My Uncle The Spy (Part III)

"That last catch was swell Neil!"

A young guy in a letter jacket opened the door of the old bar in the industrial section of Trussville, Alabama. "Yea, but it was your great block on that running back that cleared the path!", Neil Self said as they all paused in the open doorway. Neil had always been stocky, tough looking, and also fast, a combination that was usually deadly to the opposing team in the game of high school football. Tonight he wore his letter jacket just like all the other guys. "Ladies first!" Neil jokingly said as he shoved his friend inside the dimly lit room. It was a little after 11:00pm and the few remaining patrons sitting at the bar were unshaven dirty steel workers in for a late night drink before going home.

Neil recognized an old farmer sitting alone, a friend of his father. He lived up the (Old) Springville road and had a small cattle farm. Neil had bailed hay for a dollar a day at his farm when he was younger. It was one of his first jobs and he hated it. The farmer had always been kind to him though, and given him a ride home in his old Model T truck at the end of the workday.

Neil and his four buddies approached the bar top and found a seat. "Jimmie, we are celebrating tonight!" The old bar tender got a worried look in his eye but sat down 4 short whiskey glasses. "Hewitt High is going to state!" Neil proclaimed to the rest of the bar as he held up his glass of Jack Daniels. The four chimed in with hoots, hollers and dog barks. A few even growled and snapped their teeth at one of the other patrons sitting at the end of the bar as if they had turned into Huskies (the school mascot) themselves and had found a nice piece of meat to fight over.

They all downed their drinks and slammed them down on the bartop and pointed to their glasses indicating that the bar tender should "keep em comin'!".

A lone figure in suit jacket and undone tie sat in the shadows in a back booth. His eyes posted on the party at the bar as he sipped his beer in silence. He slowly pulled out a coaches play book with a large white Husky bust on the front and wrote four names on the back page.

~----------------------------------------------------~

Neil sat at his desk reading Beowulf in English class. The teacher lectured on about how fantasy stories in medieval literature had helped bring a sort of escape to the common folk when told by the bards and storytellers. "They also served as a warning, or lesson learned for young people that were told by their parents when the children acted up." The teacher looked at Neil with her annoyed glare. Neil laughed to himself and let a slight smile out as he buried his head behind the text book once more.

All of a sudden the classroom door opened and a messenger handed the teacher a note. "Neil Self, you need to report to Coach Smith in the office." A few smirks and whispers were quickly "shushed" by the teacher as Neil closed his English book and gave a smart-alic wave to everyone as he headed out the door.

Approaching the office, through the glass, he saw his head coach and the principal standing in front of his three buddies that were seated on the bench just inside. Neil took breath and opened the door. "Have a seat Neil". The principal motioned to the bench. "So the word has gotten to me that you guys got drunk and started a fight AGAIN last night at Jimmie's bar. I'm not gonna fault Jimmie. He knows you are all underage but the man has to make some money. The blame lies on you Neil. What is this? The fourth time you guys have started trouble? The first was puking on poor old Ms. Abernathy's front porch, then you hit the stone wall at Mr. Chandler's, not to mention the wreakless driving around Trussville scaring people half to death." The coach paused, "The principle and I have determined that this is the last straw for all of you. We've tried suspension and detention, and its just not getting though your hard heads!" the coach rapped hard on Neil's forehead. Then the principle spoke up, "There has been too much pressure from the school board and the PTA, underage drinking is not the type of example that we want to convey at Hewitt Trussville High. You guys are off the team for the rest of the year. And that means no scholarship referrals either."

Neil's mouth dropped. His first thought was what would "Daddy" say when he found out? His plan was to go to Florida State on a football scholarship and continue his education. He thought he had that taken care of. The Self family didn't have any money to pay for college. He was angry not only at the coach, but at himself. He had to find other options...

As he trudged back to his classroom he noticed a brochure hanging on the "Career Board". The bright brochure heralded the glories of the "weekend warrior" in the Alabama National Guard. He could earn scholarship money and even go to school part time while serving his time! He pulled the push pin out of the cork board and stuffed the brochure in his pocket.

Disclaimer: This and the following blog posts are works of fiction written by myself (Josh Self) that are based on real facts both positive and sometimes not so positive from my uncle's real life and choices that he made. The events and characters in this story could have happened but more than likely happened differently than portrayed here. I would like to thank the family and relatives of Neil Self in advance for allowing this artistic liberty in the spirit of a tribute to his life and an attempt to keep his memory alive through story.

Photo by foundphotoslj
and
by lolaleeloo2

My Uncle The Spy (Part II)

Outskirts of West Berlin, West Germany
10:37 pm August 30th, 1961

The stench of diesel exhaust filled the air. It had snowed the day before and the streets were still icy. Smokey clouds of CO2 puffed out of the exhaust pipes from the convoy of US Army supply trucks that sat idling on the old cobblestone streets. A few yards ahead, a blockade of spiraled razor wire and torn up streets impeded the movement of the trucks filled with vital humanitarian supplies for the recently over run Communist East Berlin.

