Lucy sat rocking gently back and forth as the needle passed through the thin silk material in her fingers. Her practiced movements were almost machine like in their precision as her thoughts wandered to the past. Twenty years had passed , twenty years that seemed on one hand the briefest of times and on the other, a lifetime. She was thinking of her youngest daughter Clara. Dear sweet Clara, such a fragile soul that had left this world at so early an age. Clara was just twenty when she had given birth to her second child. She had had difficulty with her first, a boy she had named Elwood after the father. She had rested, waited before having another, hoping to build strength. The doctor had warned her of the dangers. But Clara did so want to have more children, to be a good wife and mother.She had agreed if it was a boy, he would be named Austin Bennett. Austin Bennett was the name of her husbands best friend and mentor. Clara passed just three days after the birth of her second child, a boy named Austin Bennett. The needle kept passing through the material as her mind worked on the past.
She thought of the wedding that had taken place, right there in the front parlor, as they called it. The Reverend Stokes of the Methodist church officiating the nuptials. Elwood, the groom, lived in Greenport, due north of Clara's home on the south fork of Long Island. The grandson of a German immigrant he seemed a bit strange and different. Back in those days fishing boats frequently crossed the waters separating the forks of Long Island. These days automobiles and trucks had replaced boats for such travel. Clara had met him on one such journey. Elwood cut a dashing figure, a house painter and fisherman by trade. He painted to pay the bills but fished more for the love of it, than the profits to be made. If he could, he would have fished exclusively. After a brief courtship they were married and began their family. All that seemed so long ago now. Clara was gone, Elwood her husband was also gone, having passed of a ruptured appendix on a trip tp Florida in search of employment. Elwood had been overwhelmed by the passing of Clara, left alone with two small children. Lucy had taken those grandchildren as her own and raised them. And now those boys were off to war. The youngest, Austin Bennett just twenty years old. The year was 1944 and the second worlds war was reaching a crescendo. Elwood and Austin both called up, both answering the call to duty.
Lucy glanced down at her needlework and said a silent prayer. Her needlework was taking shape now, the pattern becoming clear. It was a copy of the unit patch that Austin wore upon his uniform. It was the emblem of the 65th Heavy Bombardment Squadron, Eight Air Force, in the European campaign. This same symbol could be seen painted on the tail of B-24 Bombers as they took to the skies over Germany. It depicted a set of dice. The number eleven on top and seven underneath. The Lucky Dice squadron. And that was the prayer, that the squadron would enjoy good luck. She was all too aware that 71% of those assigned to bomber crews would never return! The assignment was that dangerous, that mortal. Austin had turned twenty, that very September. Another incidence of twenty. And she knew that he had to complete 25 bomb runs before his tour was over. That was the rule. If you survived twenty five runs, you were incredibly lucky and sent back home to finish your service in safety. Lucy prayed for twenty five.
Twenty years. Clara had been born in 1904, the youngest of her three children, all girls. Her sisters Sarah and Jesse had married and moved away. That was shortly after the first world war, the war to end all wars. Her own father, James B Terry had served in the civil war, 127th New York Volunteers. He was there, at Fort Sumter when the confederates surrendered the fort back to the union forces. He had been too old, too infirm to serve in WW1 and her husband Floyd had registered for the draft but spared the call to duty. She thought she had been lucky then, the first world war was going to be the last, until Hitler and then the Japanese attacked.
Lucy laid her needlepoint aside, it was getting near dinner time and Floyd would soon be home. She reached for her Bible that was her constant companion in times of trouble. She leafed through the pages of that dogged eared book and found the place were she had left off. This wasn't her first reading, not by a long shot, there were notes in the margins and circled passages that comforted her. Reading a favorite verse with a reverent mind she could only pray.
Lucy finished that handkerchief with the logo prominently displayed in the center. She had added a little fancy work in one corner, the feminine touch required in all such sentimental objects. She was Grandmother and Mother to Austin. She mailed that to him along with her prayers and well wishes. Austin carried that handkerchief with him on every mission, folded neatly beside the Blood Chit and Map in the inside breast pocket of his flight jacket. He returned in January of 1946 having completed his service. It was tucked away with his other war mementos as he tried to forget what he had experienced.
