Marshall Ramsey

I’ve written about this character in five short stories. In the first one, he was a broken veteran who wanted to die to see his wife again. But then he found purpose when he saved his granddaughter and reunited with his estranged son. So I decided to twist the story of trauma on its head and tell it from the perspective of his son. This is a TV interview (notice the name of the show?), but someday, I will turn this into a novel. Enjoy. It’s about 1,600 words.

Transcript. Conversations with Daniel Danielson. Episode 124. Air Date. March 23, 2026

Intro: Good evening. I’m Daniel Danielson, and this is Conversations. Our guest tonight isn’t new to interviews. Van Vaughn Jr., a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, is an investigative reporter from Mississippi and has also written a new book called “Up in the Delta Sky: A hero’s journey from Hell to redemption”. Van, since you’re not unfamiliar with interviews, welcome to the program.

Vaughn: (Shuffling nervously) I must admit that I am not used to being asked the questions.

Danielson: Congratulations on your book; you needn’t have looked very far to locate your subject.

Vaughn: Actually, I searched for him my whole life; this book tells my father’s remarkable journey from a prison cell in Vietnam to a prison cell in his own mind, from losing a love to finding a love which in the end rescued his damaged soul.

Danielson: I know that it was written from a place of love.

Vaughn: Not truly. I hated that man for most of my life, but it’s easy to hate things that you don’t understand.

Danielson: (Pause) Hmm. Where should we start?

Vaughn: My father was born in Indianola, Mississippi, shortly after World War II; his father had been a paratrooper and had landed in Normandy, fighting all the way through to the end of the war. He was captured by a member of the SS and yet came home alive. When he came back, he was harsh and abusive. I never got to know my grandfather, a man who was completely consumed by his own PTSD. He died when my father went to Vietnam; he had said that no child of his should go to war, and he just keeled over and died when Dad volunteered. Grandpa had met his match.

Danielson: Your Dad was already forged before going to war. He was a pilot, right?

Vaughn: Yes, he flew the Sandys — I should say the A-1 Skyraiders. He provided air cover and escort for Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) operations. My father was like a sheepdog who looked after his flock.

Danielson: The A-1 Skyraider wasn’t a high-flying jet. It flew low and slow.

Vaughn: Yes. It was a beast of an aircraft. And Dad was a beast of a pilot. When a pilot went down, he knew Dad would fly low and protect him. And he did. When the helicopter roared in to pick up the pilot, Dad flew low and provided cover fire.

Danielson: Can you tell us about the mission that made him famous?

Vaughn: Things were going along perfectly until the MiG appeared. Dad drove it away, but his plane was badly damaged, and still he remained on station. Eventually his engine stopped working, so Dad pulled the control stick in order to reach as much altitude as he could. Then he jumped out, fought off the Viet Cong, and let the other pilot get away. After that, they held him in the Hanoi Hilton for the next six years. Dad was really a sheepdog. The President would eventually pin a medal on him for that.

Danielson: But that was in the future. Your family didn’t even know that he was still alive.

Vaughn: Not initially. Lord knows how Dad survived the torture. I guess growing up with his father prepared him for his captors.

Danielson: Do you remember his homecoming?

Vaughn: I’m not sure he ever came home. My mother, Angie, was a saint. PTSD, like it did Grandpa, ate up Dad. And he self-medicated with work. Dad, being a hero, was recruited by the airlines. He flew with TWA — Trans World Airlines — and worked his way up to flying to Europe on 747s. Mom claimed he had a mistress. He did — work. I hated him for not being there for me. I also hated what he did to Mom. She soon got sick. It was breast cancer, and she didn’t last a year. I blamed him. I was wrong.

Danielson: That really takes a lot to admit that you were wrong.

Vaughn: It took time. Nearly a lifetime.

Danielson: I can imagine. How did your Dad handle your mom’s death?

Vaughn: He didn’t. He fell into a deep depression, left the airlines, and took a job as an agricultural aviator — that is, a crop duster — in the Delta. Then he began flying in a way that seemed suicidal. He said he wanted to fly high enough to see my mother and actually named his plane after her. I eventually ended up living with my grandmother because Dad became obsessed with chasing my mom’s ghost. Dad flew under the power lines so low that leaves were wedged into his landing gear. He wanted to die so he could see Mom again.

Danielson: Yet he didn’t die. Now then, please tell us about the day he found your daughter.

Vaughn: For 30 years he flew all over the Delta like a madman. He knew every square inch except my house. For 30 years, I ignored his calls, letters, and pleas. He died in my mind when Mom died. I did well in school and decided to become a journalist. So I went to Columbia and eventually worked for the New York Times. Then I decided to buy a small paper in Indianola so I could raise my daughter, named after Mom, in a quieter place.

