Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

courses, and the many text books, had dealt—for the most part, he’d felt—with slavery. And Jim Crow. And The Civil Rights Act. Even the final acceptance, of Jackie Robinson, by Organized Baseball. The Founding Fathers, of course, had been just “a bunch of white Europeans… who’d owned a bunch of slaves”.

A significant part of the war, had been the battle of Tunisia. Grandpa had been big, on that particular campaign. He’d—forever—spoken, of how the German commander—Rommel, was his name—had “gotten his ass kicked… big time”! When had that taken place? Jason was thinking that it would’ve been 1943. Or maybe 1944. Maybe, even, as late as 1945. Nah! Not that far into the war.

He’d been pretty sure that the war had ended—in 1944. Well, maybe it had been, in 1945. Dammit! He should know! Know—for sure. Our Hero, as noted, had wished that his many American History curriculums would’ve taught substantially more—about World War II. More about everything—the many heroic things, that had happened—before the historic segregation battles, of the fifties and sixties. Happenings that had taken place—prior to the violent anti-Vietnam War confrontations, of the sixties and seventies.

The teachers—his teachers, anyway—all had seemed to, seriously, dwell on those events (and, of course, the troubling, resultant, fallout)! Much more than anything else! The frightful conditions, that General George Washington’s ill-equipped—incredibly heroic—dedicated, soldiers had had to overcome, for instance. Or, possibly, the historic Battle of Gettysburg. The Marines’ epic landings—on Tarawa, and Iwo Jima. And Guadalcanal. The “Battle of The Bulge”. Normandy.

“I know more about Nelson Mandela… and he’s not even an American,” he’d once told his mother. “Know more about him . . . than I know about Thomas Jefferson or Samuel Adams or Abraham Lincoln.”

His mother, as usual, could not have cared less. However, when he’d made the same declaration to Grandpa Piepczyk, it had driven the old man up the wall.

Once again, Jason tried to remember—remember exactly—if it actually was the Nazi Field Marshall Rommel being run, out of Africa. Damn! He simply couldn’t remember the man’s first name. Couldn’t even recall who—on the Allied side—had caused what had become a massive German retreat.

They’d all pulled out . . . the Nazis . . . and had run to Italy! Hadn’t they?

Was it General Eisenhower—who had caused the “Krauts’” abandonment of the continent? English Field Marshall Montgomery, maybe? Possibly George Patton? The only thing Our Hero could remember—for sure—was that Rommel had been referred to as “The Desert Fox”. Could that have been just so much hype? Simply for the 1951 movie—of the same name? The one that had starred James Mason, in the title role?

Grandpa had had the movie—on VHS—but, he’d never persuaded Jason to sit down, with him, and watch it. To Our Boy’s overwhelming regret! Especially, as he’d sat—in that fabled, storied, always-to-be-remembered, Marcus restaurant. On the red-letter first day—of his historic voyage.

The war in the Pacific, of course, was going badly! He’d remembered that fact—mostly from his grandfather’s frequent recalling, of the fearful, highly-tenuous, era. Still, there didn’t seem to be any “war news”—from that theater! Not as such. No sterling accounts of naval battles—or dog fights, in the air, over the many islands, out there. No news of Wake Island—or of General MacArthur saying, “I will return”.

Jason had expected “epic” happenings—and/or stirring speeches—on a daily basis. The war was turning out to be a more grinding-it-out-on-a-daily-basis operation—than he’d pictured.

His Free Press did contain a rather extensive article—about the ruthless, never-ending, bombings of London! The Luftwaffe was hitting the English capital—virtually every night! Actually, it had seemed that the Londoners were being mercilessly blitzed—literally every night! Being hit—hard! Something else—another “insignificant” item—which had been almost totally-forgotten, in Jason’s school course!

Grandpa Piepczyk had told him—numerous times—that he could never have fathomed “how those poor British people could’ve survived . . . all those God-awful, horrible, terrible, bombings”. Numerous times! Grandpa had always maintained that he would’ve been a “basket case”—having to face “the constant, the continuous, the merciless, the every-damn-night” bombardment! “Those poor people,” he’d constantly lamented. “They’d had to almost live . . . live, in the damn bomb shelters!

There was a rather extensive article, on Winston Churchill. He’d, apparently—judging from the profile—not been English prime minister, for as long as Jason had pictured. It was a morale-boosting article, thought the new-arrival. Obviously, the historic statesman had been just what the people of America had needed! To say nothing—of the incredibly war-weary, battered, bewildered, populace, of Great Britain! They, obviously, had needed him even more! Infinitely more!

The confused time-traveler found himself wondering how the liberal 21st century “Main Stream Media” would wind up handling the cowardly attacks of September 11, 2001! This troubled conjecture wound up—bringing on even more disturbing thoughts! To the point, that his face was physically contorting!

He could only imagine—how those plainly-left-wing media folks would’ve covered Pearl Harbor. Or Normandy. That brought an even more sour expression, to his face! To the point—that an elderly lady, across the counter, was staring at him. He’d had to shake his head—violently—to disperse the many distasteful visions. The woman—who was getting ready to leave—stopped, at his stool, and asked if he was “all right”.

Our Hero—once he’d assured this total stranger, that he “was fine”—found himself getting wrapped up, in much of the non-war copy. There turned out to be a number of, to him, novel advertisements, in “The Freep”. Ones that caught his eye—and made him (finally) smile:

Cashmere Bouquet “beauty soap” was a brand, of which he’d never heard. Big ad—for Lifebuoy Soap. Apparently, everyone was worried—about having B.O. (Body Odor), in the early-forties. Lifebuoy, thankfully, solved that God-awful problem! Lever Brothers’ gift—to humanity!

There was, also, a strange-sounding hand cream advertised. Hinds Honey & Almond Cream. According to the ad, honey and almonds were some kind of wonder drugs. Surprisingly, there was a huge ad—for the 1942 Oldsmobiles—proclaiming that “Hydramatic Drive” was the one and only Automatic” transmission. That struck Jason—as being rather odd. Not so much the “Hydramatic” thing. It was the fact that—this was, apparently, the lone automatic. The Olds people were—as near as the time-traveler could