I know this because I am his son, also Austin Bennett. Lucy is my great grandmother. I have her bibles, a few faded photographs, and no memory of her. Floyd, great grandfather, I knew well as a child. I inherited a bit of Dad's things, old photographs from the war, his ribbons and medals. I also have that handkerchief. I have decided to frame it. It was 76 years ago that Lucy put that thread through that cloth and bound the luck into the fabric. Love was that binding. And I'm lucky to have it.
She thought of the wedding that had taken place, right there in the front parlor, as they called it. The Reverend Stokes of the Methodist church officiating the nuptials. Elwood, the groom, lived in Greenport, due north of Clara's home on the south fork of Long Island. The grandson of a German immigrant he seemed a bit strange and different. Back in those days fishing boats frequently crossed the waters separating the forks of Long Island. These days automobiles and trucks had replaced boats for such travel. Clara had met him on one such journey. Elwood cut a dashing figure, a house painter and fisherman by trade. He painted to pay the bills but fished more for the love of it, than the profits to be made. If he could, he would have fished exclusively. After a brief courtship they were married and began their family. All that seemed so long ago now. Clara was gone, Elwood her husband was also gone, having passed of a ruptured appendix on a trip tp Florida in search of employment. Elwood had been overwhelmed by the passing of Clara, left alone with two small children. Lucy had taken those grandchildren as her own and raised them. And now those boys were off to war. The youngest, Austin Bennett just twenty years old. The year was 1944 and the second worlds war was reaching a crescendo. Elwood and Austin both called up, both answering the call to duty.
Lucy glanced down at her needlework and said a silent prayer. Her needlework was taking shape now, the pattern becoming clear. It was a copy of the unit patch that Austin wore upon his uniform. It was the emblem of the 65th Heavy Bombardment Squadron, Eight Air Force, in the European campaign. This same symbol could be seen painted on the tail of B-24 Bombers as they took to the skies over Germany. It depicted a set of dice. The number eleven on top and seven underneath. The Lucky Dice squadron. And that was the prayer, that the squadron would enjoy good luck. She was all too aware that 71% of those assigned to bomber crews would never return! The assignment was that dangerous, that mortal. Austin had turned twenty, that very September. Another incidence of twenty. And she knew that he had to complete 25 bomb runs before his tour was over. That was the rule. If you survived twenty five runs, you were incredibly lucky and sent back home to finish your service in safety. Lucy prayed for twenty five.
Twenty years. Clara had been born in 1904, the youngest of her three children, all girls. Her sisters Sarah and Jesse had married and moved away. That was shortly after the first world war, the war to end all wars. Her own father, James B Terry had served in the civil war, 127th New York Volunteers. He was there, at Fort Sumter when the confederates surrendered the fort back to the union forces. He had been too old, too infirm to serve in WW1 and her husband Floyd had registered for the draft but spared the call to duty. She thought she had been lucky then, the first world war was going to be the last, until Hitler and then the Japanese attacked.
Lucy laid her needlepoint aside, it was getting near dinner time and Floyd would soon be home. She reached for her Bible that was her constant companion in times of trouble. She leafed through the pages of that dogged eared book and found the place were she had left off. This wasn't her first reading, not by a long shot, there were notes in the margins and circled passages that comforted her. Reading a favorite verse with a reverent mind she could only pray.
Lucy finished that handkerchief with the logo prominently displayed in the center. She had added a little fancy work in one corner, the feminine touch required in all such sentimental objects. She was Grandmother and Mother to Austin. She mailed that to him along with her prayers and well wishes. Austin carried that handkerchief with him on every mission, folded neatly beside the Blood Chit and Map in the inside breast pocket of his flight jacket. He returned in January of 1946 having completed his service. It was tucked away with his other war mementos as he tried to forget what he had experienced.
I know this because I am his son, also Austin Bennett. Lucy is my great grandmother. I have her bibles, a few faded photographs, and no memory of her. Floyd, great grandfather, I knew well as a child. I inherited a bit of Dad's things, old photographs from the war, his ribbons and medals. I also have that handkerchief. I have decided to frame it. It was 76 years ago that Lucy put that thread through that cloth and bound the luck into the fabric. Love was that binding. And I'm lucky to have it.
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What the real patch looked like
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