by Linda Ellen
For the next few minutes, the preacher-turned-base commander sent up to the Almighty a heartfelt plea for help. Each person in the large room, regardless of the strength of his or her own convictions, heartily hoped that the unseen deity was listening.
When he finished, he pronounced a firm, “Amen,” which the others echoed. They stood silent in the soft flickering light of the oil lamps for a few moments, each one hearing the rush of the water outside.
Finally Irene, with her soft soprano voice, began to sing Annie S. Hawks’ beloved spiritual, I Need Thee Every Hour…
I need Thee every hour, most gracious Lord;
No tender voice like Thine can peace afford.
I need Thee, O I need Thee;
Every hour I need Thee;
O bless me now, my Savior,
I come to Thee.
Most of the others joined in the best they could. Vic, having never attended church, could only stand and listen to the strangely comforting song. He wished at that moment that he were familiar with the Savior of which she sang…
When she finished, Doc murmured a heartfelt plea into the stillness, “Hear us, oh God. Don’t leave us without hope…”
Then just, 90 minutes after it had gone silent, the battery-powered base radio sprang to life as the familiar voice of WHAS returned to the airways.
“Praise the Lord!” Doc shouted amidst the cheers of his crew.
“Sorry about that folks,” intoned the announcer. “We went down temporarily, but we’re back. Somebody up there must like us,” he added with an attempt at levity, explaining quickly to his listeners that a company called Kentucky Utilities had found a way to supply them with emergency power.
The others hugged and laughed with relief to hear the familiar voice of announcer, Foster Brooks, as he once again began broadcasting messages of public service, missing persons, important information, and of course, pleas to, ‘Send a Boat’.
But outside the rain, snow, and sleet continued to fall on a darkened Louisville.
*
“Okay, listen up everybody,” Doc called out, as about twenty of his volunteers were milling about the base station the next morning. No one relished the thought of going out in the frigid weather, although thankfully – mercifully – the rain and sleet had stopped during the night. The sun was actually shining for the first time in days – so many days, no one could remember.
“I just came from a meeting with the mayor at city hall. With the power out and temperatures so low, its gonna force thousands more folks to need another place to stay until the water decides to go down. They’re saying might be as many as 75,000 more refugees.”
The men and women nodded understandingly, very glad that they had heat in their building, despite the fact that they were depending on candles and oil lamps for light. Two of the ladies, Irene and a younger woman named Mae, had elected to stay the night in the warehouse, on cots fixed up in the small office on the main floor. Each of them lived alone and neither relished the thought of spending a powerless and heatless night alone.
Doc continued, “So he’s called the governor and asked to declare martial law. Ft. Knox is rushing 500 soldiers here to help keep order and give aid to the victims. They’re gonna use Bowman Field to fly in tons of supplies – that is, if the rain’ll hold off long enough to let the fields dry. And get this – even the White House is in on this – we heard that President Roosevelt is operatin’ on a 24-hour wartime basis, and he’s receiving continual updates.” The others glanced at one another in mild shock at this revelation. Observing this, Doc continued explaining, “Louisville ain’t the only town hit by this flood, you know. They’re sayin’ the entire Ohio Valley, and much of the lower Mississippi Valley’s been affected – every town along the waterways…including Pittsburgh and Cincinnati…are flooded, too.”
Amazed, Vic and the boat crews and volunteer ladies of B-13 shook their heads, each one swallowing nervously or unconsciously wrapping their arms across their chests. Until that moment, the thought had not occurred to them that the disaster might be affecting people in other areas, as well. They truly hadn’t been able to see or even think beyond the massive amounts of water in their own streets. It was odd… but somehow, knowing others were affected triggered splintered responses of both relief that they weren’t alone – and fear that the disaster was on such a grand scale. It felt like the end of the world had come…
“That means we’re gonna have to redouble our efforts at evacuating,” one boat captain murmured. The others nodded, musing that they thought they had completed at least that part of their mission.
