Burning Ground

by D. A. Galloway

  When his mother talked with him about finding something with a purpose, Graham slowly climbed out of his depression fog by focusing on becoming physically fit. He didn’t have time to participate in sports because he was working part-time jobs in the evenings and weekends. He would ride to school with Frank early in the morning and sneak into the weight room in the basement of the gymnasium. There he could lift free weights and use the numerous stations on the universal gym contraption for thirty minutes before the “jocks” showed up. By the end of the school year, his physique had noticeably changed with the repetitive bench presses, curls, rowing exercises, and pull-ups. His chest was broader, and he had gained considerable strength in his upper arms and thighs.

  * * *

  Graham was sixteen in June 1966 when Frank enlisted in the Marine Corps and boarded a bus to Parris Island for boot camp a week after graduating from high school. He recalled the day his older brother came home from the local recruiting office and announced his enlistment. Leroy’s pride in his eldest son’s decision was obvious. But his mother was guarded with her emotions as she hugged him. She envisioned the danger of his decision and gently asked, “So why the Marines and not the Air Force or the Navy?”

  Frank explained he wanted to become the best, and the Marine Corps had much tougher acceptance standards than other branches of the military. “Besides,” he told his mother, “I’m going to get drafted and classified as one-A by the Selective Service System. I might as well choose how I want to serve instead of Uncle Sam making that decision.”

  It was a bittersweet journey for the Davidsons later that summer when they drove to Frank’s graduation in South Carolina. As they sat in the hot bleachers and watched the platoons of new recruits marching in perfect unison to face the viewing stand, Graham noticed how proud Leroy and Helen were to be parents of a marine. They were even more pleased when Frank was recognized as part of the formal ceremony as platoon high shooter for his marksmanship. Graham privately decided that day to follow his brother’s footsteps into military service. After all, it seemed like a guaranteed way to garner his father’s respect was to wear a military uniform.

  Graham would find out later the military was not an option. Regardless of whether he enlisted or was drafted, his partial deafness prevented him from serving in active duty. Although initially disappointed when learning about his 4-F classification for a medical disqualification, he remembered thinking perhaps he was a lucky deaf boy.

  The day after the graduation ceremony, Frank headed to Camp Lejeune for combat training. By the end of November, he received his orders and was deployed to Vietnam on New Year’s Day 1967.

  For the first few months he was in Southeast Asia, Frank wrote letters to his family on a regular basis. He had been assigned to First Battalion, Ninth Marines, and his letters contained mostly mundane events about a soldier’s life. There were comments about the incessant heat and humidity, the lack of privacy when going to the bathroom or showering, and the bland food served by the cooks. Frank even included humorous stories about his combat buddies, including a prank pulled on a guy who had a phobia of snakes. The only time he mentioned anything related to combat was an occasional reference to using his marksmanship skills.

  At home, the nightly news programs portrayed scenes in Vietnam that were anything but banal. Graham and his parents would sit in their living room almost every evening after dinner and watch the news before Leroy headed to the workshop. What they heard war correspondent Morley Safer report to viewers through their Zenith black-and-white console television was at odds with Frank’s letters, which had slowed to a trickle. The family knew his marine battalion had been moved earlier to Con Thien near the Demilitarized Zone. They also heard from news reports this area had recently become a hotbed of activity.

  Sensing Frank was directly in harm’s way, the only thing they could do was pray. Every night before dinner, Leroy and Graham bowed their heads while Helen would say grace, asking God to watch over and protect Frank.

  Her prayers were unanswered.

  * * *

  On a stifling-hot day early in July, a dark sedan drove up the gravel driveway leading to the Davidsons’ small farm and parked in front of the house. A marine sergeant major stepped out of the vehicle and put on his midnight-blue coat and white peaked cap. He adjusted the white web belt around his waist, gathered himself, and walked to the front door. As Helen opened the door and regarded the uniformed stranger standing on her porch, she recognized his purpose immediately. “Leroy!” she shouted, followed by a rapid succession of pleas. “No! No! No!” She sank to her knees while the sergeant reached through the doorway and tried to hold her up.

  Five days after Frank’s body arrived at Norfolk Air Station, his memorial service took place at the local church and cemetery. A contingent of marines fulfilled their duties by carrying the casket, firing the volleys, and folding the American flag. Frank was laid to rest beside his brother and sister.

  The Davidson family wore their individual and collective grief like heavy winter coats. Leroy became even more of a workshop recluse. He stopped shaving and had an unkempt salt-and-pepper beard that often hosted crumbs from his meals. Every three or four days, Graham had to remind his father to shower and put on a clean shirt. Helen withdrew from her social circles and volunteering, opting only to attend church services on Sunday and Bible studies on Wednesday evening. Even though she had more time at home and had previously enjoyed cooking, most meals were served in aluminum containers. Offerings consisted of either a Swanson TV dinner or a Morton meat pot pie. Graham wanted to be someplace other than a small Pennsylvania town where every few years the angel of death visited his family. His prayers and demands to God were focused on being transported to another time and place. He wanted to be anywhere except right here and right now.

