All for the cause, p.12
All for the Cause, page 12
An hour later, he arranged his things near the corner bunk he claimed in the least-occupied barracks. The place still smelled of fresh-sawn lumber, and scents from the camp kitchen made his mouth water.
Out in the hallway, a worker sang an off-tune song while he swept the cement floor. Listening closer, Stan recognized a personalized version of “Over There.”
Fitting—if he had anything to say about it, this would be just one short stop along the way over there.
Send the word over there...the Yanks are comin’...
Well, in Bataan, the Yanks had already come. Now they needed to get out.
“THIS WAS ONE OF THOSE jobs Mom gave me when I’d upset her.” Twila made the comment one evening in late March as she worked through a mound of black walnuts with Aunt Margaret. They’d been cracking the hard brown shells for hours, it seemed.
“But it’s something to do during long winter nights, eh?”
The click of metal hooks filled the kitchen. Margaret wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a charcoal-colored smudge. With her high forehead and cheekbones, her resemblance to Mom became clearer every day.
Yet sometimes the two women seemed as different as marigolds and tomato plants. Both added color and scent to a garden, but could never be mistaken for each other.
“I’m so glad you’re here to help me pick through these—they’ll soon be too old to be of any use. Don’t know how I did everything around here without you.”
“I don’t mind. Keeping busy in the evenings does me good.”
“My feelings exactly, although your work is probably a whole lot harder than what I do. Ordering supplies, unpacking boxes, and counting money become pretty routine after a while.”
“Depends how you look at it. I rarely do anything really challenging—except when Nurse Alcott has a meeting or Edna’s swamped. Don’t you have to deal with prisoners all the time?”
“Yes, but they’re so thrilled to have access to toiletries and tobacco, paper and ink and paint, they see coming to the canteen as a privilege. They can buy almost anything they need with the scrip they earn.
“I’ve been warned about some antagonism between the officers and enlisted men, but they reserve disagreements for the barracks or outdoors. The first commander put them in different compounds, but I think it would be better not to separate the two.”
She gave a snide grin. “But then, nobody’s asking me. Since the prisoners get paid eighty cents a day for work, they have plenty to spend, and my job is straightforward—keep the shelves stocked and a close eye on everything.”
“So you do inventory? I had to help with that at the café.”
“Yes—all it takes is a sense of order, so it’s not hard. Besides, I used to do it at a grocery store in town.”
“The prisoners work somewhere?”
“Most of them are helping farmers clear lumber off river bottom land. They don’t mind hard work, but need quiet activities at night. I’ve heard some excited chatter about playing soccer when the activity field gets finished.”
“You can understand what they say?”
“Some. Grandpa and Grandma Ritzmann still spoke German when I was growing up, so some phrases are coming back. Compared to the battlefield or our boys’ prison camps, they’ve got it awfully good here.”
Twila cracked a dozen walnuts into her bowl. When she looked up, Margaret was on her feet, staring at her.
“You’re fast, and so happy to help out. Surprises me a little.”
“Why?”
“I thought you’d be more like your mom, I guess. Although she always did have spunk—no one could keep up with her. When she was little, you never knew where you’d find her—in the hay loft, down by the creek catching tadpoles, or up on a mulberry tree branch, laughing down at you.”
Margaret clicked her tongue behind her teeth without even a hint of a smile.
“What would remind you of her?”
“Not taking things seriously. Always looking for something just beyond your reach, and not holding a thought in your head for half a minute. You’re a lot more settled than she ever was.” Margaret threw a handful of picked nuts into a bowl. “Actually, Diana reminds me more of Myra than you do.”
“Mom must’ve changed a lot since you’ve seen her, because her job takes a steady hand and common sense. Working in the wards pales in comparison to all of her responsibilities.”
“What exactly does she do at that plant, anyway?” Margaret cocked her head to the side. So she didn’t even know that much—but how would she? She and mom had only exchanged a couple of letters.