“Not necessarily,” Doc quickly intoned. “Seems that an architect, a Captain Ironsmith, and an engineer named Wyse, had an idea for building something they’re calling a pontoon bridge. They started building it about an hour ago, recruited 300 workers – one of the local whiskey distillers donated something like 1,400 barrels to provide the ballast. Danged if it just might work, too!” he added with a laugh.
“A bridge? How in the world…?” Gerald murmured, reaching one hand up to scratch his head in confusion. “A bridge to where? From where?”
“They’re gonna make it run about 1,800 feet, a floating bridge, from somewhere on East Jefferson all the way to Baxter Avenue. All folks will have to do is get to the start of it and they can walk out to dry ground.”
“But…why do they need that? We can take ‘em out in our boats, just like we been doin’…” Vic pointed out, the others nodding agreement.
“Good question, Matthews. But…morale has really plummeted since the power went out last night. The mayor’s afraid people will panic thinkin’ they’re gonna freeze to death, and maybe even try to wade through the water to get to higher ground and warmth. With the temperature of that water, I don’t have to tell you how long a person would last. Not to mention catching pneumonia or whatever. The bridge’ll give ‘em something to do other than just sit shivering, waiting for a rescue boat, I guess,” Doc shrugged. Although he thought the bridge an ingenious idea, interesting and inventive, he actually agreed with Vic that it did seem a bit unnecessary.
“But it won’t make us obsolete,” he grinned at their suddenly crestfallen expressions. We’re one of the stations the mayor’s picked for a new assignment – delivering food rations to stranded folks around the city.”
The men nodded, some murmuring to their fellow crewmembers as Doc continued, “Any volunteers? Just to let you know, I ain’t putting all my crews on distribution duty. There’ll still be rescues and transports needed every day, folks needing to get to the hospital or other places – for however many days the dang water stays where it is.”
When no one immediately spoke up, Doc put his hands on his hips.
“Matthews? How ‘bout your guys?”
Vic and Gerald exchanged glances. Phil and Eugene had not yet come down for breakfast, but it didn’t sound like backbreaking duty to the crew’s chief.
“Sure, Doc,” Vic answered with a shrug. Their commander nodded and scanned the remaining men, calling out several more choices before moving on to other subjects.
*
Vic and his guys spent the day delivering Red Cross food supplies to those stranded in second floor refuges. Now that the power was off, for many, these food rations would mean the difference between starving and surviving.
During one pass down Chestnut, Vic ordered the boat be brought up to the Hoskins’ apartment house. Upon hearing the sound of the motor slowing nearby, Mr. Anderson raised the window of their second floor dwelling and looked down below.
“Hello, down there!” he called down.
“Hello, sir,” Vic answered. “How is everything? Noticed any looters tryin’ to get in?”
“Nope, we haven’t heard a thing,” the man responded.
“What about…the Hoskins’ son, Joseph – you all seen him since the family evacuated?”
Mrs. Anderson, her bundled head sticking out of a different window, spoke up, “Sonny? Yes
, he came by two days ago, and asked if we knew where his folks were, but we told him we didn’t know.”
“Well, where is he now?” Vic asked, excited to have found out some news about the missing boy.
Mr. Anderson shrugged, totally unconcerned. “Don’ know. He was in a boat with some other people, and they headed off that way,” he pointed west.
“He leave a message for his folks or anything?” Vic questioned, aggravated at the couple’s uncaring attitude. “The family’s been worried sick about him.”
“Nope. Just waved and went on,” the man answered. Then noticing the foodstuffs loaded in the boat, he added, “Whatcha got there?”
“Are ya in need?” Gerald called up. “We’re out deliverin’ food to the stranded. How many ya got with ya up there?”
“There’s six stayin’ here, countin’ my wife and me,” the man answered, as other heads began to jostle for position to look down and see who he was talking to. “And yeah, we could sure use some of that food.”
