The Unauthorized Autobiography: Chapter 2B

But I should let him tell the story in his own words, as he told it to me.

“Lanc,” he would say, “Did I ever tell you how you got your name?”

“You mean ‘Laurence’?” I would ask innocently.

“Nah, ya little twerp . . . Lancaster!”

“Yes, dad, you’ve been telling me once a week since I was four.”

“How old are ya now?’

“Thirteen.”

“Well, it’s time I told you the real reason, then.”

I think it’s possible the war affected not only his bowel movements but also his short term memory. He invariably told the same story. Sometimes the details changed. Over the years the tale became more embroidered as dad honed his dramatic skills.

“Back in ‘fourty-four,” he’d say, “I was a tail-gunner in a Lancaster bomber.”

“Yes, dad, I know.”

“Gunner Gunnar they called me, so good they named me twice. I was a hell of a shot, boy. You know the term ‘hotshot’? They invented it when they saw me. Tweny-five kills to my credit. In the first week.

“I’ll tell you what, though. I hated climbing into that rat trap. It was colder than a polar bear’s butt. Scared the bejesus out of me every single night, too. When you’re in the tail, the first guy the bandits are shootin’ at is you. And there ain’t nowhere to run to except maybe the front of the plane, and if you do that the captain’s gonna smack you upside your head and tell you to get the hell back to your post.”

“So that’s how I got my name? The captain punched you in the head and the first thing you thought of was, ‘I’m going to name my boy Lanc?’”

“Smartass.”

About then was when he would cuff me on the ear.

“Pay attention, son. I’m tellin’ ya the family history here. I was in the last week of my hitch, believe it or not. A night raid on ****. We got a late start because the weather had been miserable all day and only started to clear at sundown.

“Yeah, the bomb run was routine, if you can call a bomb run routine. It’s a crazy thing, if you think about it. You set off in the dead of night loaded with enough TNT to blow you to hell one atom at a time. You fly half the night gettin’ stiff and sore from nothin’ to do but worry and pray. See these grey hairs? One raid per night is how I got them.”

Listening to the old man tell the story was an exercise in patience. Just as I was about to urge him to get to the point, he would say, “Hold on to your shorts, Lanc, I’m just gettin’ warmed up.

“It happened on the way home. We were flying high, I tell you. The bombardier had made a direct hit on a chocolate factory disguised as a military target and we were celebrating the inevitable victory of the Allies. Without chocolate, the Krauts were nothing, you know.

“But it was late, already, and we were racing the dawn all the way. About twenty miles out to sea, the sun popped over the horizon. Blood red she was, and a sign of no good if there ever was one. I crossed myself and said a prayer to St. Christopher, the sonofabitch. We had a long way to go and it would be broad daylight before we caught sight of old Mother England.

“The captain got on the intercom and said, ‘Gunner Gunnar, you keep your eyes peeled, now, fer them Nazi bastards. I got bangers and beans waitin’ fer me at the mess hall and I don’t want to miss out.’

“‘Yes, sir, captain, sir,’ I said, but my knees were knockin’, I don’t mind telling you. And sure enough, what do I see a few minutes later? A whole messa Schmitts, that’s what we called ‘em, Messaschmitts, you know, one was a Schmitt and more than one was a messa Schmitts. Anyway, these birds came screaming like banshees out of the east, straight out of the sun, seemed like hundreds of them, and I damn near shit my drawers!”

By now, my old man was warmed up and no mistake. He’d be standing, face flushed, gesticulating, and bouncing on both feet. He would stretch his arm out and point at the imaginary sun, squinting as if he were blinded by the dazzling light, and hunch his shoulders as he ducked the bullets.

“Holy shit! Cap’n, bandits at three o’clock!” he’d shout. “We’re in for it now!”

Then he would straighten up and fix me with a sombre expression.

“It seemed like the whole plane shuddered when I yelled. The next few minutes were like the funhouse at the midway. Just as I was about to fire, the squadron split off in two, fanning up and out, gaining altitude. Next thing I knew that messa Schmitts was bearing down on us from above with all guns blazing.

“The noise was like nothin’ I ever heard before. And the tail turret of a Lancaster ain’t no quiet day at the beach to begin with. Guns blasting, explosions, the roar of engines as the Schmitts buzzed past us. Lights flashing, sparks, smoke so thick you could chew it.

