THE SACRIFICIAL SEAGULL

Captain Eddie Rickenbacker, the WWI flying ace, and Medal of Honor recipient, survived the war and went on to live a long and fruitful life; (but not without nearly succumbing to the elements).

For you see, after the advent of WWII the pilot, turned businessman, was tapped by the Department of Defense to serve in the capacity of a civilian observer in the Pacific Theater. Boarding a B-17 in Hawaii, along with six or eight other men, they set out to their first stop; a little island referred to as Canton.

Unfortunately, they never arrived.

As it fell together, the navigation equipment on board the aircraft was, (in terms of a subsequent investigation) thought to have been damaged, and though the crew made radio contact with the airfield on Canton, they never managed to locate the tiny speck in a sea of blue. Ultimately, the pilot had no other option than to prepare to ditch at sea.

As the needle on the fuel gauge dipped closer and closer to the ‘E’ and the engines began to sputter, the men were in the process of gathering anything and everything which might serve them well on the vast Pacific Ocean; knowing that they might have all of a minute to escape the airplane before it sank beneath the foamy waves.

Life rafts, life preservers, paddles, knives, rope, fishing line, a couple of thermoses, a few pieces of fruit.

The pilot managed to make the softest possible landing between the crests of two waves, and while a couple of men sustained moderate injuries, they remained mobile, and each, in turn, found their way out the door, and into one of three life rafts.

Pt. 2

And thus began a harrowing voyage… to nowhere.

Many were the trials of the unfortunate crew members and passengers of this B-17 aircraft; the name and nose art of which has, apparently, been lost to history.

Scorching hot days, unbearably cold nights, hideous sunburns made that much more hideous, as the result of the salt of the ocean on their deteriorating skin; hunger and thirst.

From time to time, the men on one raft, or the other, would strike out on their own, against the better judgement of Captain Rickenbacker; hoping to row towards the known trade routes, and hope of rescue. Time after time, the currents drove them back towards the other rafts, and the men whom they had left behind.

Ultimately, one of their number died, and with the benefit of a short prayer, the WWI ace lowered the man into the ocean, and watched him sink beneath the waves.

As the days dropped like sand in an hour glass, a couple of the other men grew steadily weaker, and wavered between wakefulness, and a semi-comatic condition. Rickenbacker, who was by this time, the unofficial leader of the watery nomads, purposely agitated the men with sharp words and taunts, in order to generate as much energy in them as possible; albeit rather negative. His ploy worked, as several of his compatriots threatened to kill him; if they ever found their way out of their predicament. (The captain surmised that all would be forgiven if and when they were rescued).

From time to time, a few brief showers graced the occupants of the three rafts with a bit of clear liquid. As a result, Rickenbacker suggested they lay their socks, and shirts on the side of their rubber conveyances. And after the clothing was saturated with life-giving H2O, the men squeezed a quart or so of the clear liquid into a bucket, and rationed it throughout the next few days.

Pt. 3

Occasionally, schools of tiny fish swam around and beneath the rafts, and the men were able to scoop up a few of the creatures, and ravenously devoured them.

Better than anyone else, Rickenbacker knew “something had to give,” since over a week had elapsed, and the fruit, nickel-sized fish, and rain water was woefully insufficient to sustain life. Stunningly, the men began to discuss choosing a ‘volunteer’ to surrender a couple of his toes …to be used as bait.

As the days accumulated, the forlorn men conducted a prayer service, and hoped for a miracle.

And then it happened.

As the good captain lay prostrate, with his head against the wall of his raft, and shielded his eyes with his hands, he felt something settle on his hat. Realizing a small bird had unceremoniously landed on his head, he quickly reached up, and grasping the creature tightly wrung its poor neck.

Having de-feathered the pitiful creature, Captain Rickenbacker shared the raw bird flesh with his friends; careful to salvage its internal organs to be used as bait.

Dear readers, I can tell you that the appearance and sacrifice of the little seagull inspired hope in the breasts of these miserable vagabonds. When the hook was baited, and dropped into what might have easily become a watery grave, a small fish took the bait, and Rickenbacker jerked it into the raft. From this point forward, the men were nourished by hook and line, and so the oceanic hunters and gatherers were sustained.

