All for the cause, p.15
All for the Cause, page 15
And so we also commend these words to you. We here in America join General Eisenhower and our boys in heartfelt prayer for victory in Europe.
THE OFFICER LAID ASIDE the paper he’d just read and addressed the guards gathered in the dining hall. “Gentlemen, we wanted to update you concerning our troops in harm’s way.
“I am sure we all agree with these sentiments and lend our support to our expeditionary forces. At the same time, we must emphasize the need for utmost secrecy about this invasion here in the camp. As you know, our prisoners have no access to news from the outside, and this must continue.
“Thank you for the work you are doing here. We can expect more prisoners to be arriving, and will continue to add to and support our staff.”
“Work we’re doing, my foot!” Leaving the meeting, Stan couldn’t help muttering. The command meant well, but to someone who knew what it meant to face a ruthless enemy, his words rang hollow. What those GI’s faced in Normandy went far beyond work.
At least the Allies were making progress—that was good news. But Stan’s next thought brought consternation. What had he heard lately about the situation in the Philippines? Close to nothing.
With such a strong focus on securing Europe, how could General MacArthur ever amass enough resources to save his men in captivity? He said he would return; made a solemn promise. But at this rate, would any Americans still be alive when he finally did?
THE PRISONER ROLL INCREASED even more, and Stan told Twila he’d been assigned to orient the latest group of new guards. Just before the new commander arrived on the twelfth, the whole camp was in a flurry. One day, Nurse Alcott passed around copies of the Geneva Convention and beamed as she described the new commander’s wishes.
“Colonel Lobdell is requiring all staff to read this in full, for a better vision of our goals. I’ll give you two days. Report to me when you’ve finished.”
At lunch, a guard said that office workers had spent half the previous night mimeographing the copies. “Things are gonna be different around here. I don’t think much gets past this new Colonel. Either we shape up or ship out, as they say.”
Back at home, the garden never ceased to need weeding, so Twila plunged in during the evenings, with Diana fuming along behind her. Benny pulled too, with constant chatter about the day’s news.
Aunt Margaret weeded like a madwoman, but also supervised.
“If you’d pull weeds as fast as you talk, Benny, we’d be done in ten minutes.” Quite the mismatched team, they razed the latest crop of smart weeds, plantain, and chickweed in record time.
“GREEN BEANS ARE ALMOST as disgusting as peas. They’re the worst vegetables ever!”
Aunt Margaret shushed Diana. “Hey, remember who created them.”
If only she could ignore her instead of egging her on. At first, Twila thought summer vacation would quiet things down, but she already wished school would start soon, and it was only late June.
Snap, snap, snap. Four sets of fingers waged war on a pile of beans. A robin chortled from the maple tree, and a cardinal retorted from the neighbor’s old burr oak that towered above every other specimen in the block.
Dad’s voice sounded in her head. “See the little fringe of bristles around the cup of this acorn? They’re burrs—that’s why they call this tree a burr oak.”
They spent so much time outdoors together, and he often explained natural wonders. At times like this, he might have been right here beside her. She cherished the sensation until Aunt Margaret broke the spell.
“We’ll soon have this batch boiling in the canner. Thank goodness for pressure canners—the water bath method took even longer, and definitely gave us a bath.”
Someone whistled from down the street, a fresh sound on this sweltering afternoon. Soon, the rhythm became clear—bum bum bum, b-bum bum bum, b-bum bum bum bum bum ... pause... bum b-bum bum bum bum. Twila couldn’t quite make out the tune, since the whistler employed more gusto than musical sense.
Yesterday as she left the building after work, she’d bumped into Stan and invited him over, but he gave a non-committal reply. Maybe she asked him too many questions about the war.
Diana, Aunt Margaret, and Benny sat in a semi-circle facing her, with backs to the alley. The whistling grew closer, and when someone emerged from the line of lilacs along the back fence, Twila waved a handful of string beans.
Stan had come, after all. He spotted her and ambled over.
