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Tales
of an Old Jeep
 In
the years after World War II, thousands of ex-military Willys MB's and
Ford GPW's were sold as surplus all over the world. Today, most of
them have been scrapped, but a precious few of them have stayed with
us as a piece of history. This is the story of one of them...
 The
old Jeep was tired, and its battered body looked particularly haggard
in the autumn light. Today was its fiftieth birthday, and more than
ever, he felt the weight of a lifetime of service on his sagging
springs. As usual, he took it all in stride, always managing to do the
work demanded of him, but on days like this, when the weather was cold
and his latest owner favored the new Dodge Ram, leaving the Jeep in
the musty, decrepit barn, old memories would creep up to him,
beckoning, reminding him of better days...
He
recalled the bright autumn morning when his crate was sealed and
stowed in the hull of a Liberty ship for the long trip to North
Africa. He remembered being assembled at a makeshift outdoor garage,
the glaring sun of Tunisia warming his new canvas seats. For two long
years, he served proudly with an infantry division, and he had been
hit several times in the course of the war. Sometimes, when the
weather was unusually cold, he felt a dull ache on his quarter panel,
where the many coats of paint had never managed to conceal the dent
left by a ricocheting .50 caliber slug.
 Fifty
years of work had dulled, but never erased, the smell of battle from
his body, the lingering mix of sweat, gunpowder, blood and most of
all, fear. Twice he had his driver shot out from over him, leaving him
stranded, helpless, in the midst of a raging battle; but always
another young man would jump on him and drive him to safety. Time had
blurred the faces of most of his comrades in arms, but he could still
hear Jonesy, a young soldier who gripped the wheel too tightly,
talking softly to him, begging him not to give up, to hold the last
drop of water in a ruptured radiator as they made their way around
enemy lines during a German counterattack somewhere in Belgium.
The
Jeep remembered proudly the day he was driven through the streets of a
liberated Paris, with Old Glory flying triumphantly on his back. He
could still hear the cheers and smell the grateful tears and flowers
that were dropped on him that day. How happy his young soldiers had
been that day, gaping at the Eiffel Tower and stealing kisses from the
French girls who followed them everywhere.
After
the war, he had ended up in Belgium, stripped of his machine gun and
radios and sold to a young farmer who used him to pull a tiller. His
young wife told her husband that the Jeep's olive drab color reminded
her of the war, so he received the first of his many civilian paint
jobs, this one bright red. For many years, he saw the Flemish soil
yield its plentiful harvest and the farmer's sons grow tall and
strong. One of them, the youngest, would drive him often, and after
his father's death he had taken him to the city. From it the old Jeep
remembered the lights, the cacophony of noises that never stopped, and
the dozens of pigeons who would irreverently cover his hood with
droppings.
The
Jeep remained in the city for years, driven infrequently, until the
day he heard the old Englishman's voice for the first time. "That's
exactly what I've been looking for, lad!", he heard, and his
starter motor struggled to fire the engine. "This Jeep and I are
going around the world!". Two weeks later, his engine completely
overhauled and all of his fluids changed, he rumbled happily on brand
new tires. He also sported a brand new paint job, bright blue, with a
small Union Jack where the radio mount used to be.
 What
followed was the best six years of his life. The old Englishman, a
country noble with a flair for adventure, drove him across Europe, to
India, to Africa, to Australia, and then to Canada. The passage of
time had inexorably frayed the memories of the trip, but the Jeep
could recall a thousand tanks of gas, set after set of new tires, and
the occasional spare part that kept him in shape. They had fled from
bandits in eastern turkey, driven over bombed train tracks in the
Punjab, crossed the dry plains of the Serengeti and the frozen tundra
of northern Canada, endured scorching heat, monsoon rains, and storms
of sand. Finally, their trip had taken them to Vancouver, where the
old Englishman learned that his brother had passed away and his
estates in Britain had to be settled. With misty eyes, the old
gentleman sold the Jeep to a dealer, and the two traveling companions
parted ways forever.
Twelve
years and three owners later, all of who had purchased the Jeep for
its low price and abused him mercilessly, he was exchanged for service
to his current owner, a carpenter in Montana. Now he was driven only a
few times a year, usually in the summer, and his paint was so faded
that one could barely see the Union Jack on his left side. The
passenger seat was long gone, as was the spare tire and the glass
panels on the windshield, and his only companion was an ancient
Marmon-Herrington pickup truck whose bed had been claimed by rust and
his mood fouled by years of neglect.
 "It's
back here, in the barn" the loud voice said, snapping the old
Jeep back from his memories. His owner was walking up to the barn,
talking to a tall, distinguished looking old man with silver hair. "I
have been looking for one of these for quite a while now," the
new voice said, "I want to restore it to its original condition."
There was something soothing about the old gentleman's voice that made
the Jeep hopeful, and he wished it wasn't the pickup truck they were
talking about. "There it is," said his owner, "Behind
the old pickup." The old man placed his hand gingerly on the old
jeep's faded hood, mesmerized. "One of these saved my life once,
back in the war," he said quietly, "...been in love with
them ever since, but I never had the time to restore one until now
that I've retired." There was something oddly familiar about that
melancholic voice, but the old Jeep could not place it. "It's in
better shape than I thought it would be...how much do you want for it?"
said the old man, walking slowly around him and peering curiously
underneath. "Why don't we talk about it inside, over a cup of
coffee? It's cold out here", said his owner, and the two men
walked away.
A
half hour later, his owner started him up, and the old engine shook
and backfired its disagreement. Slowly, he was driven up onto a
trailer hitched to a big Suburban. The old man pulled some ratchet
straps out of the back of the truck and began securing him to the
trailer. The old Jeep couldn't believe it when a brand new tarp was
placed over him and tied firmly in place, muffling the sound of the
voices around him. "Grandpa, when you're done fixing it, can I
ride in it with you?" He heard a young girl say; nobody had shown
this excitement about him in decades, and it made the old Jeep feel
good. Just like those young soldiers so many years ago, here was
someone who really appreciated him. "Well, it was a pleasure
doing business with you", his old owner said, "I hope you
enjoy your Jeep, Mr. Jones." "Please," the old man
answered back with a smile, "call me Jonesy, everyone
does........"
The End
This
story is dedicated to all those young soldiers of World War II, who
fought and died all over the world to preserve democracy for the rest
of us. |
