The roar of the guns and cannons was deafening as the men fired upon the inbound Japanese planes.
The blue Pacific sky was filled with flack and burning projectiles, like innumerable hornets released from a savaged hive, searching for reckoning in the hundreds of Kamikaze that bore down upon the picket.
The sailors howled in anger as the damaged planes penetrated the swarm of steel and dove for the deck of their ship. The angle and range to impact were uncertain so they ran port to stern and stern to bow in hopes of evading the burning havoc of ordnance and fuel that was hurtling toward them.
The dismembered wreckage slammed into the deck; the ensuing explosion rocked and twisted the ship, blasting hot, fragmented metal through the men, cleaving bodies and scattering them like chaff in the wind.
The battle lasted for fifteen days. The torn remains of their shipmates were stacked as high as a standing man and bloated in the blinding sun.
As the battle subsided they were allowed to bury their brethren;
shame, rage, and disgust washed over the mourners as sharks came to feast on the swollen flesh of the dead.
A halt was ordered on the procession as live munitions were lashed to the cadavers in hopes of speeding their descent into their cold, murky graves, fathoms below.
Carl "Junior" Stanger , who is slowed by injuries from logging camps, the second great war, and age, still carries himself impressively. Though stooping and shuffling a bit, he is still striking.
His glinting silver eyes reveal an active mind that contains unfathomable chapters and verse; his voice is booming with conviction and passion; his snow white hair and beard command reverence.
During his war, Carl heard a Voice that would lead and drive him through the many years that followed; restless, he wandered in the south western deserts and mines, searching.
For brief numbers of days he would return home to visit and share his spiritual experiences and life lessons brought to him by the voice of his God. His revelations were met with glazed eyes and discomfort, because His messages that came from Carl’s lips did not fall in line with our family’s accepted spiritual beliefs. From the moment Carl began to share his guidance, he was disregarded; believed to be "off" and "out there", he became the source of jokes and unanswered phone calls.
Shamefully, I admit that I believed my families opinions of Uncle Carl and accepted them as my own.
He knows all of this, and he is loyal to his spirit.
The pursuance of my beginnings led me to the place of my birth and to the home of my Uncle Carl.
His residence is a disintegrating trailer, strangled with Virginia Creeper and wasp nests that is slowly sinking into the earth.
I sat opposite to him, that August, separated by a veil of afternoon sun. The light settled on his hoary visage, radiated about him, flashing, manipulated by his gesturing hands as the conversation carried him over memories and time.
He shared with me the adventures of his youth, the work in the forests that broke his body, and the lone journeys through wind carved canyons, abandoned shafts in the ground, and the founding of the fading utopian idea that lay scattered, moldering among the hills surrounding his habitation.
As the hours passed, a calm settled about him and he began to speak of spiritual experiences. The words that poured from his mouth connected the fragments of conversation that had been hidden in my heart as a child.
I suddenly remembered his visits to our home and the images of he and my father sharing words in a similar light and a kindred manner.
Until my reunion with him I was unaware that he was one of the pioneers that settled the village with my father, and that my father was one of the few who accepted his council and communion.
I had to know the source of my uncles passion and vision; I asked where his spiritual journey began and he told me in a manner like one would describe a well known fact.
"I heard the voice of God."
He described to me the battle that he endured in the Pacific, and of the moment when a string of words, that would reshape his mind and his heart, resonated in his soul; in a tick of seemingly frozen time that fastened his feet to the wooden deck of a man made ship and locked his eyes on a man driven bomb one hundred feet above his head, he heard, "I will save this ship because of you."
Did Carl hear the voice of God?
There are countless stories of men, under horror and great duress, experiencing unexplainable events; they report, with great feeling, that they would not believe what transpired unless they had been there themselves.
They understand that common sense and psychological theories will negate their irrational, absurd, and unbelievable attests; they hammer and chip-away at the occurrence, hoping to sculpt and shape the phenomenon into something smaller and manageable, and in the process, degrade themselves prostituting the purity of the action.
Carl and his ship were saved; they survived, battered and scarred, and managed to transfer many other wounded, dead, foundering souls and vessels to safe harbors.
I believe that Carl experienced something extraordinary during an unbelievable moment that triggered the expanding of his consciousness, leaving him void of doubt.
Nearing the end of this life he is collected; an aggregation of history, experience, and thought, still searching for traces of a Voice that only a few will truly hear.
I am fortunate to have reconnected with him and I find him much less threatening, having spent some time walking in his boots.