“Just like our prisoners. Never any rest for the wicked.”
Aunt Margaret bristled. “I know it’s the Sabbath, but we worked at the fundraiser all day yesterday, so this is the only chance we have to—”
“What a great carnival you folks put on—you sure know how to do fundraisers around here.” Stan leaned on the clothesline pole. His jovial smile tempered the defensive cut of her reaction.
“Oh, were you there? I didn’t see you.”
“Nope—I volunteered to work so the younger guards could spend hard-earned money. They brought back rave reviews.”
He pulled up a chair next to Benny, grabbed some beans and started snapping off ends. “How’ve you been, buddy? Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”
“Didja hear our boys are liberatin’ Cherbourg? Almost a thousand soldiers have landed, not countin’ more’n 20,000 airborne troops and 1,500 tanks. Besides that, Lightning Joe Collins has got 4,000 fighter planes and 4,500 bombers in the skies. Altogether, there’s over 12,000 vehicles in France right now—ain’t it somethin’?”
“Wow. Quite the offensive, I’d say. Where do you get all of your figures?”
“The paper said four British parachute divisions have landed between Cherbourg and Le Havre. That’s four times the amount the Nazis landed on Crete.”
He took a quick breath, so Stan had a chance to jump in. “And Hitler has taken command of his forces in France—what do you think that means?
“Must be runnin’ scared?”
“Exactly. But he’s got four field marshals under him who don’t like to lose, so it’s still going to be quite a fight. And then there’s the weather—a bad storm blew into the Channel on June 19th and wrecked a lot of our supplies on the mulberry docks our engineers made. Did you hear that?”
“No, but we’ll still win. General Bradley’ll find a way.” Benny studied Stan. “You believe we will, don’t you?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Why d’ya think so?”
“Because we have to.”
Missing something in Stan’s reply, Benny flashed ahead. “And we’re gonna win in Saipan, too. Those da—”
He winced at his mother’s severe look. “Them Japs might as well surrender, ‘cause they don’t got no hope with our boys after them. My brother’s in the Navy, y’ know, and—”
“Don’t have any hope.” Margaret’s interruption momentarily silenced him, so Stan seized his opportunity.
“Been listening to the radio again, eh? Just keep this in mind: the word surrender doesn’t translate into the Japanese language. They’ll only give up when emperor orders them to, and I doubt that’ll happen real soon.”
“Didja ever see any Japs? Ever shoot any?”
On the edge of his seat, Benny waited. But Stan paled. He leaned back and stared down the alley, and the life seemed to drain out of him, Aunt Margaret sucked in her breath.
Stillness mushroomed, except for the steady snap-snap-snap. Margaret and Diana scowled at Benny, whose forehead developed more furrows than a field of corn.
But Twila feasted her eyes on the thickness of Stan’s biceps under his shirt. Something was bothering him now, but he certainly had a way with people. Even when Aunt Margaret interpreted his greeting in the worst possible way, as if he were chiding them for working on Sunday, he knew exactly how to appease her.
Finally, he blinked and turned his attention back to Benny. “I have seen some. Way too close-up, and they made quite an impression on me. They may be smaller than most of us, but they’re mighty devoted to cause. We’ll have to keep at them until the bitter end.”
A house wren skittered along the pump handle to her nest in the wooden house hanging from a young maple. From there, the little chanter put her all into her song.
In the shade along the slatted side fence, sparrows searched for seeds in the grass. Under Margaret’s reproachful gaze, Benny snapped beans like crazy. Diana even stopped cracking her gum—blessed relief. The heat turned oppressive, and moments dragged like hours.
When Twila tried to catch Stan’s eye, he seemed intrigued by the handful of beans he held. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes were veiled.
Chapter Twenty-two
THINKING BACK OVER the afternoon, Twila had to give Aunt Margaret credit. Just when the tension was about to make everyone burst, she made a suggestion.
