Author's Note: Okay, Last night I have the craziest dream that I was
with the outsiders at Pearl Harbor in the '40s...I have no idea why, but
anyway, I thought it would make for a good story, so I'm here to try it
out! It will be angsty towards the end because...well, we all know what
happens right? Then again, I don't know if I'll be killing anyone off
yet...In fact I doubt it.
Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton belongs to the Outsiders, and the movie Pearl Harbor belongs to whoever owns it I suppose.
Pearl Harbor
Part One
There she stood, tall and proud, mighty and strong with the ever-fixed mark of defiance painted never to falter. She was an old specimen, and she created, not born. She possessed steel and pipes, not skin nor hair. No, she was a warplane, brought back to Tulsa, Oklahoma at the property of Darryl Curtis Sr., a kind respectful man with a love for antiques, though he never used that word, for she still had some life in her yet. And this moment in time, two young frivolous boys gave her that life---for she was an immense part of theirs.
It was the year 1932, and almost the end of childhood for the boys who were friends from birth, though more like family. Twelve year-old Steve Randle and Eleven year-old Sodapop Curtis sat in the plane the latter's father had brought back from the Great War, a machine that had saved his life countless times. The warm Oklahoma sun beat down hard and heavy upon the endless rows of crops and the golden wheat fields. Tall sycamores stood fervently at the edge of the wood, and nearby sat a house, a garden, and a large windmill, spreading the sails high into the clear blue sky and bringing them down again, letting them plunge into the earth. And there also stood a barn, made of old wood, peeling red paint on the outside, bare on the inside. A loft was high above, and slovenly covered with hay. Beams of sunlight cracked in through the gaps of the planks, setting a hue- like color about the place.
In the center of the massive barn were two friends, reliving the adventure of make-believe war over and over again, planning struggles but always coming out victorious; the heroes of the beautiful United States of America. The gleeful shouts could be heard from a mile away.
"There they are! Rebel German's at two o'clock! Can you see 'em Soda?"
"I see 'em Steve, and boy are they gonna get it. Jus' wait till I blow there heads off, they aint' even gonna know what's hit them! Bang Bang Bang, they're dead!"
"Woo Hoo, I'm a pilot!" They laughed heartily, until the one in the back noticed something untidily written on the piece of two by four they used for a dashboard. In scraggily letters made of chalk it read "rudar" The dark haired boy picked up a rag and whipped it off. Soda scrunched up his nose, irritated.
"Hey Steve, whatcha doin' that for?"
"You can't spell it like that Soda, look here's how you do it: rudder." The brown-eyed boy nodded his head, satisfied.
"Aw look! More of them coming in the east side!"
"Roger that."
"Bang! I got 'em Stevie."
"Land of the free..."
"...Home of the brave." The two saluted each other respectfully, it being their undying tradition.
~In the House~
Two broad tanned arms slipped the waist of Mrs. Curtis as she giggled like a schoolgirl, as she turned around and gave her husband a peck on the lips.
"Hey soldier."
"Hey." He replied, wrapping his index finger around his wife's golden curls.
"Where'd the boys go?"
"Well, right about now, the two are shooting down those "filthy Germans", quote unquote." Abigail Curtis frowned now, breaking away from her husband.
"You know I don't like them talking like that. The war's over and I don't want any grudges."
"Aw, it's just kid stuff."
"Not for long it won't be, I don't want any of my boys being so disrespectful; I didn't raise them to grow up prejudiced against the world." Darryl Sr. nodded his head, knowing his wife was right...she always was.
"I'll talk to them about tonight, hun." The fact that Steve was considered "her boy" was well known about in Tulsa. He had a rotten life himself, (his mother had died when he was only four years old), and his sorry excuse for a father did nothing but swear and drink all night long with the exception for a visit to a cathouse. Cole Randle was a WWI veteran, a true hero...or at least it started out that way. He'd gotten hurt in some small battle in Germany, which resulted in him leaving an arm behind in the massive city of Berlin. He did just fine for a while, until the death of his beloved wife when he took to drinking. Little Steve took to staying at the farm, and was soon considered part of the family...and they daily reminded him of it.