“Our buddies off to the left, flying Sir Lancelot, got hit. A plume of smoke poured out of the front of the plane. From where I was, I could see orange flames licking at the engines. She went into a dive and began to spin. No one got out of that plane, Lanc.”

Here, overcome by emotion, he would stop for a moment with his head down and his eyes closed, pondering the fiery fate of Sir Lancelot’s crew.

“Were they your friends, Dad?”

“Hell no!” he would say, “They were sonsabitches. The bombardier was the worst goddam cheater at poker I ever met!”

The Unauthorized Autobiography: Chapter 2A

My father’s Christian name was Gunnar. Can you put “Gunnar” and “Christian” together in the same sentence? You might think Gunnar would be worshipping at the altar of Odin, wailing with the Valkyries, or thundering through the skies at the heels of Thor.

In a way, that’s just what he did.

At the age of eighteen, 1943, Gunnar enlisted in the RCAF, possibly to avoid a paternity suit. After a short, sharp basic training he was assigned to Bomber Command.

Is it possible for your name to affect the course of your life? Listen to this.

It seems the generals couldn’t resist the delicious irony of my father’s name. They made him a tail gunner. And so it was that a few short weeks after his eighteenth birthday, Gunnar Keiler found himself hurtling over the English Channel, hanging on for dear life out the ass end of a Lancaster bomber.

The Lancasters had a rear turret, the kind that rotated to let the gunner swing his four 303 machine guns in a wide arc. God forgive me, I can’t help it, but the turret looked like a turd squeezing out the bird’s rear end. And for the next year or so my father climbed into the belly of the old Lanc, stumbled to the rear, folded himself into the cramped perspex cage, and spent the rest of the night squeezing his own cheeks together for fear of fouling his nest while the Allies defecated on the interior of Europe.

And my mother always said how she was attracted to his tight buns.

So. Lancaster. Lanc, for short. The crew even gave their plane a name, Blankity-Lanc, and painted a growling mouth on the nose with symbols representing cusswords pouring out of it. Like this: ♯★ ‼&*. The Commander was unhappy about it ... too much American influence ... and put them on bread and stale water for a week, but he let them keep it.

As my dad used to say, “A good thing never lasts.” Neither tight buns nor the ecstasies of war. Gunnar’s tightly-clenched career came to a crashing end one morning over the North Sea.

The Unauthorized Autobiography: Chapter 1B

What we want is the whole truth and nothing but the truth, no? Or at least as much of it as a lie can reveal.

My middle name, for example, has attracted attention since my first day of school at Our Lady of the Divided Nuns Roman Catholic Prep School and Wine Cellar.

By then, I’d already had five years in which to become confused. Laurence Larry Lanc. Same thing, only different. Which one was I? The answer to that depended on what day it was, who I was with, what clothes I wore, what I ate for lunch. Mythical kids who tossed marbles on the dusty sidewalk around the corner from Murray’s Grocery called me Hairy Larry, not so much because it rhymed, which kids always like to do, but because I was already growing hair on my chest. It had something to do with eating burnt toast, I think. At least, that’s what my mother told me whenever she burned the toast.

On the first day of school ... Divided Nuns making a habit of themselves ... both my father and mother escorted me into the classroom. That alone was enough to cause a sensation. But then my father had to go and say, “‘Bye, Lanc, be a good boy.” Little did he know he had condemned me to a life of crime. Before I sat down I could hear the tittering.

“Lanc! Lanc the Plank! Lanc Stank!”

“Lanc the Wank!” (An epithet I could never let pass without inflicting a black eye, usually on myself.)

Where in God’s tattered creation did that name come from?

Let me tell you.

α α α

The Unauthorized Autobiography: Chapter 1

Everything I’m going to tell you is the truth. Except for what I just said.

Don’t let that put you off, though. People read lies every day. They build their lives around them, act on them, make a living with them, carry them to the grave. I like to carry mine in my back pocket, next to the credit card (a lie about how much I’m worth) and the birth certificate (a lie about my true identity).

The credit card is platinum. It has a limit of $100,000. I bought it for fifty bucks from Nickie at the Hammer Hotel in Arnprior. (It wasn’t really Arnprior. I just like the sound of it.)