"What's taking so long?" Sargent Neil Self muttered to himself as he sat in the cab of the old 1952 model Ford army truck. There was talk of an airlift this month of some new 1960 model trucks in this year for their support detachment. They still hadn't arrived. Fortunately, the heat still worked in the old mule. The temperature outside was a bitter 18 degrees tonight and he for one was thankful for the life giving heat coming off of the engine block.

Apparently there was some kind of misunderstanding about the supplies tonight. They had been delivering these convoys over the past few years as the backlash from the Berlin Airlift had subsided. What Sgt. Self didn't know was that on the morning of August 13, 1961, Berliners awoke to discover that on the orders of East German leader Walter Ulbricht, a barbed wire fence had gone up overnight separating West and East Berlin and preventing movement between the two sides. The barbed wire fence would soon be expanded to include an ominous wall and guard towers. The Berlin Wall would prevent the West from having further influence on the East, stop the flow of migrants out of the communist sector, and ultimately become the most iconic image of the Cold War in Europe.

Tonight was one of the first convoys after this historic event and they had been ordered to "stand by for further orders" as their commander went in to negotiate with Soviet officials about this latest "crossing".

Sgt. Self tapped his fuel gauge, which was now showing "E". Half of the gas had been used on the 2 hour drive up from the Clay Headquarters Compound on Clayallee in Berlin's Zehlendorf district. He left the truck running and opened the door and stepped out onto the icy sludge. He slammed the door and pulled out a bent Lucky Strike he'd been saving all night behind his ear. The warm flame from his cold metal Zippo kissed the tip of the cigarette and soon the warm smoke of the tobacco filled his lungs. He closed his eyes for second, the nicotine triggering a memory in his neural synapses of a time not too long ago... a night that he will always think about for the rest of his life...

Disclaimer: This and the following blog posts are works of fiction written by myself (Josh Self) that are based on real facts both positive and sometimes not so positive from my uncle's real life and choices that he made. The events and characters in this story could have happened but more than likely happened differently than portrayed here. I would like to thank the family and relatives of Neil Self in advance for allowing this artistic liberty in the spirit of a tribute to his life and an attempt to keep his memory alive through story.

My Uncle The Spy (Part I)

"(Important) families are like potatoes. The best parts are underground."
-- Francis Bacon

So it was with my uncle Neil...

He passed away a few years ago of a heart condition (that seems to run in our family) and I couldn't make it to his funeral that day for some insignificant reason or another. I've always felt bad for not going and not getting to see him the last few days of his life (but more about that later). Then before my aunt passed away last year of Parkinson's she gave our family some of the few remaining possessions that my uncle had kept around for a few years stored in a back closet, forgotten for years. The first item was a '50s era Army gas mask that is still usable in case of the next bio / nuclear attack. I thought it was cool and useful so I claimed it and use it mostly for a wardrobe prop for my short films.

But, the most mysterious item that was passed down to our family was a strange brown leather briefcase. It sat in the garage on top of my dad's tool cabinet until I happened to see it one day. I found a chair from the kitchen and retrieved it from the dark recesses of the shelf. It was slightly moldy, the hinges rusty with age. I noticed several stickers from moving companies and airlines that were still hanging on, the sticky all dried up and crumbling indicating that it was well traveled. I cleared a small area on my dad's work bench and attempted to open the clasps on the front to allow me to access the mysteries that were hidden within.

The first one flipped open so quickly that it startled me! I started to get excited about finding out what was inside, so I tried the second one and was disappointed to find that it was very rusty and wouldn't even budge. Luckily my dad's "cure-all" was within arms reach. I attached the tiny red straw to the nozzle and sprayed a quick burst of WD-40 into the lock mechanism. I wiggled the open button back and forth a little but no luck. The clasp was actually locked. How do I unlock this? Where is the key? I knew some locksmithing basics (not enough to do anything illegal unfortunately) and remembered that most (older) briefcase locks were kept locked with a simple 1-3 pin tumbler and there are not that many variations of that kind of key. Luckily this one looked and felt like a one pin.

I had an old key from another briefcase that I owned that had one pin. I already had a slight inclination that this key wouldn't work, but i was going to try it anyway. I slowly inserted the key into the keyhole. IT FIT! That was only the first step. As I slowly turned it, i heard a grinding sound. The key begrudgingly turned and finally, after some wiggling, got it all the way around clockwise. Could it be?! I tugged on the clasp button feeling the grinding of the small metal parts inside. The brass flap flipped open, also flipping some WD-40 in my eye. Small price to pay for the final revelation of the contents of the mysterious briefcase. I pulled the old key out and slowly raised the top of the moldy briefcase. As the sunlight from the garage window slowly leaked in to the inner bowels of the case, I heard a metallic scraping and then a sharp metal object sliced out at me from the darkness. I quickly drew my hand back noticing a small red cut on my finger as the top fell closed once again...

To be continued...

photo by Dunechaser

Disclaimer: This and the following blog posts are works of fiction written by myself (Josh Self) that are based on real facts both positive and sometimes not so positive from my uncle's real life and choices that he made. The events and characters in this story could have happened but more than likely happened differently than portrayed here. I would like to thank the family and relatives of Neil Self in advance for allowing this artistic liberty in the spirit of a tribute to his life and an attempt to keep his memory alive through story.