~Back in the Barn~
"Whew, that was a close one." Steve nodded, and was about to reply when the suddenly he felt a tight jerk on the back of his old worn-out overalls. Instantly, a look of dread creased his face, for he knew who it was even before the person spoke. He writhed around in a jiffy, facing the man who scared him the most in the world, and who he was forced to live with. Cole Randle was a tall specimen of a man, and a dirty one at that. Small drops of dried blood were left over from shaving, which couldn't have been in the past three days, for stubble covered his lower face. His yellow teeth and horrid breath were the result of the countless nights of drinking. His right sleeve was pinned to his brown stained shirt, showing off the horrific image of the missing arm.
"I done told you boy, you ain't gonna make nothin' of yourself if you play around with this stupid boy who can't even read!"
"He ain't stupid daddy!" Steve's lower lip trembled ever so slightly.
Cole growled, "Don't you back talk to me. No supper for you tonight, and you can sleep outside with the dog for all I care. Might as well stay with yer own kind." Hurt, anger and fear shone in the deep dark eyes of the little boy. But the next thing that would appear was shock. With a loud rattle and a crack the figure that was his father now lay in a heap on the cool grass, cradling his stomach. And there above him stood Soda, with the four by four held firmly in his hands.
"Don't you touch him you dirty German!" And suddenly, something some touched Cole Randle that moment, something deep inside of him. His eyes softened and he shrank back, projecting almost a childlike innocence in him. His arm rose up to reach the empty sleeve of his right, and paused, staring at it with a blank look on his face. His voice was not the raspy one they'd heard just minuets before. It was quiet, timid, and yet so powerful. He sounded like he did when he was a soldier.
"What'd you call me boy? I FOUGHT the Germans. I pray no one ever has to see what I saw." He turned his head, looking at his son, blinking over and over again. "Stevie...I...I didn't mean nothing, I just..."
"It's o.k. daddy." And with that he reached up to take his father's hand, entwining it in his small one. As the two walked through the cornfields that evening a boy glanced over his shoulder to mouth two silent meaningful words to his best friend.
"Thank you."
End One
Please Review
Dedicated to the brave men and women who served our country sixty years ago and to those still serve it today.
Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton belongs to the Outsiders, and the movie Pearl Harbor belongs to whoever owns it I suppose.
Pearl Harbor
Part One
There she stood, tall and proud, mighty and strong with the ever-fixed mark of defiance painted never to falter. She was an old specimen, and she created, not born. She possessed steel and pipes, not skin nor hair. No, she was a warplane, brought back to Tulsa, Oklahoma at the property of Darryl Curtis Sr., a kind respectful man with a love for antiques, though he never used that word, for she still had some life in her yet. And this moment in time, two young frivolous boys gave her that life---for she was an immense part of theirs.
It was the year 1932, and almost the end of childhood for the boys who were friends from birth, though more like family. Twelve year-old Steve Randle and Eleven year-old Sodapop Curtis sat in the plane the latter's father had brought back from the Great War, a machine that had saved his life countless times. The warm Oklahoma sun beat down hard and heavy upon the endless rows of crops and the golden wheat fields. Tall sycamores stood fervently at the edge of the wood, and nearby sat a house, a garden, and a large windmill, spreading the sails high into the clear blue sky and bringing them down again, letting them plunge into the earth. And there also stood a barn, made of old wood, peeling red paint on the outside, bare on the inside. A loft was high above, and slovenly covered with hay. Beams of sunlight cracked in through the gaps of the planks, setting a hue- like color about the place.
In the center of the massive barn were two friends, reliving the adventure of make-believe war over and over again, planning struggles but always coming out victorious; the heroes of the beautiful United States of America. The gleeful shouts could be heard from a mile away.
"There they are! Rebel German's at two o'clock! Can you see 'em Soda?"
"I see 'em Steve, and boy are they gonna get it. Jus' wait till I blow there heads off, they aint' even gonna know what's hit them! Bang Bang Bang, they're dead!"
