The Runaway WWII Jeep
“If the jeep won’t start, you can use the choke; but never use the throttle.”
It was 1972. I was 14 years old. In the mid-60s Dad had purchased a WWII jeep; it was his pride and joy. His greatest regret was not being able to serve in the Second World War. In 1944 he was 18 and his time had come. Doc Oakes said to him, “Joe, we need farmers now, not soldiers.” Dad did not go off to war, but back to the farm.
Years passed by. He was married in 1952 to my mother. They had met a few years before in Vineland, near Niagara Falls. Mom was working there that summer with other girls her age. Dad took her for a ride on his Harley-Davidson motorcycle; the rest is family history.
On the farm, when I was young, you learned to drive long before you had a driving permit. Like my sisters, I practiced driving with my father’s WWII jeep. He warned all of us, in his calm way:
“If the jeep won’t start, you can use the choke; but never use the throttle.”
That summer day in July 1972, I almost took my youngest sister, Nina with me, who was only three years of age. Thank Heavens that I did not, as it turned out! I jumped into the jeep on a chilly summer morning, wearing my winter coat (fortunately, because it would serve as padding for the adventure that lay ahead). I pumped the choke and turned the ignition. Nothing. Well, a few feeble turns of the engine. After several minutes of trying the choke, my eyes seemed glued to the throttle switch: it seemed to beckon to me, bewitching and befuddling my mind.
Throwing caution to the wind, I pulled out the throttle for what may have been the first time it had been used (at least since the war). I turned the key in the ignition. Instantly, the jeep came to life, like an insane machine bent on destruction. The jeep started to head toward the old wooden garage at breakneck speed, and the farm fuel tank sitting beside it. It took all my strength to yank the steering wheel to the right, and away from the potentially deadly fuel tank. What was amazing was my presence of mind and calmness, trying to find a solution amid motoring madness. It came to me then: point this projectile of a jeep across the stubbled field and aim it for the swamp to the northwest of the farm, where it would surely get bogged down and stop.
As the jeep careened at top speed across the field, it took both the strength of my arms and the presence of my mind to keep the steering wheel on its intended course. Do I stay in the jeep or do I jump out? I asked myself, in a moment of time that seemed suspended and in slow motion. I made the decision: I knew that when the jeep hit any trees near the swamp, I could be ejected from the careening missile through the deadly windshield. Thus, I ensured the jeep was on the best course, headed toward the swamp behind the farm’s pond. I then stood up in the metal door of the jeep, which was always hooked back in place when in use. It took all my skill not to fall down or fall out. The jeep bounced up and down in the air on the stubbled field. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to imagine that I was jumping out of an airplane with a parachute: as I took the plunge, I endeavoured to roll over on my way down to Earth.
My strategy worked because I recall turning over in the air and then all of a sudden landing with a thud in the stubble of the field. I was on my back, spreadeagled, looking up at the sky and curiously enough, reflecting on the beauty of the blue sky and the wispy, white cotton-ball clouds. My breath had been knocked out of me by the force of the fall. Then I took a deep breath and coughed. At that moment I heard my mother’s voice from the far end of the field, calling out to me in concern and asking if I was all right.
I stood up and dusted myself off, with dirt and stubble stuck to the backside of my winter coat. My mother came running across the field to me. I told her what had happened. My mother was always best in a crisis. We went in search of the runaway jeep, following its tracks across the field and into the swamp, where the ground was mushy and it was easier to see the tire tracks left by the out-of-control vehicle. In the distance, we could hear a metallic, whining sound. It was the jeep’s engine, but we could not tell then if the jeep was still in motion or had stopped for some reason.
Emerging through the far side of the swamp, we spied evidence of the jeep having mowed down tall grass, bullrushes, and even small scrubby bushes and trees. Then at last we saw the runaway jeep: it had slammed into a small popular tree and climbed up the side of it; the unfortunate tree was bent over from the weight of the vehicle. The runaway jeep had finally been stopped, but that WWII engine was still going, rather like the Energizer Bunny! The whining of the engine was almost unbearable to the ears. My mother and I carefully walked closer to the jeep, as if it were a creature from hell that could turn on us. My mother had the presence of mind to turn the key in the ignition to the off position and finally, with a tinny cough and noisy grunt, the engine stopped.
As my mom and I looked at the jeep, on an angle up the side of the sapling tree, we reflected on what would have happened if I had not jumped out of the runaway jeep in the pasture field. What would have happened to me if I had tried to ride the mad machine to the end of its journey? I would almost certainly have been thrown through the thick glass of the windshield, which was the original from WWII. I would have been killed or have suffered severe injuries. As it was, the greatest injury was to my pride. That said, since then I have lived with a left shoulder that creaks and cracks as a reminder of my great folly.
I was not looking forward to my father hearing the news that his pride and joy, the WWII jeep, was almost certainly past being repaired. When my mom and I returned to the house and she called my dad at work, he listened calmly and patiently (as per his usual nature), and I was close enough to the phone to hear his comments. After a pause, Dad asked, “And he was in the jeep the entire time?” My mother laughed out loud at the thought of it, realising that she had not told my dad that I had bailed out of the jeep in the middle of the field as if it were a WWII airplane.
When my dad came home from work, he and I followed the runaway jeep’s trail through the pasture field, and into the swamp, where it had finally been stopped by the sapling poplar tree. Dad shook his head when he saw the sight of his beloved WWII jeep. Dad may have reminded me of his oft-repeated note of caution to never use the throttle, but due to his patient and kind nature, as I recall he did not. However, he turned to me and asked, “Why didn’t you just turn the key off?” I stared at my father like he had sprouted two heads, all the time wondering how I could have been such a dumb bunny to not have tried turning off the ignition. Then in a flash, I recalled when the jeep was in mid-flight in the middle of the field I had considered turning the key to the off position, but wondered if the jeep would come to such a complete and sudden stop that I would be ejected through the windshield. I relayed this to my father. To his credit, he never expressed any anger or dismay, then nor later. However, the jeep’s engine was beyond repair. My father’s connection to WWII was no longer; the jeep ended up being hauled away to a scrap yard.
My parents are both long gone now, but the tale of the runaway WWII jeep has been familial fodder for recollections at get-togethers over the years. Moreover, whenever I give my left shoulder a shake and hear that creaking and cracking sound, it makes anyone in my proximity wince. For me, that cringing sound is a reminder of a summer’s day in 1972 when I took my dad’s WWII jeep for a joy ride and then unceremoniously fell to earth!
John RC Potter is an international educator from Canada, living in Istanbul. He has experienced a revolution (Indonesia), air strikes (Israel), earthquakes (Turkey), boredom (UAE), and blinding snow blizzards (Canada), the last being the subject of his story, “Snowbound in the House of God” (Memoirist). His poems, stories, essays, and reviews have been published in a range of magazines and journals, most recently in Blank Spaces, (“In Search of Alice Munro”), Literary Yard (“She Got What She Deserved”), Freedom Fiction (“The Mystery of the Dead-as-a-Doornail Author”), The Serulian (“The Memory Box”), The Montreal Review (“Letter from Istanbul”) & Erato Magazine (“A Day in May 1965”). His story, “Ruth’s World” (Fiction on the Web) was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. The author’s gay-themed children’s picture book, The First Adventures of Walli and Magoo, is scheduled for publication.
Website: https://johnrcpotterauthor.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JohnRCPotter
Instagram: John RC Potter (@jp_ist)
