In this short fic, Colonel Doolittle really has the spirit of a poet. A
reinterpretation of "Pearl Harbor" as Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckhimer
would never have shown it: without clear hero roles or any sense of drama
whatsoever.
Author's Note:
I do not own the characters in "Pearl Harbor," they are the creation of Randall Wallace and probably belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and Michael Bay. No disrespect to the real James Doolittle is intended. Hopefully my character is so far from the real man that only an idiot would mistake him for the real Doolittle, or even Alec Baldwin's interpretation. Heck, any considerable similarity between the characters in this story and the original fictional characters is probably not intentional.
I don't own the poetry of the inimitable Edgar Guest, either.
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Blue, it was so blue. The cloudless sky had a gorgeous cerulean hue that was mirrored in the crystalline waters of the rather large swimming pool, which already had a fine aqua color because of the painted walls of the pool. The sky made that pool look extremely blue, so blue he could practically sense it making his own blue, blue eyes even bluer than usual as they casually scanned the blank expanse of the page his pen was poised above. And yes, the page was blue, kind of a light blue that would provide a soothing backdrop for the words he would write.
But nothing could be as blue as he felt on the inside.
Yes, Colonel James "Jimmy" Doolittle was blue as a robin's egg inside. He just couldn't think of what to write. You see, though his occupation was being a military commander who oversaw a bunch of hot-tempered young fighter pilots, his vocation was to be a poet. Unfortunately, now he was suffering from a stiff case of writer's block. And the worst part was, he kept seeing, reading, and hearing another man's words in his head.
The great frustration of James Doolittle's life was the fact that his mind, heart and soul were filled with these poetic ideas, but he just couldn't get them out in writing, at least not fast enough. He'd go to bed, his mind awhirl with thoughts. "Doing your chores every day, accepting whatever God caused to cross your path, putting your best into your job and not complaining - this was what gives a man true nobility. But how can I say this just right, in good plain language but with a certain simple, lyrical clarity?" he wondered. Then, the next morning he would open the newspaper, and there it would be:
True Nobility
By Edgar Guest
Who does his task from day to day
And meets whatever comes his way,
Believing God has willed it so.
Has found real greatness here below.
Who guards his post, no matter where,
Believing god must need him there,
Although but lowly toil it be,
Has risen to nobility.
For great and low there's but one test:
`Tis that each man shall do his best.
Who works with all the strength he can
Shall never die in debt to man.
It broke James's heart, both because he had thought the same thing and couldn't find the words, and because what he was reading was so beautiful. Being a poet was hard.
He doubted the boys he commanded could understand what it was like. They weren't poets. Sure, that Italian kid probably pretended to write poetry, but it was just a sham to get the girls to be sweet with him. It wasn't the same as trying to write your feelings about your country, or God, or your parents, or just how good a fellow would feel when he was out fishing. These were the things that made a man's spirit endure.
Jimmy took a deep breath - it couldn't be called a sigh, he wasn't the kind of man to sigh - and cast his blue glance off towards the horizon.
Author's Note:
I do not own the characters in "Pearl Harbor," they are the creation of Randall Wallace and probably belong to Jerry Bruckheimer and Michael Bay. No disrespect to the real James Doolittle is intended. Hopefully my character is so far from the real man that only an idiot would mistake him for the real Doolittle, or even Alec Baldwin's interpretation. Heck, any considerable similarity between the characters in this story and the original fictional characters is probably not intentional.
I don't own the poetry of the inimitable Edgar Guest, either.
________________________________________________________________________
Blue, it was so blue. The cloudless sky had a gorgeous cerulean hue that was mirrored in the crystalline waters of the rather large swimming pool, which already had a fine aqua color because of the painted walls of the pool. The sky made that pool look extremely blue, so blue he could practically sense it making his own blue, blue eyes even bluer than usual as they casually scanned the blank expanse of the page his pen was poised above. And yes, the page was blue, kind of a light blue that would provide a soothing backdrop for the words he would write.
But nothing could be as blue as he felt on the inside.
Yes, Colonel James "Jimmy" Doolittle was blue as a robin's egg inside. He just couldn't think of what to write. You see, though his occupation was being a military commander who oversaw a bunch of hot-tempered young fighter pilots, his vocation was to be a poet. Unfortunately, now he was suffering from a stiff case of writer's block. And the worst part was, he kept seeing, reading, and hearing another man's words in his head.
The great frustration of James Doolittle's life was the fact that his mind, heart and soul were filled with these poetic ideas, but he just couldn't get them out in writing, at least not fast enough. He'd go to bed, his mind awhirl with thoughts. "Doing your chores every day, accepting whatever God caused to cross your path, putting your best into your job and not complaining - this was what gives a man true nobility. But how can I say this just right, in good plain language but with a certain simple, lyrical clarity?" he wondered. Then, the next morning he would open the newspaper, and there it would be:
True Nobility
By Edgar Guest
Who does his task from day to day
And meets whatever comes his way,
Believing God has willed it so.
Has found real greatness here below.
Who guards his post, no matter where,
Believing god must need him there,
Although but lowly toil it be,
Has risen to nobility.
For great and low there's but one test:
`Tis that each man shall do his best.
Who works with all the strength he can
Shall never die in debt to man.
It broke James's heart, both because he had thought the same thing and couldn't find the words, and because what he was reading was so beautiful. Being a poet was hard.
He doubted the boys he commanded could understand what it was like. They weren't poets. Sure, that Italian kid probably pretended to write poetry, but it was just a sham to get the girls to be sweet with him. It wasn't the same as trying to write your feelings about your country, or God, or your parents, or just how good a fellow would feel when he was out fishing. These were the things that made a man's spirit endure.
Jimmy took a deep breath - it couldn't be called a sigh, he wasn't the kind of man to sigh - and cast his blue glance off towards the horizon.