got in the car and drove away, and I never saw you again. Please, tell me now, what was it you wanted to say to me?"

John's voice was absolute, his face took a wide smile, but his eyes were watery, and he was shaking a bit, "Sonny," he said, "I just wanted to ask you to forgive me, and to tell you how much I loved you!"

I stood shocked. These simple but powerful words John had just uttered to me were overwhelming. I squeezed his hand firmly. "I forgive you, John. I do love you, and I always will."

Then I turned and left for the car.

A few years later, I heard from Alicia that John had died. In many ways, I couldn’t help but feel our meeting had been a blessing. For what I saw was a suffering man, who over a long stretch of time, had finally managed to free himself from his past.

The irony was on that day; I was freed from my own past as well.