You know, all this talk about McCain's service record and his POW experience makes me think of my Grandfather, Eric Wainwright. He was a Sergent in the Royal Air Force Bomber Command, World War II. Along with crewmen Anthony, William and Piers, he was shot down and spent four years as a German POW.
The last time I saw Eric my parents were moving to Belgium, so we had a farewell dinner with Eric and his second wife, Dora. We ate at the Savoy in London. I loved how much Eric so clearly understood me and took the time to flatter me, by
I was super impressed when, at the end of the meal, he ignored the ash-tray and gesturing as he went on about more more important matters, left a drift of cigar ashes over the white linen table-cloth. drifted cigar ashes all over the white table-cloth as he went on about various more important matters. I was ten.
Eric Wainwright, in a photograph signed to his first wife Catherine, aka Pat.
Years later I met Ward, the second ex-husband of my paternal grandmother and his wife, Jo. They filled me in on the history of my father's Irish family. A family he hated, ran from and no longer even mentions. I learned about my Great-Aunt Caitlin and Dylan Thomas. About my Great-Grandfather Francis MacNamara and his bohemian life and family. About my Grandpa Eric and his years as a POW.
His RAF record can only be accessed by the next of kin. As my father no longer wishes me to be part of his life, I must wait until I read of his death. So I can hold Eric's silver RAFBC mug and the newspaper photo of him and his crew, but I can hold neither him, my father, nor even his record. So, you'll have to take my word that what I'm about to reveal is the truth. Okay?
I guess when you are a POW, you have a fair amount of time on your hands. But Ward let me know how Eric had whiled away the hours. Apparently, he practiced lifting first one, then the other testicle, using only his muscles. Kind of like a Kegel exercise.
At this point of telling this story, the men who are listening get a kind of far-away look in their eyes. Because they're trying to do the ball trick themselves! I don't know if Eric showed his talent to his fellow POWs. If he did, did they applaud? Try it themselves? That, Dear Reader, is lost in the annals of time.
What I do know, however, is that when Eric went home after all those years to my Grandmother, he tried to show her his prowess. Not a woman to mince with words, she told him, "I don't see anything." They were divorced, and sometimes I wonder if his POW experience had anything to do with it.
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