By the time the sun crept up over the eastern horizon we were well on our way. By car it’s only about fifty miles from Waterville to Bristol, much less as the crow flies. Since my parents didn’t own a car then, we rarely traveled. When we did we hitchhiked, as Robbie and I were doing that day in the summer of 1944.
I had never been to the town of Bristol and I was geographically bewildered by the fact that to get there from Waterville we had to travel country roads through towns with names like East Vassalboro, South China, and North Waldoboro. I had once been to Vassalboro, but the others were a mystery to me; that added to the sense of adventure. There weren’t many cars on the most narrow of the roads, so Robbie insisted on an early start to make sure we got there before dark. He said he didn’t want to keep Mr. Moran waiting.
I stood by the side of the road in the damp darkness, with my right thumb stuck out. Robbie crouched nearby, a few feet off the road. He liked having me out there because I was smaller and more fragile looking than he; he thought I’d have a better chance of getting a ride. I didn’t know where we were going, or why, but Robbie said it would be a good adventure. I was pleased, even honored, that he’d asked me to come with him. As it turned out, we made it well before dark, which pleased Robbie and Mr. Moran.
The farmhouse was small, old, and rundown. Some of the window screens were torn, the front door didn’t fully close, and a lot of junk—an old washing machine, a broken lawn mower, a table with two broken legs—marked a sort of path from the house to the barn. Inside the barn was more junk, including what looked like the carriage part of a horseless horse and buggy.
The Morans were old and stooped, like their house. They were kind and obviously pleased to see Robbie. We were quickly ushered into their kitchen for dinner. It wasn’t very tasty, but it was hot and we were very hungry, so eating didn’t take long. Robbie took me out to the barn, and we climbed up into the back of the carriage. Two tattered blankets had been spread out and we slept on them. I asked Robbie again what we were going to do in the morning; he again said only that it would be a good adventure. I asked him how he knew the Morans; he didn’t answer. I couldn’t tell if he was really sleeping or just pretending to. It didn’t make any difference; I was very tired and sleepy, so I rolled over and quickly fell asleep.
The next morning, after a breakfast that was even quicker and more quiet than the previous evening’s dinner, Robbie led me out the back door and across a wide field to a dirt trail that led into the woods. The trail was rough, poorly maintained, and just wide enough for a vehicle to scrape through, although in some spots shrubs and tall grass intruded to narrow it even more. It was a cloudy and cool morning, good for walking, but an intermittent drizzle turned the trail into a series of puddles separated by patches of mud.
Several attempts to get Robbie to tell me where we were going and why failed, so we lapsed into silence. I trusted him totally, so I accepted his repeated assertion that this would be a good adventure.
We kept a steady pace for two or three hours. Then, without any warning, we walked into a small clearing. There, in front of us, was the rusty broken-down hulk of what had been a tank.
An army tank.
A German Army tank!
My surprise and astonishment were total and obvious. World War II had been raging for years. My father followed the news closely, and we were well aware of the major battles and had been surprised by reports of German spies in Maine. As we circled the tank and I reached out to touch it, Robbie asked if I’d like to see the inside. We jumped on the track that was closest to the ground, climbed up to the turret, and descended. The outside had been rusting and broken, but the inside was worse, a filthy shambles. There was little room, little light, and virtually nothing had been left to see. But of course none of that mattered, because we were able to imagine what it looked like and how it felt in combat. We fought several imaginary battles before climbing out and heading back home.
My questions now came firing out like bullets from the tank’s machine guns. “What’s a German Army tank doing in the woods near a small town in Maine?”
“They moved it from Dow Air Force Base.”
“That’s in Bangor.”
“Right.”
“Well, what was a German Army tank doing at an American Air Force base in Bangor?”
“To confuse them.”
“Who’s ‘them’?”
“The spies.”
“The spies? What spies?”
“The German spies. They’re all over.”
“They are?”
“Of course. Don’t you remember the two that got caught after they were dropped off by a submarine near Bar Harbor?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Well, they got those two, but there’s lots others.”
As we walked on I scanned the woods around us for spies. Nervously I stepped up the pace. If we ran into any it would be better to do so on the highway. After a long silence I resumed the questioning. “Robbie, I still can’t figure it out. Why would the spies be confused by an old rusted tank in the woods?”
“You’re confused, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but I’m not a spy. And besides, how would they ever know about it?”
“Word gets around.”
“What does that mean?”
“We make sure it gets around.”
“You mean we tell the spies about the tank?”
“We don’t tell them. We just make sure they know.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You’ll figure it out.”
“When?”
“Soon enough.”
After another long silence, he said, “You’re just a kid, I know, but can’t you see that if the German spies are trying to figure out what the tank is doing here, they won’t have time to do what they came here to do?”
I thought about that for a few minutes. “Robbie, you’re a genius.”
He repeated himself. “You’ll figure it out.”
We never actually went to Bristol. All of this was a tale Robbie told me as we lay in our beds, in the bedroom we shared one hot, sleepless night in the summer of 1944, one of many of his tall tales. His vivid imagination and the way he told the story had an indelible effect on me. I will never know if there really was a German Army tank hidden in the Maine woods. Many years later, as a candidate in search of votes, I went to Bristol for the first time. As I was driving into town, and later on the way out, I carefully scanned each house we passed to see if I could find one that fit Robbie’s description of the Moran farmhouse.
Although I am close with all my brothers and my sister, it was Robbie with whom I grew up and spent the most time together. From my earliest conscious moment until his death, I loved him intensely. After graduating from college and serving in the U.S. Marine Corps, he entered the banking business, first as an examiner for the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation, then as the president of small banks in Maine and Massachusetts. He retired at sixty, having been diagnosed with leukemia. Five years later, after a long and very difficult day at the peace talks in Northern Ireland, I got to bed after midnight, physically and emotionally exhausted. As I turned off the light, I hoped for a fresh start and a better day tomorrow.
The telephone rang. Slowly, drowsily, I picked it up.
“Hello.”
“George, this is Janet.”
“Janet! What’s the matter?”
“Robbie’s in very bad shape.”
She put him on the phone and we spoke briefly. His voice was faint and weak. “George, I love you.” “I love you, Robbie.” We said a few more words. I fought back the tears until we hung up. Then I lay back down and cried.
Heather had been with me in Belfast until security officials urged her to leave because of the potential of violence. So she spent much of that summer in London, and I joined her there on weekends. I flew to London, the next morning. There, we spent a long and sad weekend. It was hard to focus, hard to talk, hard to do anything but wait with dread for the phone to ring. The call came, finally, on Saturday. He died that morning.
I’ve had the burden of delivering many eulogies; Robbie’s was the only one I could not finish. After a slow and halting start I faltered and, unable to continue, ended by whispering, “Goodbye, Robbie. I love you.”
He meant so much to all of us and he remains alive in our hearts and minds. When we get together as a family, there always are lots of Robbie stories. As he did in his life, he makes us smile and laugh today. It’s as though he just left the room for a moment to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water.