Slapton Sands

The house had been too much for Carl’s grandad; Carl’s father had said that many times in the last nine months. That’s what losing a spouse does to one, grandad told Carl while moving to assisted living. Turns your children into fusspots.

Carl didn’t know about that. He did know his HS baseball team was playing in a spring break tournament while Carl sat in the old house’s attic, sorting though boxes of generational memories as his parents spoke with a realtor. He believed he and his grandad were equally miserable.

“Look at this - what a ridiculous looking trumpet.” Becky held up an instrument for Carl’s inspection, wiggling it to and fro.

“It’s a bugle, stupid.”

Becky pulled it into her lap. “Oh. Well, that explains it.” She blew into the mouthpiece making a sad psst sound, then gently placed it aside. She pulled the bugle case from the box and read the tag. “It belonged to you! This says Property of Carl Wayne Matheson. ‘Keep’ pile?” Becky shot him an inquisitive look. When he didn’t answer, she asked, “That was dad’s grandpa - Carl Wayne, right?”

Carl looked up from his box. “Yes. The one I was named after. I mean, my first name.”

“So, he’s our great-granddad?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

Carl slowly pivoted toward his sister. “Becky, you are two years younger than me. If I’d met him, you’d have met him as well. He was born like a hundred years ago.” 

“So, is that a no?”

Carl looked back down at his piles. He scooted closer to a crate of record albums, holding them up, now warped and dusty. Junk.

“Don’t you want any of his stuff? You were named after him. That’s some sort of connection, right?” Becky paused, waiting for acknowledgement. There was none. “Maybe it’s valuable. All of it is really old, like from the Civil War or something.”

“Here, let me see.” Carl cautiously walked over and squatted near the items his sister was examining. He grabbed a couple of pieces, studying them for context.

“This isn’t from the Civil War. It looks more like World War II.” He handed everything back. “Junk.”

“You seriously don’t want any of it?”

Carl shrugged, semi-crawling back to his section, settling in. Becky watched him scoffing at record albums before going back to her own box.

“Oh my gosh. Carl, you have to see this.” Becky stood, stepping gingerly around the piles. She held out a tattered monochrome photograph for him to take. When he didn’t, she let it float to the floor in front of him.

Carl’s eyes traveled downward to where the photo had landed. Heaving a heavy sigh, he turned it upright.

“He’s your doppelgänger,” she whispered through the attic’s silence. “It’s Old Carl.”

Carl stared. A chill washed over him as his eyes locked onto a face identical to his own. He turned the photo over. Carl Wayne Matheson April 1944 

“I’m Carl Michael.”

“Modern Carl.” Becky smiled nervously. “How old do you think he was in that picture?”

“I don’t know. Not much older than me. Nineteen? Twenty?”

“A kid? In World War II?”

“Yeah, Becky, the military still fight wars. And they can still be as young as us.” Carl snorted.

“Well, maybe your age. I don’t think any of them are fifteen.”

“Fine. My age.” Carl flicked the picture toward her and turned back to his task.

She carefully retrieved it, shivering. “Is it a keeper?” 

“No.” Carl shoved the crate of records out of the way and pulled another box toward him. He unpacked newspaper-wrapped objects to reveal a Precious Moments figurine, this one a boy with a dog. Then a girl with a cat. And a boy and girl on a bench.

Carl stared at the figurines. “Somebody put me out of my misery,” he muttered, glancing at Becky. “Are you reading?”

“Hmmm? Oh, yeah. I found Old Carl’s journal.”

“Great. I’m working, you’re lounging.”

“I’m researching. This is actually fascinating, MC. Listen to this…”

“What’s MC?”

“Modern Carl. Listen. There was some exercise mission they were going on, a practice run at,” Becky scanned the text,” Slapton Sands - a British seafront in England. Anyway, Old Carl had a concussion from some sort of fall so he was excused from it, but two of his friends weren’t.” The realization hit home as she spoke. “They died.”

Carl stopped unboxing and sat completely still. Becky’s eyes snapped to his. Slowly he stood, stepping over piles, heading toward her. 

