John Newkirk - The Old Man and the Harley: A Last Ride Through Our Fathers America

2008 by John J. Newkirk

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The flying Bengal tiger logo is a registered trademark of the Flying Tigers Association and is reprinted with their permission.

The following story is true. While every effort has been made to ensure accuracy, in some cases the authors sources conflicted with each other. In such circumstances, the license granted historical novelists was used to reconstruct the most plausible scenario. Various names, dates, and places have been altered to protect individual privacy.

Certain language, idioms, or period phrases within the narrative may be offensive to some, but are included to accurately depict the prevailing cultural milieu.

The audiobook derivative of The Old Man and the Harley contains historic recordings from 1939 as well as live audio recorded during the modern retracing. It is read by the author and set to the music of Aaron Copland, Glenn Miller, William Grant Still, and others. For a gallery of photos and audio clips, please visit www.theoldmanandtheharley.com.

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ISBN: 978-1-59555-180-1

Printed in the United States of America
08 09 10 11 12 QW 6 5 4 3 2 1

TO THE MEMORY OF

ALLEN B. CHRISTMAN

FLIGHT LEADER

AMERICAN VOLUNTEER GROUP

AND

MAJOR ALTON G. MILLER

U.S. ARMY AIR CORPS

O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as others see us!

ROBERT BURNS

ITS SUNRISE ON a Sunday and San Francisco is a quiet city. I sit at the crest of the Golden Gate Bridge and watch the sun creep over Mount Diablo as it burns off the fog blanketing the bay. My Harley waits patiently as a squad car rolls by, and the cop inside gives me a wary eye. Maybe he thinks Im a jumper. Or maybe he just doesnt like the looks of me.

From head to toe, Im covered in leather: boots, chaps, and a leather jacket festooned with patches. On my back theres an embroidered outline of the Golden Gate and a white, three-sided dagger points skyward next to what looks like a baseball. On my right shoulder a Bengal tiger pounces on an unseen enemy. On my left a panda bear sits beside the number thirty-four.

The cop slows down and asks if everythings all right.

I nod. But the fact is, I see ghosts.

To the north, three ghost riders on Harleys roar out of the mist. Their leader is a skinny kid, pumping both fists in the air and laughing out loud.

He kind of looks like me.

A foghorn blasts from a spectral ship below, and I can just make out the letters on her hull: Jagersfontein. Shes Dutch. A dark-haired rogue peers upward from the deck with his right hand raised and fingers stretched up to the sky. A stunning blond appears at the bridge rail in high heels and a silky dress; a string of pearls dangles from her neck as she leans over the water and hurls something over the side. As the ship disappears, another takes its place: the Bloemfontein. The ships leave full of young men. They come back empty.

In a bikers world its all about respect. And I certainly have some respects to pay as I stand here on this bridge. This place draws me to it and its ghosts call out names that, until now, meant very little to me: Jack, Pete, and June; Scarsdale and Janie; Bert, Pappy, Tex, Buster, Charlie.

To the cop it looks as if I ride alone. But from now on, I know I never will.

EARLIER10,371 MILES EARLIERId flipped down my kickstand beside the San Francisco waterfront. My leathers squeaked as I stretched my road-weary limbs. Then, slowly and deliberately, I walked down the sidewalk toward the imposing stone archway of San Franciscos Pier 33.

I had looked forward to this moment most of my life.

Through this portal, my fatherand thousands of other young Americansshipped out to the South Pacific during World War II. My uncle Horace served at the naval shipyard down the street. And it was here that my fathers cousinmy namesakeJohn Scarsdale Jack Newkirk set sail for China on July 10, 1941.

In the early days of the war, Scarsdale Jack was one of the most written-about fighter pilots in the nation. As squadron leader of Chennaults legendary Flying Tigers, Jack inspired millions during the dark days that followed Pearl Harbor by leading what historians now consider the first American offensive mission of World War II. He was one of the nations top aces until a Japanese machine gunner shot down his shark-toothed P-40 fighter plane on March 24, 1942.

Nowmore than six decades laterI stood at the arch of Pier 33 in the shadow of my forefathers.

Wed come full circle.

Young, strong, alive, and freeI embodied what they fought for. I wanted them to be proud, and I hoped the departed would rest in peace knowing the torch had been passed to a grateful generation, ready and willing to take on all enemies.

I thrust a fist into the air and walked resolutely back to the Harley, ready to begin the journey. I would ride from San Francisco to New York, retracing my fathers solo motorcycle trip between the 1939 New York Worlds Fair and San Franciscos Golden Gate Exposition, those two epic events of that last, gilded summer before the war changed the worldand my familyforever.

A lump of resentment began to rise in my throat.

My fatheruntimely ripped from his boyhood and thrust into a war in the South Pacific. Scarsdale Jacka man whose name I carried but whom I would never meet. And the thousands of men who went on to die from Japanese bullets, torpedoes, or kamikazes.

But we showed them, I gloated. By God, we showed them.

Coral Sea. Midway. Guadalcanal. Iwo Jima. Okinawa. Hiroshima. Nagasaki.

Feeling almost godlike, I swung my leg over the saddle, fired up the V-twin, and pointed the Harley toward the Golden Gate Bridge.

But I hadnt gone a block before I saw a crowd gathering in the plaza west of the pier.

Although I had many miles to go that day, a voice inside told me to stop right then and there. As if guided by unseen hands, I popped the Harley onto the sidewalk, rumbled slowly over the concrete squares of Embarcadero Plaza, and parked between two limos.

An official waved me close to the stage. Apparently my leather vest and long-lensed Nikon camera made him think I was press. What was going on here?

A magnificent, white sailing ship was docked at the pier. Her four masts stretched a hundred feet into the sky and towered over the small group of Japanese monks gathered onstage.