The Way Home: The Sweet Water Tales, #3

By Jack Carnegie

In sleepy Sweet Water, Alabama, one family has had its fair share of conflict but still Christian George does his duty, like his father and uncle before him.

The Vietnam War was different to other wars though, a war that couldn't be won, one that kept service personnel imprisoned for the longest time in US history and their families suffering from uncertainty for years. Many of those incarcerated didn't live to see home again and those that did discovered their 'war' was far from over; their story had only just begun.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Carnegie
• Release date: Sep 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201646387

Jack Carnegie

Jack Carnegie has a passion for writing that began at an early age. After a childhood brought up on the streets of Liverpool where everyone has a tale to tell, it was inevitable that his upbringing would come out in one form or another. As a young lad, he and a number of friends ventured into music, forming the bands, ‘Tested and Approved’ and ‘Gripweed’, the latter named after John Lennon’s character in the film ‘How I Won the War’. They wrote their own songs and Jack found writing lyrics came easy, although as a musician he knew he had a long way to go but it was the writing he was good at and enjoyed the most. Sadly, the world was denied the joys of Tested and Approved and Gripweed and like many aspiring bands they went their own ways, open to life catching up with them in the form of families, mortgages and 9 to 5s. But Jack never lost the love of writing and harboured an ambition for many years before summoning up the courage to write a novel. It was whilst working as a taxi driver that he wrote his first book, ‘The Blink of an Eye’.Whilst waiting for fares on various taxi ranks or taking a break in a cafe, he scribbled the notes that he would later convert to the story of the George family and their journey from sleepy town Sweet Water, Alabama, into the nuclear age. A city break in Krakow, Poland, provided the impetus for his second book, ‘The Auschwitz Protocol’ when a visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau focused his mind on the enormity of what happened there. This was followed by a sequel, ‘The Architect’ about the continuing hunt for Nazis who had escaped justice.To date, Jack has added to these novels with two more books about the inhabitants of Sweet Water, ‘Into the Blue’, the story of a young man’s journey to fulfil a dream to become an astronaut and ‘The Way Home’ which returns us to the welcoming arms of the George family as we follow them through the trials and tribulations of the Vietnam War days. Jack lives in Liverpool with his partner Carol. Dan Wheatcroft March 2022

Book preview

Chapter 1

On The Trail

Taylor

Nestled on the banks of the winding Magnolia River, the small town of Magnolia Springs, with a population of less than seven hundred folk, is where I chose to settle after I'd graduated as a practitioner. I'd been lucky in life, brought up in the beautiful town of Sweet Water, Alabama, and it was just a few hours’ drive to the cottage on Forefold Lane, where my folks still lived and where my uncle Solly still ran the farm.

Leaving home, I guess, was my way of coming of age. I'd spent all my childhood in Sweet Water and, after college, I’d studied as an Equine Practitioner at the Town and Country Veterinary Hospital, in Tuscaloosa.

That initial break away from home was a kind of epiphany to me, I'd only ever known the farm and working with Poppa, Uncle Solly and the rest of the family before.

I'd travelled to the Blue Moon farm, where my out in the field training started in the summer of 1967, the Summer of Love. I’d had the blessing from my parents, who wanted more than anything for me to qualify and follow my dream. My heart just drew me to it after working on the farm with the horses for so long. Momma told me, Taylor George, follow your heart, like your brother, and give it everything you've got, which is exactly what I intended to do.

I'd taken up accommodation in a guesthouse which was known to have celebrated the Mardi Gras the longest in American history, some fifteen years before New Orleans even began to think about its very first in 1718. The owners, with great thought, named it The Mardi Gras guesthouse and the locals celebrated Peoples’ day. 

Although a beautifully named town, Magnolia Springs had been locally known as ‘Sundown,’ which went back to the bad old days of discrimination and segregation. Looking back today, it seemed a lifetime ago when you’d see a sign saying that coloured folk had to leave town by sundown. I'd been told my grandpa, Schuyler, defended folk from such discrimination and I’d imagined his face looking at such a thing in his town. He’d have kicked up a hell of a hullabaloo and run that old sign right out of Sweet Water, we didn't care much for that way of thinking.

Being away, I missed seeing my brother Christy most of all. We'd both been brought up the same way that Silace, Solly and Sky had been, and love wasn’t a word we shied away from in the George household, it was actively encouraged from a very young age.

I loved my brother with all my heart, he was my best pal, and we'd been taught to respect each other by Silace, who instilled into us that we'd only have each other in the long run to trust and we were never to let each other down.

Christy was a year older than me, well heck, he still is, and just like the previous generation, we were allowed to grow up with natural freedom, no restrictions or limitations were put on us. My brother could fight his own battles, he was a strong boy who grew into his body well, but as his sister, he knew I was in his corner if ever he needed a deputy. In between working on the farm with the family, he trained with the Civil Air Patrol and then followed in Poppa’s shoes, joining the U.S Air Force.

