A chat in a rural post office with remarkable neighbors

He was standing at the counter, talking to Tracy, the postmistress, and in the way common to small post offices around here, anyone who walked in was welcome to join the conversation.

In keeping with the sunny but chilly day, he wore a light jacket over his blue button-down shirt. He steadied himself with a cane, but it was a little surprising when he said he was 89.

It turns out, he was raised just across the creek from me, and his folks are buried in the cemetery up the hill. He's not been doing well for the last year, he said, since his wife died. But his eyes were bright, his moustache neatly trimmed, his conversation sharp and precise.

He hasn't been getting to church much lately, but he still prays at home. Sunday evening services were his preference, but his diabetes had caused him eye trouble a while back and made driving difficult. It's better now, but having fallen out of the habit of going to church, it's hard to reestablish it. It gets dark early, and there are deer...

Did he know that Tracy's husband, Steve, preaches in Kilvert on Sundays? Yes, he did.

The talk was joined by a big and friendly fellow who at first seemed to have an Australian accent. It turned out he was British but had recently spent time in Australia - he loved it - so he'd picked up a strain of "'strain" in his speaking.

The older gentleman mentioned that he'd spent some time in England, and the two got to talking about it. It was during the war. He had been a cook in the army, had been to bakers school and everyone loved his confections. And on Christmas Eve 1944, he had been crossing the English Channel. Assigned along with 2,234 other GIs to join the Battle of the Bulge, he was on the S.S. Leopoldville.

The name sends a chill through anyone who has read much about World War II. Second maybe only to the U.S.S. Indianapolis (on a secret mission to deliver the first atomic bomb near the end of World War II, she was sunk by a Japanese submarine but not reported missing for days), the Leopoldville is synonymous with needless tragedy at sea.

The Leopoldville was just five miles off the coast, in sight of the port of Cherbourg, France, that cold Christmas Eve. It looked to be another uneventful crossing - the Belgian ship had carried troops across the channel two dozen times before without encountering enemy fire - but then a torpedo from the German U-486 slammed into her right side. Nearly 300 soldiers were killed outright.

The ship was in sight of the port. Rescue would surely come quickly.

It didn't. Radio transmissions were confused, and some of the potential rescuers were on the wrong frequency. Signals were sent but not answered. Ashore, many were celebrating Christmas Eve instead of keeping watch. The Leopoldville was taking on water and drifting toward a minefield.

Finally, H.M.S. Brilliant came alongside the Leopoldville. In rough seas, the two banged together.

"Some tried to jump across to the other ship, but they fell between the two and were gone," he remembered, his eyes now sad.

By the time the Christmas bells rang in Cherbourg, 783 of the American soldiers who had been aboard the Leopoldville were dead.

Our British friend, too young to have had such experience of the war, noted that all but one of his mother's brothers had died in World War II. He told of a relative who had been captured by the Japanese but who had managed to escape and make his way back to England. He had been reported dead, and when he showed up alive everyone fainted.

Great Britain lost most of two generations of men in the two world wars. It is difficult to imagine, even in light of America's tremendous losses in those conflicts.

Those who had been rescued from the Leopoldville did not get to come home. They continued to their assignments, to the Battle of the Bulge. Well, most of them.

"Some of the officers liked my cooking," the story continued. "They asked me if I'd like to be a lieutenant and stay there."

Five months later and the war was over. The Leopoldville survivor and baker of good things beloved by army officers returned to Ohio and the construction business, in Cincinnati.

Then, finally, he and his wife came back home to Athens County.

The conversation continued, covering topics such as home prices, and the coming winter, and what some of the roads around here used to be called. How every little hamlet once had one or more stores before better roads made bigger towns more accessible. How we should say our prayers every day even if we can't make it to church.

If I had been a good reporter, I would have gotten their names, but I didn't. Nor did I really need them. I had learned enough.

They are my neighbors and, out here, that's all you need to know.

Editor's note: Dennis E. Powell was an award-winning reporter in New York and elsewhere before moving to Ohio and becoming a full-time crackpot. His column appears on Mondays. You can reach him at dep@drippingwithirony.com.