Lowry Air Force Base, Denver—1943
She watched the planes take off every day. They barrelled down the runway like rattling
metal cans, the ones that she and her friends kicked around in the schoolyard. The planes were
loud, ugly, and belching, and thus she instantly fell in love.
Lucy spent all her time basking in blue daylight under the aircraft that crisscrossed the
sky. She was hardly ever in school—if that was the right word for the small classroom that
occasionally housed lessons for the twelve children on base—and instead played by Westerly
Creek. The creek started by Hangar 5 and slithered through a mile of spongy marshes before
disappearing under a barbed wire fence. It was an excellent arena to explore and had the
perfect view of her father’s runway.
Today, as their mom walked them to the creek, Lucy and her brother Thomas made an
agenda.
“I wanna catch crawdads again,” Thomas said, already waving his net around like a
sword. “And maybe get a bunch of dandelions for Grandma.”
“We can’t bring dandelions all the way back to Iowa,” Lucy giggled. “They’ll blow apart
before we even leave Denver. I’m gonna build a basket for her out of…what are those called
again, Mommy?”
“Reeds, darling,” their mom said, her eyes fixed on the horizon.
“Yeah, the reeds. Ooh, and maybe we can use the basket for our scrap collection ‘cause
Miss Patterson said the 3rd- and 4th-graders should bring in metal to help our daddies win the
war! They’re probably gonna turn it into new planes!”
“And I’m supposed to bring in paper products,” said Thomas proudly before a worried
look crossed his face. “But I’m not giving them my comic books.”
Lucy rolled her eyes and the three crossed the street hand-in-hand, entering the
marshlands. Her eyes skipped across the dirt path, the golden grasses, and the pond that fed
Westerly Creek, settling on a commotion at Hangar 5. A cluster of soldiers whistled and cheered
as a man climbed into a fighter cockpit. He was too far away to make out anything but a flicker
of red: the handkerchief Lucy’s dad had bought when they first moved to the Lowry Air Force
Base to “fit in with the cowboys.”
“Wait…Mommy,” Lucy said in confusion, dropping her hand. “Is today Daddy’s big test?”
Her mom pursed her lips and stared at the hanger. Her knuckles burned white, clutching
her picnic blanket.
“What test?” Thomas asked.
“It’s not a test.” Their mom finally spoke. “It’s just Daddy’s final flight to get his certificate
for pilot school.”
“And then what?” Lucy’s eyes sparkled like tin.
“After graduation, he’s going to—”
Suddenly, the sound of an engine filled the air, a weighty and thunderous churn.
“He’s flying!” Thomas said, his voice snatched by the wind and spun around inside the
fighter’s propellers. The plane lifted from the ground. Lucy thought it looked like nothing more
than one of her toy models.
Then, a thought came unbidden. She remembered a couple of years ago, when she was
seven and Thomas was five and they had just moved to Denver. One afternoon, the siblings
were playing Monopoly and they got into a fight about whether Lucy was cheating. Thomas
stormed off and locked himself in their room. Later that night, their dad returned home, having
completed his first week of the Civil Aeronautics Training Program. He asked if Lucy could show
him the model of a plane she had built, a beautiful Curtiss P-40 Warhawk that she had spent the
whole week gluing together. She was so excited to reveal her masterpiece.
She never forgot the sight of the plane on the ground, splintered and broken. Its wheels
were scattered, the propeller was broken in two, and the wings were bent like a dead bird. Lucy
pictured Thomas stomping on the model over and over until it could never fly again.
Now, the plane passed over Westerly Creek, leaving behind three figures: a boy playing
in the water, a woman sitting on a blanket with her head in her hands, and a girl just standing
and staring.
The children’s mother laid out an aromatic spread of food, nearly a Thanksgiving feast,
despite it only being late September. She arranged steaming plates of corn, mashed potatoes,
green beans, and broiled chicken. She didn’t look happy though, Lucy noticed. Not like they
were celebrating something. Instead, her mom’s eyebrows were set low, like a hunter setting a
trap.
Their father walked into the kitchen, and the kids ran to embrace him. They tugged on
the folds of his pilot’s uniform.
“We saw you flying today, Daddy!”
“Did you see us?”
“Your plane was so cool!”
“Did you pass your test? Are you gonna go fight Nazis?”
“Lucy!” their mom shouted sharply. “I’ve asked you a million times to set the table. We’re
about to eat.”
“Yes, Mommy,” she said, grabbing a handful of forks and knives. An idea dawned on
her. “Say, maybe I could just borrow a couple of these…”
“Don’t even think about it, Lucille Jean Harrison. No one’s going to melt down my fine
cutlery to make airplane scraps.”