In his leisure time, my brother was a mighty fine fly fisherman, he took to it like the proverbial fish to water and he concentrated real hard when Silace was tutoring him on artistic styles. He, more than I, got engrossed by it all. I wasn't too shabby at it myself but Christy was just kinda nice to watch, he had a way about him, using the movement of the line, like a dance. He made swirls that shimmered in the light, the waves that travel through the fly line are called loops and what my brother does with a cast is nothing more than magical.

Whenever we could, we'd spent many a beautiful morning throwing those loops out over the creek, tickling the trout, in hope of a bountiful feast. My keep net was always that little bit emptier than Christy’s, but we didn't compete with each other, that's not the way we danced in our family, we just took in the moments and enjoyed the beauty of nature all around us. When life’s so busy that you can't take in God’s glory for free, then life's gotta change.

I guess we both knew our working lives wouldn’t be at the cottage farm, we’d stayed because we loved our family, but both Christy and I were free spirits, we had our own ideas back in those days. I guess our parents brought us up that way, as they'd been brought up themselves, with a fire in their belly and a spirit to fly.

I wrote home often in those days, letting my family know I was doing fine, eating well and studying and not sitting on my backside in a beer joint every night, which was sort of half-truth at first. I did fall off the wagon for a short while, I guess most young folk do, I wasn't embarrassing myself or anything bad like that though, I was brought up better than that. I guess it was a sorta phase I went through after leaving Sweet Water.

When Christy visited me, he'd always have plans to go out on the trail and he’d hire two beautiful Missouri Fox Trotter Horses. I recall one weekend after he wrote me, we went out trail riding and we took our fishing rods. Supper sat around a roaring open fire on a clear sky night, with an old billy can full of coffee and fresh trout caught that day, is something quite special. The stars shone like diamonds piercing holes in a blanket of darkness on that first night in the summer of 67, a memory we made that would remain with me for many a year to come. My brother is fun company, his humour makes me cry, you’d always remember a good belly laugh spending time with him.

We fed the horses that first night, settled them down and sat around the fire slugging a bottle of Jack Daniels between us, just chewin’ the fat about the good old days when we’d play baseball in the short grass with Poppa. Christie was a big Atlanta Braves fan and the two of them would throw the ball for hours, they’d even let me join in when I felt the urge. I can still see that boy swinging his bat like crazy, like it meant the world to him to connect. 

The fire spat and crackled long into the night, whilst we recalled good times, living at the cottage farm in Sweet Water with our beautiful family.

Daybreak and the morning sun woke us from our slumbers, my brother busied himself trying to save the rock fire, bringing it back to life and putting some cans on to rustle up breakfast. I looked after the horses and readied them for the day ahead, we were to have three days on the trail on that break away from our working lives, a time we both needed to take ourselves out of the chaos of life.

Christy was the only man, other than my Poppa and Uncle Solly, who I could be myself with. I didn't have to pretend to be someone other than me and, as they didn't care much for fake people, I knew without hesitation they loved me for who I was.

We rode on the second day for several hours just talking, being who we were in the world, a brother and sister who were the best of buddies who just about knew how the other one breathed. I knew when my brother was upset, angry, sad or emotional, I could read his body language, and he could mine. As children brought up on the farm, we were joined at the hip, and as we grew older that didn't change, even when as adults we'd both had to move away in our separate ways with our careers.

We trekked on past the boat launch up towards the Magnolia River and followed the bridle path towards Bon Secour Bay. Our conversation was a catch up for me on how Christy was doing with his training; he'd passed a lot of exams since his initial uncertainty as a new ensign. He'd done his aviation pre-flight indoctrination at Pyote Air Force Base and seen many of his fellow ensigns leave the programme, either voluntarily, or weeded out as not good enough.

Over the previous few years, Christy had taken many different courses, navigation flight regulations, things like that and he’s been through numerous rigorous medicals. In Air Force terminology for a new officer recruit not expected to stay long, he’d started out as a ‘Snow Bird’ but he’d made his way up to be ‘a real McCoy’ pilot.

As we rode those beautiful fox trotter horses, we overlooked Weeks Bay Estuary, watching all the great yellow bills. Sat atop of Pelican Point, Bon Secour Bay below, we looked out further afield to Dauphan Island, and far out to the Gulf of Mexico, the view was quite something. The day was gentle, time seemed to have stopped in its tracks, as if unimportant, even the horses seemed unusually quiet, possibly in respect of the nature surrounding them, as if they were in awe of what was on offer.

On our second night, I'd brought two beautiful, dry, aged ribeye steaks. I'd sourced them from Mosley’s, said to be the finest in town. I knew my brother’s appetite like my own and those steaks, as a memory, still smell good to me now. Being brought up on the farm in Sweet Water, we kinda always ate well, so you could say we never had a poor man’s meal. We'd grown up and our folks fed us well, you could see how well in Christy’s forearms, that boy could arm wrestle a bear with a sore head. We slept well that night, tucked up tight by Mr Jack Daniels keeping us warm, natures morning glory woke us at dawn, with the welcome of birdsong across the woods in which we'd lain the night before.