The blue Pacific sky was filled with flack and burning projectiles, like innumerable hornets released from a savaged hive, searching for reckoning in the hundreds of Kamikaze that bore down upon the picket.
The sailors howled in anger as the damaged planes penetrated the swarm of steel and dove for the deck of their ship. The angle and range to impact were uncertain so they ran port to stern and stern to bow in hopes of evading the burning havoc of ordnance and fuel that was hurtling toward them.
The dismembered wreckage slammed into the deck; the ensuing explosion rocked and twisted the ship, blasting hot, fragmented metal through the men, cleaving bodies and scattering them like chaff in the wind.
The battle lasted for fifteen days. The torn remains of their shipmates were stacked as high as a standing man and bloated in the blinding sun.
As the battle subsided they were allowed to bury their brethren;
shame, rage, and disgust washed over the mourners as sharks came to feast on the swollen flesh of the dead.
A halt was ordered on the procession as live munitions were lashed to the cadavers in hopes of speeding their descent into their cold, murky graves, fathoms below.
Carl "Junior" Stanger , who is slowed by injuries from logging camps, the second great war, and age, still carries himself impressively. Though stooping and shuffling a bit, he is still striking.
His glinting silver eyes reveal an active mind that contains unfathomable chapters and verse; his voice is booming with conviction and passion; his snow white hair and beard command reverence.
During his war, Carl heard a Voice that would lead and drive him through the many years that followed; restless, he wandered in the south western deserts and mines, searching.
For brief numbers of days he would return home to visit and share his spiritual experiences and life lessons brought to him by the voice of his God. His revelations were met with glazed eyes and discomfort, because His messages that came from Carl’s lips did not fall in line with our family’s accepted spiritual beliefs. From the moment Carl began to share his guidance, he was disregarded; believed to be "off" and "out there", he became the source of jokes and unanswered phone calls.
Shamefully, I admit that I believed my families opinions of Uncle Carl and accepted them as my own.
He knows all of this, and he is loyal to his spirit.
The pursuance of my beginnings led me to the place of my birth and to the home of my Uncle Carl.
His residence is a disintegrating trailer, strangled with Virginia Creeper and wasp nests that is slowly sinking into the earth.
I sat opposite to him, that August, separated by a veil of afternoon sun. The light settled on his hoary visage, radiated about him, flashing, manipulated by his gesturing hands as the conversation carried him over memories and time.
He shared with me the adventures of his youth, the work in the forests that broke his body, and the lone journeys through wind carved canyons, abandoned shafts in the ground, and the founding of the fading utopian idea that lay scattered, moldering among the hills surrounding his habitation.
As the hours passed, a calm settled about him and he began to speak of spiritual experiences. The words that poured from his mouth connected the fragments of conversation that had been hidden in my heart as a child.
I suddenly remembered his visits to our home and the images of he and my father sharing words in a similar light and a kindred manner.
Until my reunion with him I was unaware that he was one of the pioneers that settled the village with my father, and that my father was one of the few who accepted his council and communion.
I had to know the source of my uncles passion and vision; I asked where his spiritual journey began and he told me in a manner like one would describe a well known fact.
"I heard the voice of God."
He described to me the battle that he endured in the Pacific, and of the moment when a string of words, that would reshape his mind and his heart, resonated in his soul; in a tick of seemingly frozen time that fastened his feet to the wooden deck of a man made ship and locked his eyes on a man driven bomb one hundred feet above his head, he heard, "I will save this ship because of you."
Did Carl hear the voice of God?
There are countless stories of men, under horror and great duress, experiencing unexplainable events; they report, with great feeling, that they would not believe what transpired unless they had been there themselves.
They understand that common sense and psychological theories will negate their irrational, absurd, and unbelievable attests; they hammer and chip-away at the occurrence, hoping to sculpt and shape the phenomenon into something smaller and manageable, and in the process, degrade themselves prostituting the purity of the action.
Carl and his ship were saved; they survived, battered and scarred, and managed to transfer many other wounded, dead, foundering souls and vessels to safe harbors.
I believe that Carl experienced something extraordinary during an unbelievable moment that triggered the expanding of his consciousness, leaving him void of doubt.
Nearing the end of this life he is collected; an aggregation of history, experience, and thought, still searching for traces of a Voice that only a few will truly hear.
I am fortunate to have reconnected with him and I find him much less threatening, having spent some time walking in his boots.