The card is worthless now, anyway. I barely managed to escape from Eaton’s Yorkdale when I tried to buy a leather sofa with it and sent alarm bells blasting through the telephone wires all the way from Downtown Data Central because they finally figured out that Mustafa McKeown, the name on the card, was made up and had been ringing up bogus bills all over Ontario.

I keep the card anyway, when my keepers let me. I fondle it now and then, like a talisman, a memory of better, wilder days. I used it once to break into my hell-hole apartment when I had locked myself out. I might use it one day to break out of this hell-hole, the All-Pervading, Infinitely-Intrusive, Mind-Sucking Yoni School for Wayward Poets.

My birth certificate reads:

Name: Keiler, Laurence Lancaster (Larry to you, Lanc to my dear departed dad.)

Date of Birth: August 07, 1954

Place of Birth: Berlin, Ontario

Date of Registration: August 27, 1954

All true, as far as it goes, but not nearly as complete as it seems. Partial truths are almost as bad as lies. Politicians and priests through the ages have misled their trusting flocks with incomplete but authoritative solutions to the problems of the world ... and the otherworld.

Test

Test publish

Air Cadets 2

“What do Air Cadets do?” I asked.

“For one thing, they practise plane recognition,” said Ed. “Like people used to do during the war. So they could tell if it was an enemy plane or one of ours. There’s people, you know, who could look up at a plane miles away and tell you exactly what make and model it was. American, German, French, British, Russian. My dad can do that, you know.”

“I’m not surprised,” I said.

“Sure, and he taught me some too. Look,” he said, pointing at a gnat floating lazily beneath a cloud some distance away, “That’s a Piper Cub.”

“No,” I contradicted, “It’s a mosquito.”

Eddie looked sharply back at the gnat. “It’s not a Mosquito,” he said, “A Mosquito has a completely different profile.”

“No, Eddie, I mean it really is a mosquito…”

Sure enough, a mosquito was just about to land on Eddie’s cheek. That really scared him.

“I’m allergic to mosquitoes!” he shouted, swatting with his hand, ducking and diving. Within seconds he had performed both a barrel-roll and a loop-the-loop.

I fell on the ground laughing. “Did they teach you that in Air Cadets?”

“Very funny,” said Eddie as he lifted himself up onto his unsteady landing gear legs. “But I’m serious about these Air Cadets. Dad’s going to take us out to the airport. We’ll get to see the old planes, learn about how they work. We’ll learn skydiving, and eventually we’ll get to take flying lessons. Really, you oughtta get in on it.”

“OK, Eddie,” I said, “I think that might be fun. But I’ll have to check with my parents about it. Especially my old man. He was a turret gunner in the war, you know. I bet he could recognize a mosquito with his eyes closed…”

“Hey! Your old man could be the assistant leader!”

“I don’t think so Eddie. He likes flying in front of the television better now…but I’ll ask.”

*  *  *

Air Cadets 1

Let’s see, how old was I, anyway? Must have been about twelve. Eddie, a kid in some other class at school, asked me would I be interested in joining the Air Cadets?

“Air Cadets?” I asked.

“Air Cadets,” Eddie answered. “My father’s the leader.”

Now, this was an interesting prospect. After all, I was already a Boy Sprout. A badgeless sprout, true, but a sprout nonetheless. Why was I badgeless? Because our troop of sprouts was led by a man who resembled Alfalfa in Our Gang. I think it was Alfalfa. Always full of big ideas, but the execution…aye, there’s the rub. Not much in the way of execution. We were therefore known throughout the city as the Alfalfa Sprouts. Troop 41.

Never learned how to tie knots. Except the ones in my stomach before asking a girl to the dance.

Never learned semaphore. No, that’s not true. I learned the alphabet in semaphore. A…B…C…all the way to Z. Unfortunately, I only knew the movements in sequence. A…then B…then C. I couldn’t spell a word. Cat? Not likely. Antidisestablishmentarianism! Forget it. Please inform the captain that little Johnny zipped himself up in his sleeping bag and now the zipper’s stuck and he’s trapped in there…Messages such as this would certainly have to be conveyed by smoke signals. Semaphore was beyond me.

Barely learned how to pitch a tent. Nowadays I’m better off pitching it in the lake.

Orienteering? Read a compass? Build a campfire? Shinny across the river by means of ropes? Nada. The one weekend I spent at Sprout Camp, I nearly puked over the runny scrambled eggs.

I did manage to learn the salute…three fingers poked in my eye, or something like that.