“Sure is hot out here. Why don’t you and Stan go inside and make some lemonade, Twila? I could use some right now, and the committee sent some lemons home with me last night.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
“Yes, a lemonade would sure hit the spot for me right now. How about you, Benny?”
Before he could answer, Twila set down the bowl in her lap and lurched out of her chair. Without a word, Stan followed her, and in the kitchen, she touched his cold hand.
“Sorry about Benny. He has no idea—”
“Of course not. It amazes me how even one simple word can bring everything back—always catches me off-guard.”
“You handled it well. Benny thinks you walk on water, you know.”
“Yeah. He sees our troops as invincible. I used to believe that, too. Well, come to think of it, I practically did walk on water once.” His wink shot relief through her, and he leaned against the cupboard.
“The ship I was on took some fire, and my aim for the lifeboat left something to be desired. That salt water mixed with oil was nothing like the taffy we used to pull back home every October.”
Aware of a thick line of perspiration riding his temples, Twila squeezed his hand. In spite of the heat, his skin felt like ice.
The clock’s regular tick-tock backed the rhythm Stan made tapping his toe on the floor. He pulled on his upper lip with his teeth, and twice, started to say something.
Action seemed the best course, so she pulled the lemon squeezer from the cupboard. “Do you have any experience squeezing lemons?”
He ran his fingers over the glass, but stayed quiet as she found a pitcher and dipped a cup into the sugar bin. Carry on as if everything is normal... interesting that Nurse Alcott had given that instruction just the other day.
“Yesterday, Mr. Plum slipped us an extra sack of sugar. Sure glad he’s a family friend. I suppose he ordered extra in for the carnival.”
By the time she filled a pitcher with water, Stan’s re-established dimple informed her he’d fully returned from wherever the war had taken him. So did his next quip.
“Making lemonade out of lemons—that’s what we do best.” He grabbed a knife and sliced one in two. His chuckle sounded almost normal.
“What a lucky guy I am, getting to spend an afternoon away from camp. If I hadn’t taken that hit to the knee, who knows where I’d be right now?”
His sapphire eyes declared his earnestness, and by the time he carried the tray to the back yard, the ridges gutting his forehead had disappeared. He set everyone at ease by kidding around with Benny and giving him some Filipino cities to look up at the library. Then he suggested they toss a football, and Benny’s face shone like the sun.
Later, when Twila walked Stan partway home, he thanked her.
“I know I left you for a while there, but you didn’t panic. I sure do appreciate that.”
Squeezing his hand again seemed the only thing to do. On the walk back to Aunt Margaret’s, she pondered the way a situation that seemed disastrous could turn out just fine. After all, hadn’t she met Stan when a prisoner attacked her?
THE FOURTH OF JULY dawned hot and muggy. With the morning off, Stan cleaned his small corner of the world and caught up on his letter writing.
What to say to his mother? Always a dilemma, but he decided to describe the barracks and a couple of the guys he’d gotten to know. Then he asked if she’d heard from Ron... sure had been a while since he had.
Various guards had been in and out all morning. Now several of them were discussing the fight for Cherbourg, a vital port in Northwest France.
“Don’t you wonder sometimes? All those docks our engineers set up and so much ammunition destroyed, not to mention the supplies. If God’s really on our side, why would He allow that storm to sweep in at just the wrong time?”
The guard aimed his question at no one in particular, and lying on his bunk feigning sleep, Stan didn’t recognize who answered.
“It’s a tough question. Bradley had planned to push south, but from what I’ve read, the devastation forced him to ration ammunition and take Cherbourg first. No doubt about it, we have to have a port, since all the artificial ones are gone. Must be awful for the engineers who set them up.”
A third man offered his opinion. “I read that the losses put them down to three days’ supply of ammo. Not much to go on. It’s easy to second-guess, but...”
Easy to second-guess... Really? Stan might beg to differ. Second-guessing—wasn’t that the greedy thief that kept robbing him of sleep?