“She’s in charge of a whole section that makes SPAM. The army started calling up more men, and now she’s a supervisor. Meeting the quota is a huge challenge, and people admire her.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“She misses Dad so much. I’m glad her job keeps her busy, and she works a lot of overtime, too.”
“Ah, your Dad, Myra’s knight in shining armor. They turned out to be right for each other, but I’d never have believed it back in the day.” Aunt Margaret got up to add more corncobs to the stove.
“That Benny—where is he when I need him? This is his job, but I’m not going to freeze to death.”
Why wouldn’t mom and dad have been good for each other? And why had Mom allowed her to come here, knowing she might learn more about the past?
The wood burner blasted heat, so she took off her sweater. Once, she wanted to know every detail of Mom’s youth, especially about her dancing adventures, and Aunt Margaret could likely share a wealth of memories.
But lately, that desire had dissipated. Sometimes, the less a person knew, the better. She loosened the top button on her blouse. Why couldn’t stoves regulate the heat better? As Mom would say, it was feast or famine.
“You know how your folks met, don’t you?”
“Dad came to town after the war to help his uncle—”
“To help his uncle? Maybe that was part of it. But I think he met your mom in Waterloo first. She used to hitch rides down there at night.” Margaret brushed back a stray hair. “You do know she ran off?”
She didn’t wait for a reply. “I lost track of how many times she disappeared and Mama had to send Marvin or Kenneth after her. Funny thing is, I had the same urge to take off and never come back.”
Something rumbled in the basement, and Aunt Margaret raised her eyebrows. “Just the pipes reminding us they exist. Deep down, I admired your mom and wished I was gutsy enough to take risks, although I never would have said that out loud.”
“Why not?”
“Your grandma would have slapped me silly, that’s why.”
“Was Grandpa still alive then?”
Margaret shrugged. “Didn’t make much difference. Do you remember him at all?”
“No, and I don’t recall much about Grandma, either. We only visited a couple of times, and she’d become so weak and sick, she hardly knew we were there.”
“Too weak to slap anyone?” Margaret chuckled. “One advantage of her illness, I guess. Anyway, that’s all in the past. I’ve spent way too much time mulling it over—what good does it do?”
They picked in silence until Twila reached the bottom of her pile. Flames rose and fell in the old iron stove, and the temperature gradually modulated.
The clock ticked away several minutes. Then, before Twila could stop it, a different question rolled out. “Did Grandma slap Mom, too?”
“Ha! She picked favorites, and they certainly didn’t represent the best of the bunch.” Margaret stretched her back. “I’ll be done in a minute. Want to start sifting through what we’ve finished?”
“Sure.” Twila began the slow process of holding each nutmeat up to the light to make sure no sharp bits of shell remained. Mom had trained her well, but witnessing Dad get a shell fragment caught in his teeth instructed her even more.
“You’d be perfect at the canning factory down in Ackley—the picture of efficiency.”
“That’s what Nurse Alcott said about nursing, too. Sure did my heart good.” Even now, the compliment warmed her, especially since the head nurse handed out praise so sparingly.
After Diana and Benny completed other chores, Margaret cajoled them to help. When Benny complained five minutes later, Margaret reflected, “This is how we worked when I was growing up. Most of us, that is.”
She launched a knowing glance at Twila. “All summer, on into October, when we made the last apple cider.” She squinted at Benny. “You ought to thank your lucky stars for how easy you have things. And don’t forget to fill the cob box before you go to bed.”
Benny groaned, but she ignored him. “Apple cider—back breaking labor. My, what a job.”
But Twila lingered at most of us, that is. Aunt Margaret meant Mom—had Grandma let her get by with laziness? You’d never know it by the way she tackled her job, plus all the work at home.
But now was no time to ask questions. She turned to Diana. “How did work go at the creamery?
Diana rolled her eyes and pinched her nose. “I’m just glad I only have to work a couple hours.”