The four of them sat down at the table, said grace, and began to eat.
“So. They gave me my pilot’s certificate today,” the children’s father said, trying to make
eye contact with their mom.
“I know,” she said. “It’s amazing.” She took a bite of chicken.
“They’re going to send me off any day now. They’re just waiting for another squadron
down in Colorado Springs. As soon as they’re ready…”
She set her fork down. “You’re leaving? Within days? What happened to that talk we
were going to have?” Her voice dripped with anger.
“Right. Well, uh, I don’t have much of a choice here, Mary. I signed a contract.
Graduates of the WTS have to go into service. That’s what this has all been for, regardless. It’s
been my dream to fly for more than a decade.”
“And you don’t think you’re a little old to be chasing your dreams? All your academy
friends are 19, 20 years old. What right do you have to leave…?” (she motioned to the kids).
“Christ, Mary, maybe if you’d told me all of this two goddamn years ago.”
Coolly, calmly, their mother stood up, folded her napkin, and left the room. Their dad
opened and shut his mouth. Lucy stared at her green beans. Thomas wore a mask of confusion
as if he were trying to solve a difficult arithmetic problem.
“I’ve got it!” he said suddenly. He ran into their room and came out with their Monopoly
set. He poured out the silver tokens: a boot, a battleship, a cannon. “You can add these to your
collection!”
Lucy sighed.
Three days later, Thomas, Lucy, and their mom went back to the creek. After they
crossed into the wetlands, Lucy tapped her brother on the shoulder.
“You’re it!” she shouted, and the two were off, legs churning like pistons as they plunged
into the tall grasses.
“Don’t go to the other side of the creek!” their mom shouted, but her voice didn’t reach
the children. “It’s not safe.”
Lucy and Thomas ran under the shadows of passing planes, themselves two fighter
planes engaged in a deadly dogfight. Beneath their feet, dry grasses gave way to a steep and
muddy riverbank. They slid down, arms wheeling, and stopped on the shore of the creek. The
air was a stagnant pool of insects and muck.
The creek posed a challenge that Lucy could not pass up. She felt a thousand voices
calling her to the other side, shouted promises of adventure, glory, and victory weaving under
her feet and lifting her across the water.
“Wait!” Thomas said just as her boots sunk into the ground.
“C’mon, it’s easy!” Lucy said. She saw the fear in Thomas’s eyes as he stood on the
opposite side, pondering the cloudy waters like they formed a chasm as big as the Atlantic.
“I’m going back to Mom!” he shouted and ran off. Lucy shrugged and entered the tangled
bushes with a stick in hand, as if going to war.
Thomas stumbled back through the plants that, without Lucy to guide him, converged
over his head and formed a knitted darkness. He could no longer tell which way he was going.
He picked a direction and barreled forward, sticks whipping at his legs. Finally, he emerged on
the path, about fifty feet from his mother.
“Mommy, Lucy jumped over the creek but it was too big for me and then I got lost, but
she’s still over there and she left me behind!” he panted as he ran to her side.
“Silly girl, I told you two to not go over there,” she scolded. “Lucy is just like your father.”
“But…Daddy didn’t leave yet.”
She sighed. “He did, sweetheart. This morning, he flew across the ocean to fight the
most dangerous army this world has ever seen.”
At that very moment, across the creek, Lucy tripped and fell into a small pocket of space
surrounded by brambles. She examined the red marks on her hands, then got up and dusted off
her dress. Her eyes fell on something. A small pile of junk in the mud, left by some unknown
litterer. Tin cans.
The cans caught the sunlight, glinting with the allure of metal that Lucy could collect and
warplanes that could be grafted from a thousand of these silver constituents, ready to stream
across the ocean to fight a noble battle.
But before she swooped down to gather them, something gave Lucy pause. The sight of
the cans was…sad. They were broken. Discarded. Crushed. Buried in the mud, in the trenches,
the metal lost all its appeal. For some inexplicable reason, she felt sick.
Lucy took one last look and fled.
Max Azuara is a sixteen-year-old student from Denver, Colorado. He has a passion for writing poetry and short stories, often finding inspiration in nature and the cosmos. Max is the creator of the blog "Poetry, Prose, & Popcorn," which is a testament to his dedication to sharing his work with a global community. In his free time, he would like to be found somewhere in the gorgeous Colorado mountains with a book in hand. His favorite novels include Cloud Cuckoo Land, The Great Believers, and Watchmen.
"Tin Can, Joshua Tree NP 4-13-13" by inkknife_2000 (11.5 million views) is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.