“Let me see that.” He reached for the journal, scanning the page, then read out loud, “Teddy&Ash caught in friendly fire, informed T&A are gone. God rest their souls.” He slowly closed the book, returning it to Becky.

Carl sat back down. “Where did you say that happened?”

Becky checked the journal. “Devon seacoast, Lyme Bay, England.” A pause. “Are you going to look it up?”

“No.” Carl turned back to the Precious Moments. The furthest he had ever been was to Cancun, Mexico, when his aunt had gotten remarried. He’d never held a gun let alone fired one, although staring at the figurines gave him an idea for target practice.

“MC, look at this.” Becky stood, holding up a uniform to her chest. “It must have been Old Carl’s.” 

“Boring brown.” Carl stood up again, carefully making his way toward Becky. “Let me see it. I want to see if it fits.”

She tossed him the shirt. He slipped it on over his t-shirt and buttoned it.

“Is there a mirror?”

The two scanned the attic for a full-sized mirror. No luck.

“Over there?” he questioned, pointing to a far corner.

Becky glanced up. “I don’t think so. But there’s a window. Why don’t you see if mom and dad are done with the realtor. I’m ready to go home.”

Carl’s gaze shifted to the window, and he nodded, slowly moving forward.

“Do you want to take off that shirt and I’ll put it back?”

“I’m good. I’ll take it off in a minute.” Carl continued toward the window, wondering if his dad thought he looked like his namesake. Probably not. It was his dad’s grandpa, so he would have looked old.

He skirted around three railings built to protect stairs in the center of the attic, positioned around an otherwise open hole. As he got closer to the banisters, he leaned backwards, trying to see a path around the boxes. 

A sudden shift resulted in a plume of dust, swirling grit and a fine mist of saliva as Carl began sneezing in rapid succession. He doubled over, his eyes watering, his nose twitching. 

A ripple of laughter from his sister’s direction filled the attic. A localized whooshing and sudden swish on his left side caught him off-guard. Now the other side - a whir and fluttering, this one even closer to his head. His sister’s lighthearted giggles had turned to shrieks of alarm, then screams. Bats.

Carl stepped back, his foot catching on something, his hands and arms flailing. As the banister around the stairwell gave out, he heard a crack and a long, drawn-out scream. 

A cool washcloth covered his eyes; Carl didn’t dare move. So much pain. Was there an IV with pain meds? He assumed he was now in the hospital, but it was missing the usual hospital sounds. His head hurt too much to think.

Someone came and removed the washcloth and… rung it out with water? It was placed back on his head. He moaned a little and the washcloth was removed. He blinked his eyes open.

A nurse stared back at him. “There you are,” she said smiling. “I wondered when you’d come back to us.”

“Are my parents here?”

Her smile faded a touch, and she stepped back. “I’m going to get the doctor for you, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“Is my mom here?”

She held up a finger. “Right back, soldier.” She backed out of the room, her smile vacant.

Carl tried to take in his surroundings. It was all wrong. Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift, wondering if he had a concussion. Hopefully not, or he’d have to miss more baseball, per NFHS rules.

The nurse came back in alone. “The doctor isn’t available yet.”

Carl stared at her. “Can I get something for my pain? Please.”

“Yes, of course.” 

Two pills, a glass of water and Carl began to feel sleepy within minutes. “Let me... mom… when she here…” and darkness enveloped him again.

Two guys were in chairs by his bed when Carl woke up the second time. He was groggy, nauseous and the pain was lingering. He observed quietly as they spoke about him to the nurse.

“Ash wasn’t there but boy, Carl took a tumble. Oh jeez, you should have seen him. It was crazy!” the dark-haired boy bemoaned. 

“I was right behind Teddy. Carl was out cold when I arrived,” Ash answered matter-of-factly. 

“Well, you boys need to keep him settled. He’s got quite the goose egg and a concussion. He won’t be doing any military exercises for a while,” the nurse declared before exiting the room.

“Oh, hey, you’re up.” Pure delight washed over Teddy’s face. “You okay?”

Carl shrugged.

“We heard you ain’t coming with us tomorrow. So, we’ll have to fill you in when we get back,” Ash informed him.