  * * *

  The leaves were near their peak fall colors the evening Graham drove his Studebaker to the small, white clapboard church on a hill about a mile from their house. A stiff breeze swayed the branches of the apple trees next to the cemetery, causing clusters of yellowing leaves to detach and flutter softly to the ground. Darkening skies on the horizon presaged an approaching storm. As he got out of the car, Graham raised his coat collar and walked briskly past rows of century-old graves to the plots where his siblings were buried next to one another. He stepped in front of each headstone in turn and noted the key dates:

  Billy Davidson. Born 1956. Died 1961.

  Susan Davidson. Born 1957. Died 1965.

  Frank Davidson. Born 1948. Died 1967.

  He sat down heavily in the grass and leaned against the back of an old grave marker. Two brothers. One sister. All deceased. Why is my name not on one of those grave markers? Graham wondered. I was responsible for Billy’s death. My selfish behavior led to Susan’s life being taken. Frank was “1-A” on the list of young men to be killed in a war that makes no sense. And I can’t even avenge his death by enlisting in the armed forces. Why am I the sole survivor?

  Anger and resentment welled up in Graham like water being poured into a balloon until it bursts.

  “What the fuck is your plan?” he shouted as he looked skyward toward the steeple of the small church. “Are you listening? You’re supposed to be a kind and gracious God. I don’t believe it! Why not take all of us Davidsons at once? Why drag out our misery over many years? Just finish it now!” His voice quivered and his throat tightened until no more words could escape, even though he had plenty more to say.

  A flash of lightning crossed the sky, followed a second later by a clap of thunder that reverberated down the small valley. He lowered his chin to his chest and started sobbing, feeling a latent wave of guilt and shame wash over him. Reliving the aftermath of all three deaths at the same time was almost too much to bear. He clutched his knees and drew them to his chest, sitting motionless in the growing darkness until he felt heavy raindrops splattering on his head, rousing him from a trance. As he slowly got to his feet, he noticed the graveston
e he was leaning against had tilted. He went around to the other side and pushed it back to a vertical position, then stepped back to see who was buried here.

  A bronze star Civil War veteran grave marker protruded from the ground beside the moldy headstone. Stooping to get a better look at the weathered inscription, Graham saw it was the final resting place for Private Ezra Dexter, killed at the Battle of Gettysburg on July 2, 1863. The marker indicated he was nineteen. “Same age as Frank,” Graham said softly to himself. He reflected briefly on the irony of two young men separated by ten feet of earth killed in wars fought one hundred years apart.

  The storm front pushed over the cemetery on the hill and brought gusty winds with the fading light of day. The lucky deaf boy stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and plodded back to the car as rain pelted his face. He was still waiting for answers from a God who was not perfect, regardless of what he had been led to believe from pastors and clergy while growing up. Graham decided his God must have a hearing impairment just like him.

  Chapter 4

  August, 1970

  Apple-harvest time was quickly approaching on Big Hill Farm. Seasonal workers had completely stripped the sour cherry trees of their crimson fruit by mid-July. Peaches that survived the thinning process in June grew plump in early August. The branches of the young peach trees bowed under the weight of the fleshy fruit. Sometimes the limbs had to be supported by sturdy wooden sticks to prevent them from breaking. The peaches were plucked while still having green undertones and carefully placed in large storage bins before being quickly transported to a cold-storage facility. The Bartlett pear crop would be harvested within the next few weeks.

  By early September, everyone on the farm would be dedicated to picking and handling the numerous varieties of apples, many with royal-sounding names such as York Imperial, McIntosh, and Rome Beauty. The quality and quantity of the apple crop often determined the profitability of the farm as well as the income level of the migrant workers who supplied the labor.

  Graham pulled his Studebaker into the gravel lot beside the main barn, fetched his lunch pail, and headed to the refrigerator. He passed Miguel, who was gathering bundles of wooden poles with short V-shaped sticks nailed to one end.

  “Señor Graham, can you help load these onto the truck?”

  “Sure,” he replied. “What are we going to do with them?”

  “Mr. Floyd want to prop up pear trees,” Miguel answered in broken English as he cradled a bunch of the wooden poles in both arms and walked toward the flatbed truck waiting outside. Graham worked with Miguel for the next ten minutes transferring the poles from the barn to the truck.

  Just as they finished, the farm manager appeared at the main entrance. After giving orders to the other crews, he limped over to Graham and Miguel waiting at the back of the truck. “Miguel, pick up Redfield at the camp on your way to the pear orchard. You three will be working together today. Better take your lunch with you. It’s a long way out to the orchard. You won’t be coming back here until quittin’ time.” The Mexican nodded, and the two men climbed into the cab.

  The migrant camp was the temporary home of most seasonal farmworkers. Many large farms provided housing to accommodate laborers who could not afford a place to live during the summer picking season. Graham had seen the Big Hill “camp” from afar, but he had never been close to the residences.