"Woo Hoo, I'm a pilot!" They laughed heartily, until the one in the back noticed something untidily written on the piece of two by four they used for a dashboard. In scraggily letters made of chalk it read "rudar" The dark haired boy picked up a rag and whipped it off. Soda scrunched up his nose, irritated.
"Hey Steve, whatcha doin' that for?"
"You can't spell it like that Soda, look here's how you do it: rudder." The brown-eyed boy nodded his head, satisfied.
"Aw look! More of them coming in the east side!"
"Roger that."
"Bang! I got 'em Stevie."
"Land of the free..."
"...Home of the brave." The two saluted each other respectfully, it being their undying tradition.
~In the House~
Two broad tanned arms slipped the waist of Mrs. Curtis as she giggled like a schoolgirl, as she turned around and gave her husband a peck on the lips.
"Hey soldier."
"Hey." He replied, wrapping his index finger around his wife's golden curls.
"Where'd the boys go?"
"Well, right about now, the two are shooting down those "filthy Germans", quote unquote." Abigail Curtis frowned now, breaking away from her husband.
"You know I don't like them talking like that. The war's over and I don't want any grudges."
"Aw, it's just kid stuff."
"Not for long it won't be, I don't want any of my boys being so disrespectful; I didn't raise them to grow up prejudiced against the world." Darryl Sr. nodded his head, knowing his wife was right...she always was.
"I'll talk to them about tonight, hun." The fact that Steve was considered "her boy" was well known about in Tulsa. He had a rotten life himself, (his mother had died when he was only four years old), and his sorry excuse for a father did nothing but swear and drink all night long with the exception for a visit to a cathouse. Cole Randle was a WWI veteran, a true hero...or at least it started out that way. He'd gotten hurt in some small battle in Germany, which resulted in him leaving an arm behind in the massive city of Berlin. He did just fine for a while, until the death of his beloved wife when he took to drinking. Little Steve took to staying at the farm, and was soon considered part of the family...and they daily reminded him of it.
~Back in the Barn~
"Whew, that was a close one." Steve nodded, and was about to reply when the suddenly he felt a tight jerk on the back of his old worn-out overalls. Instantly, a look of dread creased his face, for he knew who it was even before the person spoke. He writhed around in a jiffy, facing the man who scared him the most in the world, and who he was forced to live with. Cole Randle was a tall specimen of a man, and a dirty one at that. Small drops of dried blood were left over from shaving, which couldn't have been in the past three days, for stubble covered his lower face. His yellow teeth and horrid breath were the result of the countless nights of drinking. His right sleeve was pinned to his brown stained shirt, showing off the horrific image of the missing arm.
"I done told you boy, you ain't gonna make nothin' of yourself if you play around with this stupid boy who can't even read!"
"He ain't stupid daddy!" Steve's lower lip trembled ever so slightly.
Cole growled, "Don't you back talk to me. No supper for you tonight, and you can sleep outside with the dog for all I care. Might as well stay with yer own kind." Hurt, anger and fear shone in the deep dark eyes of the little boy. But the next thing that would appear was shock. With a loud rattle and a crack the figure that was his father now lay in a heap on the cool grass, cradling his stomach. And there above him stood Soda, with the four by four held firmly in his hands.
"Don't you touch him you dirty German!" And suddenly, something some touched Cole Randle that moment, something deep inside of him. His eyes softened and he shrank back, projecting almost a childlike innocence in him. His arm rose up to reach the empty sleeve of his right, and paused, staring at it with a blank look on his face. His voice was not the raspy one they'd heard just minuets before. It was quiet, timid, and yet so powerful. He sounded like he did when he was a soldier.
"What'd you call me boy? I FOUGHT the Germans. I pray no one ever has to see what I saw." He turned his head, looking at his son, blinking over and over again. "Stevie...I...I didn't mean nothing, I just..."
"It's o.k. daddy." And with that he reached up to take his father's hand, entwining it in his small one. As the two walked through the cornfields that evening a boy glanced over his shoulder to mouth two silent meaningful words to his best friend.
"Thank you."
End One
Please Review
Dedicated to the brave men and women who served our country sixty years ago and to those still serve it today.