Looking over the bay, I saw the whales out to sea, their tails rising through the crest of waves, a natural wonder that locals would come out to view regularly. I'd first come to see the whales with a friend of mine, John Mays, a Native American music teacher. Between school terms, John would dress up in authentic breechclout and moccasins playing pipes to entertain shoppers and teach the local children about the history of the frontier. He was a fascinating guy, who gave a lot to the young folk of Magnolia Springs. He did an awful lot of charitable work also, which is where our friendship began, he'd played some shows in a local school I was doing some voluntary work for at the time, we just hit it off as pals.

He invited me out to see the whales and told me all about them, he took his pipes with him on that trip, and as we stood watching, John played a piece of music he'd written called ‘Watching the Whales,’ it was spine tingling. Over the years, I’d recall those pipes as I admired the whales surfacing whilst scooping up mouthfuls of krill, there was such a natural beauty in the slowness of motion in those great animals. In my studies, I'd read that whales are related to horses, so it was poignant that in Magnolia Springs I'd witnessed the beauty of the animals I worked so closely with and, in my leisure, their distant relatives.

On the trail back to the Springs Ranch to return the horses we'd hired, Christy told me his military activities were to be stepped up now he was a fully qualified pilot, apparently he'd done his air time and the war in Vietnam needed to end. I always felt at ease with Christy’s situation, I don't know why. I just trusted in his abilities, I guess. He was a talented boy who advanced through his training with a seemingly casual ease, but I knew that wasn't the case, he’d worked hard even though he was just a natural with most things he did.

Our Poppa, Silace, had taught him young, he was under the bonnet of old cars when he was just four years of age, passing wrenches and any number of tools, the boy just liked getting into a big old mess as quickly as he could. It set him up in life though, he didn't fear problems that came at him, he used his brain and got on with the job in whatever way that situation needed handling.

In fact, Uncle Solly trained him to work on the farm from scratch, as he did with me, by ten years of age our uncle could have left us to run that place on our own, if he'd needed to, but he never did. The farm was his peace time, his way of living but he enjoyed teaching us though. Uncle Solly didn't talk about his past, he lived for the day, if he was fixing a harness and you caught his eye, he'd instil confidence in you, he'd holler over to you Hey, Taylor, come on over and help me with this god darn thing, then in his own way, he’d do it himself, but in doing so, show you how to do it yourself, then thank you for your help and assistance. ‘A good teacher never teaches, he shows,’ he once said to me.

Silace and Solly, two brothers who were so alike, both with the same loving touch, just like my Aunt Sky. She was thirty six years of age, still unmarried so took some heckling from her brothers about being the ugly duckling of the family. They ribbed her something terrible, but woe betide anyone else doing it, she was their sister, and nobody else's to fool around with.

There's nothing more beautiful than a silent moment on the trail, we took them with easy comfort, just feeling the breeze passing by and nature surrounding all your senses. Later in life, I was reminded of our trek by a song a young guy called ‘John Denver’ had written, he'd been passionate in regard nature, and had written a song called ‘Rocky Mountain High’ which in itself was a beautiful song, but his voice took it on to another level, it was so pure and natural and a big hit all across America in 1973. It actually became an official state song for Colorado, but for me, it touched home and reminded me of the wonder of nature that my big brother and I witnessed in Magnolia Springs that summer of 67.

We didn't go big on music as a family, but I recall Uncle Solly talking highly about an English band they called ‘The Beatles’ surprising us all how ‘hip and with it’ he was for such an old fogey we thought he was at the time. He would always say he discovered ‘The Beatles’ before America did, he'd heard them on the wireless radio, what we called the cat’s whisker back in 63. Solly tinkered in the barn, listening to Cat Country Radio, he came in for supper one night telling us we ought to take a listen to these young boys from England, I still recall his words, They ain't no Beach Boys but they do play a mean beat.

Shortly after that introduction from our uncle, sure enough, those boys from Liverpool, England, hit the Ed Sullivan Show, and well... after that things went a little crazy, they hit the number one spot it seemed with everything they released. To be truly honest, Christy and I really enjoyed the wireless back in those days.

After we'd returned the horses, and thanked the ranch owners for providing us with such beautiful animals, Christy suggested we jump in his pickup and head on over to Sweet Water to see the folks, a surprise visit would always make our mother’s day.

Christy had a Ford F series, 4th generation F100 that he was very proud of. With the windows down and our wayfarers on, we powered south-west down the 98, passing Fairhope hospital, on through Mobile toward the 165 and out through Prichard, hooking a left off the 65 onto the 43 then all the way home to Sweet Water.

As we pulled up in front of the cottage, Momma came running out, arms wide open trying to get both of us within her grasp. My love for my mother is immeasurable, she taught us about loving and caring, I loved her so much it hurt inside. She touched both our faces gently, "Look how big