Every night, some new question flaunted itself when he closed his eyes: Why didn’t you hear that Japanese patrol coming? How could they have caught you so off-guard. Were you daydreaming?
Bree.. .bree.. .bree.. A sudden emergency siren blasted through the barracks and propelled him from his bunk.
“All hands on deck for an emergency. Guards, report to the duty officer immediately.”
After another miserable night, he’d been dozing after lunch, half-hearing the other guards discuss the European front. Now, everyone hurried to relace boots. Good thing he’d left his on.
He dashed down the hall toward the prisoners’ compound, where the shrill bree... bree... bree continued. Along the way the most talkative of his barracks mates caught up with him.
“Think some of those SS guys decided to rebel, since it’s the Fourth of July?”
Why even try to answer his pant? They’d find out soon enough.
“I was goin’ to the...”
From the admin building, officers descended on the compound and started barking orders. One of them nodded to Stan and the others who skidded up behind him.
“You three come with me to secure the east perimeter.”
They all fell in behind him, but curiosity overwhelmed one. “What’s happened?”
“Without turning, the officer spat out, “There’s been an escape. Make sure you have your weapons ready.” They ran for the fence, where he turned to Stan. “Take somebody and go that way.”
He gestured to the other two guards. “Come with me. Check for security all the way around. If you find a breach, commence a search.”
Like clockwork, Stan’s jungle instincts kicked in. Thankfully, the officer took the mouthy guy with him, and his partner knew how to keep his trap shut.
The fence line ran parallel to the north-south road where there were bound to be culverts. Made sense that a Nip... oops... a German might be skulking in one of them.
“SURE YOU DON’T WANT to come along to the town picnic? It’s the best we could do this year, with no fireworks allowed.”
“Stan said he’d pick me up a little later for the prisoners’ band concert. I’ve heard they’re pretty good.”
“I hear them practicing sometimes. Maybe by next summer, they’ll be playing in the band shell at the park. If they’re still here, that is. According to Benny, we’ll dispose of our enemies long before then.”
She loaded Diana and Benny with potato salad, chicken, and pies for the picnic, and shooed them ahead of her.
Last night, Benny had one of his wild ideas. He declared this national holiday a perfect opportunity for Nazi parachutists to wipe out Algona and free all the prisoners.
“And then what? Every farmer in Kossuth County would get his shotgun, and every sheriff for miles around.”
The loathing in Diane’s voice startled Twila. Sure, the idea seemed far-fetched, but strange things did keep happening. At lunch the other day someone mentioned Allied pilots spotting “foo fighters”—flying objects they couldn’t identify.
“Benny, would you please stop saying ridiculous things like that?” Aunt Margaret seemed at the breaking point lately.
Diana pounced again. “The Germans are busy fighting over in Europe. Do you really think they give a hoot about us?”
Benny slammed his fist into his other hand and went to bed an hour early. Diana fumed about his stupidity again, and when she went upstairs, Aunt Margaret held her forehead.
“Honestly, I didn’t used to be this grouchy, but they’re pushing me too far. Harry would be able to talk him out of these ideas.”
“Do you have any idea how long he’ll be in Des Moines?”
“No. He’s making good money, but sometimes it seems like Benny’s really falling apart.”
Glad to have the house to herself, Twila wandered the rooms after everyone left. Heavy burgundy draperies covered the parlor’s leaded windows, and Harry inherited a set of velvet furniture from his parents, so every corner was filled.
But the couches didn’t compare with the comfort Mom’s old furniture offered—oh, for an evening in Dad’s big overstuffed chair.
Margaret and Harry’s wedding photograph was centered on the mantel. Young and vibrant, they might have just stepped off a dance floor. Harry had recently returned from the Great War, Margaret said, and she’d gotten a permanent wave. A friend loaned her a dress for wedding at Trinity Lutheran.
When Margaret met Harry, he’d worked as a carpenter and she’d found her first job with the Red Ball Transportation Company. After they married, an Algona businessman offered Harry a partnership in his contracting company, so they moved.