Carl nodded. “Where am I?”

Ash and Teddy looked at each other, then back at Carl. Teddy spoke first. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know where I am.”

The boys looked at each other, sparks of alarm shooting between them.

“You don’t remember everything yet? ‘Cause you hit your head?” Teddy murmured.

“No,” Carl hesitated. “I don’t know you.”

The two exchanged worried glances. “We’re Teddy and Ash. You’re best buds. We enlisted together …”

“Wait, what?” Carl interrupted Teddy. “Enlisted? As in the military?”

The boys looked at each other, then back to Carl. “Well, yeah.” 

Carl sat up, moaning, holding the washcloth on his head. “Where are we?”

Ash spoke. “Brixham, England.”

“Brixham?”

Teddy nodded. “Yeah. Lyme Bay?”

 A wave of nausea swept over Carl. He dropped the washcloth, throwing both hands over his head. 

Teddy stood and moved to sit next to him on the bed. “Carl. Please calm down.”

“The year? What’s the year?!”

“1944.”

“I’m getting sick. Get the trash can!” Carl screamed, pointing toward the floor. Ash grabbed the small receptacle and handed it to Carl just as he emptied his stomach of its contents.

“Shhh, we’ll have to leave.”

“I think I’m gonna go.”

“Ash, wait.” Teddy stood. “He needs us. He just got banged up is all. Don’t leave him. Come on now.”

Ash shook his head, walking toward the door. “I gotta go. Tomorrow’s a big day. Carl, I sure do hope you get to feeling better.” Ash squeezed out the door.

Teddy sat back down. “What’s happening to you, Carl?”

“I’m not Old Carl. I’m his great-grandson. Modern Carl - MC - that’s what my sister calls me. But I was named after him. That doesn’t matter.”

“Okay,” Teddy trailed.

“Seriously. What matters is tomorrow. At the exercise they are planning a practice run at Slapton Sands. There’ll be a mix-up with the British Navy using live fire and you guys are gonna die. My great grandad wrote about it in his journal. Listen to me, Teddy, I’m telling you the truth.” 

He paused, letting it sink in. It didn’t.

“Can you tell me something about the future? What stocks should I watch for maybe?”

Carl’s head was thumping - he didn’t want to talk about the future, he wanted to go back there. “I don’t know, Teddy. I don’t know stocks in 1944. Just promise me about tomorrow.”

Teddy nodded.

“Do you believe me? And not ‘I believe that you believe’. But really believe what I’m telling you?”

Teddy studied Carl. “Sure.” 

Carl’s shoulders slumped. 

“Look, I gotta go. I’ll come by after the exercise and let you know how it went. Okay?”

Teddy stood, giving Carl a weary smile. “Old Carl and Modern Carl. MC. That’s a good one.” He turned to leave, and Carl grabbed his arm. 

“Please, Teddy. Do it for Old Carl.” Teddy pulled away; Carl watched him open the door, edging past the nurse.

“Teddy!”

Teddy turned back.

“Apple.”

Teddy’s brow furrowed, then he smiled, understanding. “Apple. I’ll watch for it.”

“How’s my patient?” The nurse smiled.

“Do you have opioids? Oxycotin? Hydrocodone? Fentanyl?”

Confusion flickered on her face, prompting an offer of morphine.

“Seriously? How long has morphine been around? It’s pretty addictive.”

The nurse shrugged, removing the soiled wastebasket. “Let me know if you change your mind.” 

“Wait! Okay, I’ll have something. Maybe not morphine.” 

She smiled. “I’ll be right back.” 

Twenty minutes later Carl had eaten dinner, and had prescription codeine to help with pain management. As he drifted off to sleep, his eyes focused on the boring brown shirt he had been wearing when he broke through the railing and fell down the stairs at his ancestral home.

The washcloth was back; this time Carl kept it there. He didn’t want to hear the news. Around him he could hear whirling, humming and an engine. Sounds were different… maybe he’d been moved.

Voices were coming closer and with sudden recognition he sprang up and immediately fell back, pain exploding with such force it almost caused a blackout. His mom’s voice. Tears flooded his eyes, partly from pain, partly from relief. 