“Does having the camp here increase the creamery’s daily quota?”
“Yeah, so the boss couldn’t be happier. The war’s gonna make him rich. Sure wish he’d pass along some of his good fortune with a raise.”
“That’s right, think the worst about everything. You ought to be thankful you’ve got a job.” Aunt Margaret’s scowl put a damper on any further conversation.
Chapter Eighteen
BENNY TURNED THE RADIO up so high, it might have been sitting inside Twila’s head as she wrote a letter at the kitchen table. But at least the news was good.
This is the Allies’ month to make advances against the enemy. Our air carrier aircraft have assaulted Truk, the main Japanese base in the central Pacific, forcing the Imperial Navy to withdraw.
At the same time, 20,000 German Eighth Army troops trapped by the Red Army, have surrendered, and upwards of 50,000 of Hitler’s infantrymen went down fighting.
In the Marshall Islands, the Americans have captured a forward Japanese base by occupying Bikini Atoll.
In France 70 French Resistance members on death row in Amiens Prison under Nazi occupation have escaped after Allied bombs damaged cell walls.
In the north, Lake Tinnsjo’s waters buried a ferry carrying essential ingredients for German atomic research facilities. Sunken by one Norwegian resistance fighter, this ferry represents a great loss to the German war machine.
In Greece, partisans sabotaged a railroad used by German troop trains, and a train plunged some 400 German soldiers to deaths.
Finally, the American Air Force in Great Britain has forced the enemy to use fighter planes to protect aircraft factories against a massive bomber attack. American Mustang escorter fighters have decimated enemy fighter strength.
The war is certainly not over, but this month, our boys in uniform have made great strides toward that end. All of you on the home front, keep your chins up and continue to support the war effort.
And now, in stateside news...”
Aunt Margaret stopped knitting long enough to switch off the radio, and Benny leaped up with a punch into the air. “Wow! Ain’t it great? It’s about time our boys are givin’ ‘em what-for.
“Wish there was more I could do. Me and Wendell helped clean up the back room at the oil station today. Hauled three wagonloads of scrap tin down to the collection center. Mr. Bellows told us the army uses it for fifty percent of manufacturing now—at least we can make a little difference.”
“Just think, what you took might end up in the newest airplane.” Twila couldn’t help responding to his enthusiasm, despite her aunt’s frown.
Benny wagged his head and was about to blurt out more, but his mother lashed out.
“Don’t encourage him, Twila. He’s nuts enough over those planes and ships already. Benny, I don’t want you hanging around at that station. You know that already.”
“What’s wrong with the Viking, Mom? Just a bunch of old guys talkin’, and Mr. Bellows can sure use the help.”
“Old geezers gabbing about every battle from here to kingdom come, that’s what’s wrong with the Viking. And Mr. Bellows gets along just fine without you.”
Benny turned so red that his freckles disappeared. But all he said was, “Aw Mom. You don’t understand.”
“Never you mind. We’re all doing our part for the war effort. That’s what a real family does.” Her inflection niggled at Twila. Was that another veiled reference to Mom?
Benny shook two bushels of dry, scratchy cobs from the basement into the wood box before going to his room. Diana faded upstairs, and Aunt Margaret’s sigh floated from the living room.
“I’m beat. Think I’ll go up, too.”
“I’ll turn off the lights.”
“Thanks. You’re a real help.”
An hour after the house quieted for the night, Twila still lay awake. Muffled clanking alerted her to a train gliding into the depot without sounding its horn. She’d gotten used to its noise, but stayed awake tonight, thinking about Aunt Margaret and Mom growing up. Maybe not knowing Grandma very well had been a good thing.
At steady shuffling out in the street, she went to the window... lines of human shadows marched along in silence. She pattered downstairs in her slippers to watch from the dining room.
Ranging from the depot two blocks away, rows of captives were guided toward the camp by American guards. An eerie uneasiness pervaded the night, and Aunt Margaret slipped up beside her. Her whisper made Twila shiver.
