Ecuperating - Chapter 16

“McNabb Investigations!” The cheery voice of Shirley came through tinnily.

“Lemme talk to McNabb!” John Villemure said angrily.

“Would you identify yourself please?” Shirley said demurely.

“Dammit, Shirley!! You know this is me…Put me through!”

“You don’t have to be so testy, John!” Shirley laughed.

“How’s the big north woods?”

“Shirley! You’re not even supposed to know where I am!” John exclaimed.

“Hmph! Who do you think cuts your orders?”

“OK! OK! Just put me through to the man!” He shivered as the cold quickly penetrated the cab of the truck. He started the engine again; reluctant to leave even this small area of warmth into what looked like a three hour trek, at least. Shirley put him through.

“Carl? Look Carl, it’s three here and I’m going to have to walk in snowshoes. Can this wait till morning? I won’t make it until after dark from the looks of it. And I don’t know the country that well. I could get lost out there!! And it’s 20 below! How pressing is this?”

“I appreciate your predicament, John” Carl McNabb said.

“But I need that information ASAP! If I remember correctly, you came in the top of your class at Langley in orienteering! Use it! And get that stuff for me!”

He hung up.

Uncle Carl can be a real asshole at times! John thought. He laughed to himself. It was a game they played; he complained and Carl insisted. He knew he had to go and Carl knew that he knew.

Villemure shut off the truck and put on his snowmobile suit, broke out his snowshoes, shouldered his 20 gauge pump shotgun, checked his compass and headed north into the Seney swamp. The going was rough, sinking into the fluff at least a foot before finding purchase.

He soon found his gait, however, and despite the snow from the trees falling onto him as he pushed through the brush, he made good time. Moraine after moraine fell behind, and he began counting them. Should be close, He thought, remembering what uncle Carl had taught him. The moraines were from the ice age, and were caused by the receding ice cover year after year.

The whole area was full of them. Not highonly about 2 or three feet above the swampsmall ridges about 100 feet wide north to south, sometimes miles long east to west. He noted the rabbit tracks, the weasel sign, and an occasional coyote track, as he headed north. He was actually beginning to enjoy the trek as darkness began to fall.

He checked his watch. 6:10. Getting dark now. Should be there soon. Not many more to go! I’m going to make it easy! he thought joyfully! As the last low area fell behind and he topped the main ridge; this one 6 ft above the swamp floor. The main lodge was in sight now, at the edge of the large clearing that was used as a helipad in the summer.

He headed for it gratefully, and then thought the better of it.

Should check the sign while it’s still light enough, he thought. He changed his course for the northwest corner of the clearing. A snowmobile track came onto view and he followed it to the root cellar, then back to the main lodge. By then it was almost too dark to make out the trees.

John jimmied open the front door and walked into the large, cold main hall of the lodge. He flicked the light switch, knowing there would be no lights. Why do people do that? He wondered, with a small chuckle. Then the lights came on. An automatic switch to activate a generator! He thought. That’s nice!

He could see the large stone fireplace to the left, taking up the entire west wall of the lodge. On the mantle he saw a sign. We Take Care Of Our Own! A surprise was the motto under it; We will Never be Victims. Along the other three walls were the heads and horns of many large trophy bucks that had been bagged by the members and families of the members of Lodge 16.

A fire was laid, waiting for the spark to be set to it. John crouched down and lit the papers at the bottom of the grill. The papers caught the cedar readily, and he soon had a merry blaze going. The chill receded slightly from the room. He looked up and was able to make out the portraits on either side of the fireplace. Sixteen of them, arranged around the main portrait of Eric Tanner, in full uniform, over the mantle.

Captain Eric Tanner, founder of Lodge 16. Eric Tanner, according to the script under his picture, headed convoy after convoy across the North Atlantic during World War II, transporting needed men and materiel to England. They had to make him a full captain in the Navy just so he could receive the Navy Cross.

Six more Medal of Honor recipients were pictured here, and others who should have gotten it, according to the information on the wall. All members of Lodge 16.

All were dead now. All of old age. All buried in the small cemetery at the east end of the ridge, so the script said. All with honors. All remembered.

Evidently Captain Eric Tanner had made a fortune during the war years, according to the record here at the lodge. John read further.

A native of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and having fished the waters of mighty Lake Superior for many years, he had been one of the first to answer the call to fight early on. He sailed at 15 on his first ship, the Sea Princess out of Newark, New Jersey. The rough cold waters of the big lake had taught him well, and he quickly proved his worth in the North Atlantic.