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So Harry and I went out to Dad's shed to make a little bit of dynamite with pipes and black powder. Harry pounded on this black powder and suddenly - BAM!
Shrapnel stabbed into Harry's torso and tore up his hand. Blood gushed everywhere. I'm all of fourteen years old, but I got my brother into my Dad's Ford and rushed him to the doc, who scrubbed Harry up, bandaged his arm, and sent us on home. Harry didn't tell the doc about the shrapnel stuck in his gut.
So, on the way home, Harry pulled those chunks of metal out of his stomach himself. Blood spread out all over that darn car.
When my father got home, we expected to get whipped for sure, but instead of giving us hell for blowing his shop to bits, Dad sat us down and told us, "I'm not going to be around much longer, boys." And he meant it. Dad died three months later.
Harry left home about a year later - joined the Navy and became a deep sea diver. After that, he followed in our dad's footsteps, enrolling in flight school and becoming a captain for Eastern Airlines. In fact, in the early 1980s, Harry's plane got hijacked and forced to fly to Cuba. My brother kept his cool, of course, talked the Cubans out of his plane, and got his passengers and crew back home safely. His kids remember their dad coming home that day a bit hot under the collar, but no worse for ware. It was all in a day's work.
In that way, Harry was so much like our father - just do your job, do it well, and take care of the folks its your responsibility to care for. Harry never accepted recognition for his many accomplishments and acts of bravery, but throughout my life, my older brother remains one of my favorite heroes.
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