“Troops captured in North Africa—the office warned us they’d be coming soon. They’ve been held in Europe, but now we’ve inherited them. At least they don’t let off captured S.S. officers here in town, but stop the train out in the country and march them through the fields.
“That way they have no knowledge of Algona’s layout—they don’t even realize a town is close by. They’re experts in logistics, and would probably be the ones to attempt an escape. Hopefully, tactics like this quiet folks’ fears.”
“Are you afraid of them?”
“Not really, as long as the guards take job seriously.”
“What was that about the oil station earlier? I got the impression it’s dangerous.”
“What Benny hears there will further his notions about becoming a fighter pilot. He’s only twelve, but sees this war so romantically, even though he knows Paul’s in constant danger. The B-12 means as much to Benny as food does to most people.
“Lucky for me, Harry’s only in Des Moines. At least he can write Benny a quick letter if I need him to, or we can drive down there if he gets out of control.
“The idea of the war lasting until he comes of age makes me sick. Those poor British mothers, having this all start back in ’39, and having to endure the bombing, too.”
Aunt Margaret sighed. “I’d do anything to end this war.”
Just like Mom, but Twila kept the comparison to herself. The shuffling faded, so she turned to go upstairs. Aunt Margaret didn’t budge.
“Aren’t you going back to bed?”
“In a while—no use lying there for hours. My mind comes alive at night.”
“NO! NO! LET ME GO...” Stan woke to his own scream and leaped out of bed. He gathered his senses—his side of the barracks housed only one other guard, a quiet fellow at the far end. No movement down there... that guy must be hard of hearing.
The nightmare returned in living color... coming upon a Japanese patrol of several soldiers so suddenly, there’d been no time for weapons. His crew tackled the enemy like football players, and made easy work of them.
But one gave him a gift he could do without—a lasting vision of terrified eyes rimmed with pain. That dying stare sent him into a sweat as he sank back on his bunk and stared at nothing.
His heart finally quieted, but there was no use trying to sleep again. He slipped past his barracks mate, a trained MP. Snores from guards in the other room filled the hall. There must be at least 75 now, and more would arrive next week, to keep up with the mounting number of prisoners.
His side of the barracks would fill up, and then what would he do? In the hallway, a sign had been posted since he went to bed:
REMEMBER!
SHARE NO NEWS OF THE WAR
With Prisoners
Across the way, a few single lights shone in the prisoners’ compound. A couple of disgruntled guards had been discussing the captured Germans this evening.
“They get the same rations as we do.”
“Are you sure?
“That’s how the Geneva Convention lays it out, and from what I hear, the new commander believes in it heart and soul.”
“Who is he?”
“Name’s Lobdell. That’s about all I’ve heard.”
The image of captured GIs stumbling up that Philippine mountain trail toward Camp O’Donnell rose before Stan. They were headed to the gates of Hell—no Geneva Convention there. Even as he considered plight, he reigned in his thoughts—if he didn’t be careful, he’d become like Cap, fixated on a certain period in the past.
Lobdell. Where had he heard that name before? Then he remembered. There’d been a Lobdell in National Guard training with him back in Wisconsin, with a tank battalion. What if he were related to this new commander?
The cold windowpane framed Stan’s hand, and voices stretched toward him across the miles between here and Bataan—the dying cries of American captives along the trail, the groans of those still alive. The longing to help them grated inside him.
For tonight, he must be satisfied with limbering up his recalcitrant knee. Tomorrow, he’d push himself harder—he’d never regretting leaving that cane behind, but once in a while, that left knee still threatened to go out from under him.
Tomorrow night, he’d walk even longer if he woke up...when he woke up. And some day, he’d enter an office, perhaps down at Fort Des Moines, to request a transfer.
“You came back wounded?” The officer’s incredulity would show as he eyed Stan up and down.