Danielson: And then your daughter Angie ran away.

Vaughn: She was four. One day my wife Ann noticed the back gate open. I called the sheriff to search for her, and I beat back the Delta to find her. I was panicking and praying to God. And then that damn plane roared overhead. The Sheepdog was coming to the rescue. I’ve never seen a plane fly that low.

Danielson: It was your dad.

Vaughn: He found Angie in the middle of a creek. Lord, it’s a miracle she didn’t get bitten by a snake. He orbited her until the sheriff could get there. Dad saved my little girl. He couldn’t save Mom, but he saved her namesake.

Danielson: So you started talking.

Vaughn: No, I began to listen; when the old man landed his plane that afternoon, he cried like a child. All the fear seemed to drain out of his eyes.

Danielson: You invited him back into your lives.

Vaughn: Yes.

Danielson: Did you ever learn how to fly?

Vaughn: Aw, hell no. Are you kidding? I was going to be the total opposite of him, well, at least until that day. And then I understood what I couldn’t before. Hurt people hurt people. And sometimes with the best intentions.

Danielson: Your dad wanted to die so he could see your mom again. One day, he got his wish.

Vaughn: I never believed he would make a mistake, but he did. Clipped a power line and flipped. He ended up in a crumpled Air Tractor in the middle of a cotton field. And the crazy thing is, Mom came to him — and told him to LIVE! He could have joined her, but she told him that Angie needed her Papa Van. When we found him, he was mumbling, “Sweetie.” That was his nickname for mom.

Danielson: Is that how he lost his leg?

Vaughn: Yes. But he gained a purpose. He practically raised Angie. And she loved him. Once, he had a heart attack while they were in the air, and she put the plane down near the local hospital. She landed on the highway in front of the emergency room. Angie saved him. The sheepdog had finally been saved by the girl he’d rescued.

Danielson: Did he see your Mom again?

Vaughn: No. He lived in the present, not the past. Dad got tougher after his heart attack, but also more tender. We bonded, and he told me his story. He wanted me to write it all down — because I was the best writer in his eyes. I couldn’t believe what he went through. It was torture that would break the toughest stoic. But he became tender once he started loving us. He focused on gardening, flying, annoying our neighbor, and taking on bullies in town. When he was 80, he went back to Vietnam, stood in his cell, and met a couple of his guards. And he forgave them.

Danielson: Really?!?

Vaughn: Really. If the older man could forgive someone who pulled his fingernails off, who was I to hate him still?

Danielson: And Angie?

Vaughn: She attended the Air Force Academy and flies F-22s. She doesn’t like flying low. Dad was so proud when she graduated. He gave her his pilot’s wings and was introduced on stage as the hero he was. She was so proud to stand next to him that day.

Danielson: Van, how did your Dad pass?

Vaughn: Cancer. It was lymphoma. Stage IV. And it happened fast, although he lived a long, productive life. His body was in pain. Yet his soul was at total peace.

Danielson: Wow! Were you there when he died?

Vaughn: Yes. My daughter Angie, Ann, and I were holding his hand in hospice. I’m so grateful we were. And I’m grateful Angie was home on leave. I swear he waited until he could say goodbye to her. But someone else was there with us.

Danielson: Who?

Vaughn: Mom.

Danielson: REALLY?

Vaughn: As he took his last breath, we could see her glowing, translucent figure standing at his feet, reaching out to grab his hand. She looked just as beautiful as she did before she got sick. And his last words? “I love you, Sweetie.”

Danielson: So. This book is about how your father learned to live with his demons.

Vaughn: No. It’s a book about how my father, the sheepdog, saved me from mine.

Danielson: I want to thank our guest, Van Vaughn, Jr., for sharing his father’s incredible life. You can find “Up in the Delta Sky” at all of your favorite independent bookstores. On behalf of the Conversations crew, thank you for watching.

Clunk!

The lights on the black BMW’s dashboard lit up like a demonic Christmas tree. As the $100,000 sports sedan sputtered to a stop, Bob Johnson looked at his cellphone. It was dead, too. Great. No lifeline; and he really wasn’t sure where he was. All he knew was that he was on Highway 1 south of Rosedale, somewhere in the depths of the Mississippi Delta. And he looked at his phone again, and then realized he was in big trouble. Earlier in the day, he had signed a deal with a client in Clarksdale. Now he was stuck in the middle of nowhere The sound of cicadas and a wet, wool blanket of humidity greeted him as he climbed out of this Beemer. Steam poured from under the hood and from Bob’s ears.