One week, two weeks, three weeks and three days elapsed, and a glint appeared in the distant sky. A lone aircraft which seemed to grow larger with its decreasing distance. Search planes had actively sought them, and after almost a month in the expansive Pacific, the almost hopelessly small rafts, and the men who inhabited them had been found.

(William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

Pt. 4

It happens every Friday evening, almost without fail; when the sun resembles a giant orange and begins to dip into the blue ocean.

Old Eddie comes strolling along the beach to his favorite pier. Clutched in his bony hand is a bucket of shrimp. The elderly gentleman walks to the end of the pier; where it seems he almost has the world to himself. The glow of the sun is a golden bronze now. Everyone's gone, except for a few joggers on the beach. Standing on the end of the pier, Eddie is alone with his thoughts...and his bucket of shrimp.

Before long, however, he is no longer alone. From high in the sky, a thousand white dots come screeching and squawking; winging their way toward that lanky frame standing there on the end of the pier. And now, dozens of seagulls have enveloped him; their wings fluttering and flapping wildly. The old man stands there tossing shrimp to the hungry birds. If you listen closely, you can hear him say with a smile, "Thank you. Thank you."

In a few short minutes, the bucket is empty. But Eddie doesn't leave. He stands there lost in thought; as though transported to another time and place. Invariably, one of the gulls lands on his sea-bleached, weather-beaten hat, a cherished military hat he's been wearing for years; but his arms remain at his side.

When Eddie finally turns around, and begins to walk back toward the beach, a few of the birds hop along the pier with him until he gets to the stairs; and then they, too, fly away. And the captain quietly makes his way down to the end of the beach and to his home.

If you happened to be sitting there on the pier with your fishing line in the water, Ed might seem like "a funny old duck," (as my dad used to say), or, "a guy that's a sandwich shy of a picnic," (as my kids are prone to say). To onlookers, he's just another old codger, lost in his own weird world, feeding the seagulls; with a bucket full of shrimp.

To the average onlooker, rituals may look either very strange or very empty. They often seem altogether unimportant; perhaps a lot of nonsense. Old folks often do strange things, at least in the eyes of the ‘Boomers’ and ‘Busters.’ Most of them would probably write Old Eddie off; down there in Florida.

Too bad. They would do well to know him better.

His full name: Eddie Rickenbacker. He was a decorated hero back in World War I. And then in “The Second War to End All Wars,” he and his seven-member crew went down in the Pacific. Miraculously, all of the men survived the crash, crawled out of their plane, and climbed into life rafts.

Captain Rickenbacker and his crew floated for days on the rough waters of the Pacific Ocean. They fought the sun. They fought sharks. Most of all, they fought hunger and thirst. After a week, their rations ran out. No food. No water. They were hundreds of miles from land, and no one knew where they were. They needed a miracle.

That afternoon they observed a simple prayer service, and hoped for a miracle. They tried to nap. Eddie leaned back and pulled his military cap over his nose. Time dragged on. He was lulled to sleep by the slap of the waves against the raft. Suddenly, Eddie felt something land on his cap. A seagull!

Old Ed would later describe how he lay perfectly still; carefully planning his next move. With a flash of his hand and the squawk of the gull, he managed to grab it, …and wring its neck. Tearing its feathers off, he and his starving crew made a meal; an admittedly slight meal for eight men.

Having eaten, the seagull’s intestines were used for bait. And with that bait, they caught fish, which provided them food, and still more bait. With this simple act of survival they were able to endure the rigors of the sea; until they were finally found and rescued.

Eddie Rickenbacker lived many years beyond this ordeal, but he never forgot the sacrifice of that lone seagull. And he never stopped saying, "Thank you."

Each and every Friday evening, until the end of his days, the good captain would walk to the end of that pier; carrying a bucket full of shrimp, and a heart full of gratitude.

(Max Lucado. Edited by William McDonald, PhD)