It stuck in Vic’s craw that the couple seemed so blasé about the fate of Joseph Hoskins. Nevertheless, he and the crew set about tossing a rope up to the man, and spent the next few minutes lifting cans and jars up to him, tied in a basket. When they were finished, they gave him and his missus a wave and continued on, the sound of their outboard motor echoing against the sides of the houses.
Hours later, their cartons of can goods and bags of potatoes and onions given away, the men turned the boat toward base, anxious to get a bite to eat and warm up for awhile before setting out on another mission of mercy.
Turning down Fourth, and cruising past the city’s main library branch, the crew couldn’t help but muse at the fitting sight they beheld. The library’s very lifelike statue of President Lincoln seemed to be kneeling in the water. The murky brown liquid lapped at the tails of the President’s long coat, which ended at the statue’s knees. His hands were clasped in front at his waist, his expression somber, as if he were saddened by the calamity.
“Looks like he’s prayin’,” Gerald murmured as they motored by.
“Yeah,” Vic agreed with a nod before cupping a hand at his mouth and calling out, “Atta boy, Honest Abe! Send up a prayer or two for this waterlogged old town!”
The guys knew that would be one flood memory that would never fade with time.
As they motored slowly on along the Venice-like streets, the four young men lapsed into silence. Gerald pondered the fate of the city itself and wondered if things would ever really be the same again. Phil and Eugene both lapsed into a kind of detached state, mostly thinking about the hot food they hoped to eat once they got back to base.
Vic, in his customary seat in the bow, watched the water for obstructions out of habit, while his mind pictured a girl…brown hair blowing in the breeze…hazel eyes twinkling with mirth…tinkling laughter as she slipped inside the door and out of his sight…
‡
CHAPTER 9
Life at Dove Creek
Louise turned onto her back on the lumpy straw mattress and stretched her arms above her head, as the club’s rooster let out another loud cock-a-doodle-do. With each new sunrise, she gained more of a dislike for that bird.
The swanky Dove Creek Country Club, like most establishments during the depression, had fallen on lean times. Although an enterprise geared at recreation and not a necessity, they had managed, by frugal management, to stay afloat and not close their doors. The owners had discovered quite prudent ways of allocating the club fees their members managed to pay. One such way was producing their own milk and eggs to supplement their food budget, while maintaining their air of luxury. Thus, the rooster.
Levering onto one elbow, Louise shivered and reached for her sweater as she glanced at the cold remains of the previous night’s fire in the massive fireplace. She shook her head, musing that the others had been right to predict that Mrs. Geldhaus, their resident ‘Queen of England’, would not fulfill her turn to keep the fire burning.
Glancing over at the woman, snuggled with her small daughter within a mink coat, Louise shook her head as she remembered the ‘scene’ from the previous day.
The other ladies had gathered around the woman as she lounged in a chair near the stone fireplace, her mink draped over her shoulders. She was curled comfortably, reading one of the magazines she had brought along. As usual, she was not attending to her children, Trudi and Hubert, who at that moment were chasing one another from room to room and making quite a racket.
Lilly and another lady, Mrs. Haddaway, exchanged glances as Lilly cleared her throat to get the woman’s attention. Disinterestedly, Mrs. Geldhaus glanced over the top of the magazine at the assemblage of ladies, and droned, “Yes, what is it?” as if she were addressing a downstairs’ maid.
Mrs. Fieldstone, the mother of a small, rambunctious boy, spoke up, “We wanna know if you’re gonna tend to the fire tonight. We’ve all took our turns, goin’ practically without sleep like I did last night – and me with a two-year-old ta’ look after during the daylight hours,” she’d added with a huff.
The snooty woman lowered her magazine with an air of superiority that would put Greta Garbo to shame. “I don’t see how that is my responsibility. I didn’t ask to be brought here in the first pla…” she argued, but Lilly cut her off.
“None of us wanted to leave our homes. But the water rose and there was nothing else for any of us to do, unless we had family or friends on the high side of town. Now, however, we’re stuck out here together and we simply must be civil to one another – and work together.” Lilly’s anger had arisen half a notch with each word, as she could tell by the woman’s expression she wasn’t ‘receiving’ it.