Why now? Why in this Godforsaken place? Bob shook his fist at the sky

Bob Johnson was one of the nation’s most successful attorneys and entrepreneurs. He also was a lot like his car. He had traveled fast, had not done much in the way of maintenance and now was breaking down. He kicked the car’s left front tire out of frustration and felt a sharp pain radiate up from his toes.

“OK,” Bob thought, “That was stupid.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

A voice boomed from a nearby creek bank.

The Mississippi Delta, which once had been a giant swamp, was tamed by man in the late 19th and early 20th Century. Or at least man thought he had tamed it. Since then it had become a battleground for great good and great evil. Another Bob Johnson had once allegedly sold his soul to Satan himself in exchange for Eddie Van Halen-worthy guitar skills. This Bob Johnson, though, wasn’t interested in musical skills. He just wanted to get home. As the man rose up from the creek bank, Bob turned and watched a white Air Tractor plane performing a mesmerizing aerial acrobatic routine as it dusted a nearby field.

“Can I help you?” the old man said, using his fishing pole is a walking stick.

He was African-American, maybe 80, and wore a pair of worn overalls and a clean, brilliantly white shirt underneath.

“Not unless you are a BMW mechanic.”

The old man smiled, “I didn’t exactly bring my toolbox. But I live close by and have a phone.”

Bob realized that this was the best deal on the table and reluctantly accepted.

“So tell me about yourself,” the old man asked.

“Well, I guess you should tell me your name first if I’m going to burden you with my life.” Bob replied.

“My name is Gabriel. I have lived here my whole life and I have seen incredible beauty and horrific pain. My wife died of cancer three years ago and our only son died in the Iraq War. It’s just me now. Me and these fish I try to catch.”

“I bet,” Bob replied. Bob knew of the history of the Delta. In the middle of its great beauty was also incredible pain. That pain been like an irritant in an oyster; it covered and turned pain into a pearls. A good example of that was the Blues. Bob continued, “My name is Bob. I grew up in Atlanta, became a successful attorney and am one of the best in my field.”

“So you are humble,” Gabriel said with a smile.

“It ain’t bragging if it is true.” Bob shot back.

“Then why are you so unhappy, Mr. Successful?” Gabriel replied.

Bob didn’t know how to answer. That hit him squarely in his very carefully hidden heart. How did this man know that his life was a wreck? But Bob did not answer as they continued to walk toward Gabriel’s house.

The two men came to an intersection — a crossroads you might say.

“Let me guess, this is where you offer me something for my soul.” Bob sarcastically said.

Gabriel shook his head.

He then said, “No, I don’t need your soul for you to be in Hell. You’re already there. And you know what? You put yourself there. You don’t need Satan here to temp you. You’re miserable voluntarily. And you know what? You have the key to get out in your own pocket.”

Bob fumbled around in his pocket and just felt his BMW’s key fob. “What do you mean?”

Gabriel continued, “I sense great fear in you. And no, I am not Yoda. But when you live around here long enough, you understand the cancer that trauma is.”

Bob looked silently into the old man’s eyes. He had grown up with a mentally ill mother who drank. One minute she was the best mom ever. The next, she was the Devil herself. Bob had blamed himself for the fact that the woman didn’t love him. So he became an overachiever and a control freak. That control, though, had started to unwind as he got older. And today, deep in the Mississippi Delta, his ability to be the master of everything in his life had broken down.

He felt sweat trickle down his back.

Gabriel looked back at Bob. When Bob lifted his eyes and looked at Gabriel’s face, he saw his mother’s face. And when Gabriel spoke it was her face. “I am sorry, son. What you thought was evil was me trying to survive. I didn’t know how to get help. But you can. You don’t need to continue on my route. This is your crossroads. You have the freewill to choose a different path.”

Bob was convinced it was the heat of the Delta. But he looked at the old man’s face again and it was back to, well, an old man.”

Gabriel looked Bob and said in his mother’s voice, “Love, forgiveness, service. That’s the path you need to take. And you should also think about taking up guitar. I think you’d be good at it. I love you.”

Bob said, “You aren’t the Devil?”

Gabriel laughed, “Do you think the Devil would be named Gabriel?”

Bob’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was working! The BMW dealer had gotten notice that his car had broken down and was sending a tow truck.

Gabriel said, “My house is nearby. Let me get you a bottle of cold water and I’ll take you back to your car in my truck.” The two men walked towards the modest old house tucked in the shade of four oak trees.

The crop duster buzzed overhead. As the pilot looked out his cockpit canopy, he only saw one man in a suit walking out of Hell and toward a new life.