  As Miguel guided the truck loaded with poles down a steep hill toward the camp, Graham could see it was nestled in a grove of trees. Platanus occidentalis, Graham thought to himself, recalling the genus and species of the sycamore trees shading the long building they were approaching. He had taken a field dendrology class at Penn State last semester and had thoroughly enjoyed identifying over 150 species of trees and shrubs. He was pleased he had not forgotten some of what he learned.

  The single-story camp building was essentially a poor man’s motel. A dozen doors opened into one- or two-room units built with whitewashed cinder blocks. A small concrete pad covered the bare ground in front of each door. Two small Black children were playing in the dirt at one end of the building, while a Hispanic mother sat on a folding lawn chair about twenty feet away holding a crying infant. A cloud of dust enveloped the flatbed truck as it rumbled to a stop at one of the end units. As Miguel reached to press the horn, Redfield emerged from the unit’s door and closed it behind him.

  “Buenos dias,” Redfield said as he approached the truck. “¿Cómo estás hoy?”

  “Estoy bien, gracias,” Miguel replied.

  Redfield opened the truck’s passenger door. Graham scooted to the middle to give Redfield a place to sit. “And how about you, Gra’am?” he asked, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lower lip.

  “Just fine.”

  Miguel steered the truck uphill and maneuvered his way between the rows of trees laden with apples that were almost ripe. The loose pile of wooden poles clacked and clattered as the truck moved over the uneven road toward the distant orchard of young pear trees. Neither of the older men spoke during the fifteen-minute journey, although Graham would have enjoyed some conversation.

  When they arrived at the orchard, all three men set to work. Graham had previously helped prop up peach-tree limbs, so he knew what to do. Poles were to be placed under any pear branches severely bent by the weight of fruit. As Graham stood at the crest of the hill and looked over the acres of pear trees, he could see this task was going to take several days.

  A few hours later, Floyd showed up in the pear orchard driving his pickup truck to where the trio was working. “Miguel, I need you to come with me,” he said with a sigh through the pickup’s window. “Marcus got the big tractor and mower stuck down by the creek. It’s in the mud up to the axles, and we’re gonna need your help to get it pulled out. Redfield, you can drive the flatbed here in the orchard. But as you know, Graham will need to take the wheel when you go on the county road.”

  The work was not especially difficult, but it required some thought about where to best place each pole to provide maximum support. Graham occasionally had to experiment with the best pole placement while Redfield seemed to have a knack for getting the supports in the optimum location. The pair was constantly moving the truck forward to keep the supply of wooden poles close to the trees they were working on. As a result, there wasn’t much of a chance to engage in conversation. When they finally sat down for lunch in the shade of a large white oak that bordered the pear orchard, Graham decided to see if Redfield was in a talkative mood. He wanted to ask the Crow Indian about something extraordinary he had witnessed during cherry-picking season last month.

  * * *

  All pickers were given paper tickets with their names and designated numbers at the start of each day. As pickers filled aluminum buckets, they carried them to the back of a truck that served as a check-in area. Floyd’s wife, Mary, would punch a hole in the ticket for each bucket of sour cherries delivered. All cards were collected at the end of the day. This simple accounting method was used for calculating individual payments. Pickers were paid weekly at a rate of sixty cents per level full bucket.

  Graham was stationed at the check-in area during cherry-picking season. His responsibilities included dumping the buckets of cherries into large, flat, plastic ventilated bins and sorting out any bad fruit, then loading the bins onto a flatbed truck for transport to the local fruit-processing factory. At the end of the season, there was increased pressure to get all the fruit harvested before the cherries overripened and rotted. Because he was an experienced picker, Redfield was asked to supplement the efforts of the seasonal migrant workers by picking fruit during the final week.

  On a hot and humid July afternoon, a cluster of migrant workers had gathered at the check-in table to get their tickets punched. As Graham returned from the truck, he overheard a lanky Black man and a short Hispanic man arguing. Mary was trying to calm them down, and Graham could see she was on the verge of tears.

  “What’s going on?” he asked Ma
ry as he walked up to the trio.

  “These two fellas claim the other guy stole one of their buckets. They both set their buckets next to each other, and they must have gotten mixed up. Both are telling me they brought six buckets apiece. “But look,” she said with a worried look on her face. “There are only ten buckets here, not twelve.”

  Graham thought, why not just give both men credit for six buckets? Is the cost of two buckets of cherries worth this angst?

  Redfield sauntered up behind the two pickers, put his hand on their shoulders one at a time, and motioned with his head to step away from the check-in table. The Crow alternately spoke in English and in Spanish to the migrant workers for a few minutes. A short time later he walked up to Mary holding their tickets.

  “Miss Mary, go ahead and punch six times on both tickets, please.” When she began to object, Redfield said, “Take the extra cost from my paycheck this week.”

  Mary shook her head but obliged and handed the tickets back. “You shouldn’t do this, Redfield. These people just need to be honest. How are they ever going to learn?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Redfield said. “They’re just a little hot and tired. I don’t think we’ll have this argument again.”

  Redfield, the solitary man of few words, had adroitly used diplomatic skills to avert a nasty incident. And he gave up a portion of his meager salary to make it happen. Graham’s respect for this man grew.