A slice

The Metal Detector
It's a warm Saturday in September. An old man slowly waves a worn metal detector back and forth over the sand and wood chips covering the school playground. Dressed in standard small-town old-man attire -- a dirty white and red plaid shirt and gray Dickey pants held up by stretchy red suspenders -- he occasionally stoops to pick up a dime or nickel; sometimes a quarter.

The dimes and nickels he gives to my daughter Dee and her cousin Lisi, both of whom are following the codger, trying to figure out what he's up to. The quarters he keeps for himself.

Dee and Lisi and my youngest daughter, Jojo, had been at the playground a few minutes when he showed up. The playground is at the grade school I attended as a kid, down the street from where I once lived and where my parents still live.

As the old man passes by where I am sitting, amongst abandoned school-kid stuff, he comments on the mess of clothing -- sweatshirts, shirts, coats, baseball caps -- and lunch boxes left behind. And he's right, the playground does have that dirty bedroom look, articles of clothing strewn about on fences and the grass.

Waving his metal detector, the old man shuffles off, kids in tow. After a few more minutes, or about 15 cents, the kids head off for something more interesting, like the jungle gym. Sometime later we wander down to a lower playground at the school.

The old man drifts by me again. We start chatting about the history of the area, where he lived and his history. He was in the Navy, a Seabee, which is the Navy's construction battalion. His tour was about to end on the eve of WWII. But during his stint, he helped build an airstrip in the Philippines, then worked in Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. He said he left Pearl for San Diego the day before the Japanese bombed the place.

He pauses after this and looks off. “Wow,” I say. He's not finished, so I say nothing more. He then tells me that in the ensuing chaos of gearing up for war against the Japanese, a US Navy plane crashed at the San Diego Naval base where he’d arrived a few days before. He was out walking and a truck full of marines, about a dozen or so, passed by. He remembers waving to the guys, they all waved back. About a minute later a Navy fighter roared overhead, so close he had to dive to the ground. The plane clipped a supply hut about 100 yards away, then crashed into the truck carrying the marines, killing them all. As he describes this part of incident his voice cracks and he seems just about to cry; he's choking up. He quickly recovers, though, and finishes his story in a normal tone. There was a big ball of flame, he says, then everyone went running toward the crash. “Those poor fellows,” he says. “Those poor things.” He says no more; just stands there a little while longer, gazing at the ground, slowly shaking his head, no doubt reliving those horrible moments 65 years ago but surely still fresh today.

"Well, gotta go," he says, and wanders off looking for more coins.