The back of an ambulance opened. “We’re getting ready to head to the hospital. We did get some some pain meds in you so you should start to feel some relief.”

“Thank you. Do you know where my mom is?”

“Yeah, she’s right outside. Want me to get her?”

“Actually, could you have her get my sister?” 

The paramedic backed out the door moving toward Carl’s mom. Carl closed his eyes, waiting for Becky. 

“MC, what the heck? You scared the crap out of everyone.”

Carl opened one eye, still waiting for the meds to kick in. “You’ll never believe it. Listen, I need you to get that WWII box. I need you to look for proof that Old Carl’s friends didn’t die.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Teddy and Ash. Remember? His journal - they died? He wrote about the exercise at Slapton Sands?”

“No, but okay. Want me to look for the journal?”

“Get the box of memorabilia and find proof that Teddy and Ash are alive.”

“Ok. But, Carl, he didn’t write about anyone being killed.”

Carl sat back. Of course - maybe history already changed.

 “Okay, did he write anything about friends named Teddy or Ash?”

Becky shrugged. “I just glanced through it. I don’t remember much… nothing stood out.”

Carl understood - she didn’t see their deaths, so she didn’t read closely. 

“Okay, I’m going to FaceTime you. Just look for anything that has to do with those two.”

Five minutes later Becky FaceTimed Carl. She sat perched on the living room rug with her phone propped behind her on the coffee table, the box in front of her. 

“Anything relating to either of those guys, let me know.”

Becky began taking out each piece, examining it, then laying it aside. Notes, cards, articles, pictures - nothing mentioned either boy.

“Nothing?” 

She shook her head. “Mundane stuff. Like you said before - junk.”

“Keep looking.”

“Wait! I found something.” Becky pulled out an envelope, turning to show her brother. The outside read ’To MC’.

“Open it!”

Becky opened the letter and read:

MC,

Old Carl trusts me with his life and now I’m trusting you with my mine.

Fingers crossed.

Teddy.

“Wait, there’s something else.” Becky held up a wedding picture to the phone.“Recognize anyone?”

Carl pulled the phone close, studying the picture. His face broke out in a grin. Carl’s wedding picture - Teddy, next to Carl - his best man. “That’s him, that’s Teddy. He made it. Thank you.” Carl breathed a sigh of relief, leaning back.

“Who was the other guy?”

 “Uhm, his name was Ash.”

“There’s an article here about an anniversary. It says that Ashton Pierce was saved by a Theodore Hamlin who was later recognized for it.” Carl watched as she used her hand to rummage through the box. “Sorry, that’s all there is.”

“We’re getting ready to take off. I hear you were helping clean out your grandpa’s attic?” The paramedic had scrambled into the ambulance, plunking down on the stool across from Carl. His partner appeared at the back, ready to close the doors.

“Yeah,” Carl sighed.

“My partner wishes his family had done that. He inherited his family home and they left everything there for him to deal with. Isn’t that right?”

The partner laughed, nodding. “That they did. Generations of stuff left behind for me and my wife to sort through.”

The seated one turned to Carl. “He got his great-grandad’s name and his house. Can you believe that luck?”

“You’re just mad because I’m a homeowner at twenty-six.” He gave Carl a thumbs up.

Carl shuttered involuntarily. The paramedics exchanged glances. “Are you cold?”the seated one asked. 

“Could be shock,” the other noted.

Carl’s thoughts began to spin, his eyes blurring. His gaze drifted to the one just outside the doors, as his breath came in short gasps. 

The medic was now leaning in, concerned. Carl couldn’t read his ID badge. “What’s your name?”he croaked, the words catching in his throat.

“Me?” He grasped his badge, holding it for Carl to see. “I’m Ashton Pierce. Everyone calls me Ash, though.”

Carl’s hands, trembling, dropped his phone. The other medic picked it up and handed it to him. Barely able to control his fingers, he FaceTimed his sister. She answered on the first ring. In a low voice, just above a whisper, Carl spoke. “Hey, Beck, tell mom and dad they should keep the box. And the house. They can throw everything else away.”