Article 8:
A War Violin, Page 1
By Howard Walton, As told to Deborah Hedstrom-Page

An agonizing screech jolted me awake and shot me upright in my cot. Germans? Gun fire? I discarded the thought instantly; there wasn't much left of Hitler's forces, and the noise ... it wasn't a war sound. It came again, and I winced as it triggered a memory.

My mind faded from my Army Air Corps tent and went to our family parlor. I saw myself as a kid, dragging a bow across violin strings, desperately trying to make them produce sounds that resembled music.

The present came back abruptly as another series of screeches ripped through my tent. They continued, and I gave up on the idea of sleep. Where did they get a violin, I wondered? I knew that earlier in the day, some of them had liberated beer from a brewery in Nuremberg - our pilots had spared it when doing bombing raids - but a violin?

It didn't take much to imagine the scene in the tent next door. Most of the guys liked to drink. It made the war and what we'd been through since Normandy slip away for a few hours. But early on, Id refrained, knowing that my New Testament and prayer would help me handle our reality in a deeper, heart way. My dependence on the Lord earned me the nickname "Deacon" and then later just "Deke." I'm not sure any of the guys in our Thunderbolt Fighter Squadron knew that this radar-and-radio mechanic was really named "Howard."

The piercing squeaks and squawks did not stop. "How much torture could a violin take?" My question triggered an idea. I hadn’t played in years and I never was good, but surely I could do better than the fellow making this terrible squalling.

A few minutes later I pulled back the flap on the neighboring tent and spotted the would-be violinist. The other guys were groaning and yelling, "Stop that awful racket."