The other ladies were all nodding in agreement and crossing their arms on their chests. On a roll, Lilly continued, “It stands to reason that we should all take a turn. And not only that – but you allow Trudi and Hubert to run wild, while the rest of us keep a firm hand on our children. It’s only fair that…”
“All right, all right,” Mrs. Geldhaus huffed with one hand upraised. “I’ll get up and ‘tend’ to the fire tonight,” she drawled, deliberately mocking Mrs. Fieldstone’s Kentucky twang. “Happy?” she added with a sneer, before waving a hand at them dismissively and raising her magazine once more, effectively terminating the conversation.
Somewhat satisfied, although each one noticed the woman had ignored the reference to the children, the ladies turned away. They headed back to what they were doing before Mrs. Fieldstone had talked the others into confronting Mrs. ‘Geldawful’, as she had named her.
Across the room, lying side by side on their mats, Louise and her sister had observed the exchange. Edna paused documenting it in her diary to glance over at her sister’s face, noting the pleased smile and nod.
“Ten to one she don’t do it, she’s such a pill,” Edna commented with her trademark snort.
“Nah, she’ll do it,” Louise immediately countered. “She sure don’t want Mama to get after her,” she added with a giggle.
Edna turned her head to watch as their mother, sitting with some of the other ladies, had already plunged into an animated conversation that had quickly arisen as to the best recipe for cooking Chop Suey. Mama’s recipe for that could win an award, Edna mused, as she watched her mother lean forward and rattle off ingredients, ticking them off one by one on her fingers. Trading recipes had become a daily activity the ladies used to pass some time.
“Turning back to her sister, Edna snorted again. “Yeah, but Mama can’t take a switch to Mrs. Geldawful.”
Both girls dissolved into giggles as they pictured the scene – the woman shrieking in fear and dashing around the dining room, mink flapping in her wake, as their mother charged after her with a switch raised high in one fist, hollering, “You come back here and take your whippin’!”
“Hey Edna,” murmured Suzy Flynn, a young widowed mother of four-year-old twins, as she paused by Edna’s mat. “The iron’s free now if you want to us
e it. Better hurry before somebody else gets it, though,” she added before walking on to put away her freshly laundered and pressed clothing.
With a grunt and a mumbled ‘thanks’, Edna closed and locked her diary and shoved it under her pillow. Climbing to her feet, she grabbed the pile of clothes she’d been waiting to iron, and took off toward the laundry room without a backward glance.
Louise watched her go, shaking her head and musing over her sister’s quaint oddity of ironing, to flawless perfection, every stitch of clothing she wore – right down to her undies.
Lying back down on her mat, Louise glanced around before reaching underneath and pulling out a carefully folded newspaper clipping. Tenderly smoothing out the folds, she stared at the grainy black and white image of four smiling young men in a motorboat. But it was only one smile that she cared about… a young man with dark eyes, and dark wavy hair under a jaunty cap. The heading of the article read, “Hometown Heroes Save Six Lives.”
Louise’s hazel eyes twinkled as she read again the short article. The death toll in this continuing crisis nearly increased by six this morning. A family of five, as well as Doctor Morris Edwards, who had come to render assistance, nearly succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning after the furnace in the family’s home malfunctioned. However, thanks to the timely actions of a volunteer boat crew from station B-13, all six victims survived what could have been a terrible tragedy. Help was summoned, and the crew from B-13 sped across the waterlogged streets to the aid of their fellow Louisvillians, transporting them to Louisville City Hospital in the nick of time. “The crew obviously knew just what to do,” stated John Stratton, M.D, who treated several of the victims. “And despite the fact that they didn’t know what these people were suffering from – in other words, they could have been contagious – they wasted no time in getting them here,” Pictured from left to right are the heroes: Gerald Gutterman, Phil Drexler, Eugene Banks, and Victor Matthews.
