A Medal for Freddie

By Rosalind Russell, Hollywood, California

As appeared in

Lanky, graying, Hans Christian Adamson was visiting us in Hollywood when we noticed the first strange turn in our old battle. We were at dinner, back in 1942. It was a long table, I sat at the head of it; Hans Adamson was at my right; and my husband Freddie Brisson, sat at my left. We were all chatting, when suddenly Hans reached into his pocket and fished among his coins.

Now, Hans and my husband were close friends in spite of the 20 years difference in their ages. They were both officers in the Air Force. Hans Adamson was one of the best-read men I have ever known, which is why Freddie and I took so seriously his views on religion. Hans was also an agnostic.

Not anti-religious; he was interested in religion, but there were things he could not accept with his rational mind. Back at his home, on the East Coast, he used to attend church occasionally with his wife, Helen, who was an Episcopalian. But we had the feeling it was more out of respect for her, than for her beliefs. Hans often said he envied people who could believe without understanding. "But that's as far as I can go," he would tell us during our long talks about religion. "I try to understand your churches and your little medals and things. But I cannot. So I cannot believe."

That's why it struck us as so peculiar when Hans fished among his change that night and brought out a medal.

"Freddie," Hans said, and it seemed that his voice pitched a note higher than usual, "Freddie, I stopped at the PX and got you one of those new flying medals. St. Joseph of Copertino. I think he flew or something. You're going to do a lot of flying, and I want you to have this."

With that, the second strange turn occurred. My hand shot out. I grabbed Hans' sleeve. I spoke very impulsively.

"No. Keep that yourself."

"Why?" Hans asked. "I don't want any medals. I got it for Freddie. He's a Catholic and he believes in these things."

I realized I had spoken sharply, and I tried to soften it down. "What I mean is, you keep it for now, Hans. You just keep it for now."

We all kind of looked at each other, and I tried to change the subject. The dinner party was ruined. But in my mind, I sensed a premonition that actually I had done the right thing... that Hans was trying to tell us something with that medal.

Three months later, Hans phoned my husband that he was going on a secret mission across the Pacific and that he would be coming out to California for a visit.

We all spent the day together in Beverly Hills. Hans kept saying that he felt nervous. He had never talked that way before. There is not a bit of cowardice in Hans Adamson yet he kept saying the trip had a fatality about it.

Frankly, we thought nothing about it at the time. But then, at six the next morning, the phone rang.

It was Hans.

"Will you do something for me? Will you call Helen and say goodbye again?"

I was puzzled why Hans didn't call his wife himself. At first I thought he was afraid of alarming her by calling so early. But I answered: "Of course I will."

Then, once more, Hans said something about the trip. And I at last saw that he had really called to seek help. Right out of the blue I sat bolt upright in bed.

"Hans, do you have that medal that you tried to give Freddie some time ago?"

Hans was silent for a moment, as if he didn't want to answer.

"Yes," he finally admitted, "I've got it in my pocket with my change."

"Well. Now, mind you I don't think anything is going to happen. But if it does, if something should go wrong, you take that medal out and put it in your hand and hold on to it."

There was a prolonged silence. I thought I had offended Hans. When he did answer, it was with the single word: