by Kirby Larson
“Me, too.” She patted the locket at her throat. “I mean, your dad and my husband.” Then she turned her red pencil over and over again. “I want them all to come home.”
Hobie wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw tears sparkling in her eyes. “They say the war will be over soon.”
Mrs. Thornton’s smile wobbled. “I hope so. I certainly hope so.”
Hobie could hear his classmates in the cloakroom. Recess was over. “I’ll put these away.” He picked up the flash cards.
Hobie set them on the math shelf in the supply closet. As he closed the door, he saw Mitch bump against the spotter model.
It crashed to the floor. The right wing sheared clean off.
Hobie ran over. “You did that on purpose!”
“No, I didn’t.” Mitch held out his hands. “Honest.”
Mrs. Thornton bustled to the back of the room. “What’s going on?”
Max picked up the plane. Before Hobie could say anything, Mitch jumped in. “I accidentally bumped this off the counter.”
Hobie glared at him.
“Oh, how awful.” Mrs. Thornton looked at Hobie. “Can it be repaired?”
“It’s ruined.” Hobie felt sick. He needed to go to the nurse.
“My grandfather might be able to fix it,” Max offered. “He’s a woodworker.”
Mrs. Thornton nodded. “Well, that’s a wonderful suggestion.”
Hobie looked at Max. The pigs’ feet grandfather. Who looked a little like Santa Claus. “How could he fix this?” He waved his hands over the mess.
“You never know,” Max said. “Come over and see.”
Mrs. Thornton started back for her desk. “Oh, Mitch, even though it was an accident, you still owe Hobie an apology.”
“I’m sorry about your plane,” Mitch said.
Hobie accepted the apology. For Mrs. Thornton. How could he believe anything that came out of Mitch Mitchell’s mouth? Hobie sat at his desk sending air arrows at Mitch the rest of the day.
“Walk home with me,” Max said after the last bell rang. “Grandfather can take a look.”
“I have to take June home first,” said Hobie. “I’ll come over after that.”
But not even the temptation of icebox cookies could keep June home when she learned what had happened.
“I don’t see the harm of her going along,” said Mom.
Hobie couldn’t believe it. It was like June was an anchor he had to carry everywhere.
“Mom!” he said. “She wasn’t invited. Just me.” Scooter had three little sisters, and he never had to drag any of them anywhere.
“I helped build the model,” June said. “I should get to go, too.”
“She does have a point, Hobie.” Mom hesitated. “Just this once. After this, Hobie goes to Max’s house on his own.”
Hobie groaned. As if there would be another time after this. Why did he have to have a little sister anyway?
“Use your company manners,” Mom said. She wrapped some icebox cookies in wax paper. “And take these.” She handed the package to June.
Hobie walked as fast as he could to the Kleins’. Still, June’s little legs managed to keep up. She turned shy when they got to the house, though, ducking behind Hobie when Max answered the door. Some kind of orchestra music was playing on a record player in the background.
“This is my kid sister, June,” Hobie said. “And these are from my mom.”
“Come on.” Max took the package of cookies. “My grandfather’s workshop is around here.” He led the way to a small building in the backyard. Hobie felt a little shy, too, now that he was here at Max’s house. It wasn’t noisy, like Scooter’s, with all his sisters giggling and gabbing.
“Opa?” Max called. “My friends are here.”
“Ja?” Max’s grandfather shuffled to the door of the shop. “Kommt doch rein.”
Hobie stepped inside, June right on his heels. The shop smelled of pitch and shavings and licorice. Familiar smells.
A wooden worktable ran the length of the far wall. Dozens of glass jars filled with nails and screws hung by their lids from the bottoms of three rows of shelves above the worktable. The short walls of the shop were covered with Peg-Board, from which hung an astonishing assortment of neatly arranged tools. Dad would have pronounced it shipshape.
“This is Hobie, and this is June,” Max introduced them. “And this is from their mom.” He unwrapped the cookies and offered them around.
“Danke.” Max’s grandfather ate his cookie in two bites. “Now, what is your trouble?” he asked.
Hobie felt better that the grandfather was speaking English. But it was confusing. Getting help from someone who was from Germany when Dad was over there fighting the Germans. Life could sure be complicated sometimes.
Hobie pulled the two pieces of the model from the box. “This,” he said.
Grandfather Klein brushed his hands off before taking the model from Hobie.
“Uh-huh.” His spectacles slid down his nose. “This. No problem.” He slipped on a pair of safety goggles and drilled one hole in the body of the plane and a matching hole in the edge of the wing.
“Max, bring me some of that doweling there.” He pointed at a coffee can that looked like it was filled with different-sized arrows, without the points.
“Will this do?” Max handed him a very thin piece.
“Gut.” Grandfather Klein picked up a small saw and cut the dowel to size. After squeezing a bead of smelly glue on either end, he pushed the bit of dowel into the hole he’d drilled in the body. Then he pushed the wing-hole onto the protruding tip of the dowel.
“Like new!” He handed the plane back to Hobie.
“That’s amazing.” It did look good as new. “Thank you. Thanks a lot.”
Max’s grandfather stepped over to a Crescent coffee can, removed the lid, and held it out to Hobie and June. Hobie glanced over at Max.
Max grinned. “Don’t worry. It’s not you-know-what.” He made a soft oinking sound.
“Licorice!” exclaimed June. “Yum.” She and Hobie each took a piece. Hobie sniffed his. Salty. And as hard as a piece of dried bubble gum. Not soft like the licorice he sometimes bought at Mrs. Lee’s.
“You must come again,” said Grandfather Klein. “Max would like that. Ja?”
“I would like that, ja,” said June.
Hobie tapped her. “He was talking to me,” he said.
June had put a piece of licorice in her mouth, so she couldn’t answer back. Mr. Klein laughed at the expression on her face.
As soon as they were outside, June spit out the licorice. “I don’t like that kind,” she said. “But I like Mr. Klein. He looks like Santa. Opa.” She tried out the word. “Opa Klein. And I like your friend Max, too.”
Hobie stopped for a second. His friend Max? Max, a friend? He tried that thought on for size. And liked it. Maybe Max wasn’t a drum major, like Scooter, directing Hobie’s life this way and that. But maybe there were different kinds of friends. Quieter kinds. “They’re both okay, in my book,” Hobie said. He whistled all the way home, carrying the model with care.
“Mail call,” Mom sang out when the front door creaked open. “For Mr. Hobie Hanson.”
Hobie took the letter from her. It was from Pfc. Corff. He paused before opening it, mentally crossing his fingers. Had his plan worked?
There was only one way to find out. Hobie took a deep breath and opened the envelope.
Dear Hobie,
We got our orders. I can’t tell you what they are exactly, but I can tell you that my tail’s wagging because we’re headed to California. I hope I get to meet Lassie!
Your pal,
Duke
The letter ended with a P.S.:
You don’t have to worry about a thing with Duke. He is the most disciplined dog in the unit. Even if we run into any squirrels where we’re going, I don’t think he’ll pay them any mind. But it was good of you to be concerned.
Semper Fi,
Pfc. Marvin Corff
Hobie folded the letter back up. All the lightness of the afternoon had turned to lead.
The only good news in the letter had been about California. That was about as far away from the war as you could get.
At least Duke would be safe.
After a few weeks without any mail from Dad, a bunch of letters arrived all at once. One for Hobie, one for June, and three for Mom.
“Read it to me!” June begged Hobie, waving her letter around. “Wait. Kitty wants to hear, too.” She ran and got her doll. “Now we’re ready.”
Dear Junebug,
I am proud of you, working so hard for the spelling ribbon. Though I’m pulling for you to win, what matters most is how much you have learned.
The cookies you and Mom sent arrived and were gone within minutes. I could’ve eaten the whole batch myself, but I refrained and shared them with my crew. They request oatmeal cookies the next time.
Since you are such a good speller, this question will be easy for you to answer: How many letters are there in the alphabet?
Brush your teeth, say your prayers, and mind your mother.
Love,
Daddy
“What a silly question Daddy asked,” June said. “Everyone knows there are twenty-six letters in the alphabet.”
Dad had played this trick on Hobie in his younger days.
“But that’s not the answer,” he said.
June recited the alphabet, counting out each letter on a finger. She went around her left hand five times, with one finger left over. “Twenty-six!” she insisted.
Hobie took a pencil and a piece of paper. He wrote the words “the alphabet” on the paper and pushed it toward June.
She scrunched up her face, looking at it this way and that.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “Now I get it! Eleven!” She grabbed another piece of paper. “I have to write Daddy back right away.”
Hobie had to hand it to June. She figured out that riddle faster than he had.
He picked up his own letter from Dad and began to read.
Dear Hobie,
Just when I think you can’t make me more proud, you tell me about making a spotter model. My bombardier said he thought it was mostly high school kids assembling them. He was quite impressed. I may be wearing the uniform, but you are certainly one of Uncle Sam’s soldiers.
I like many things about the people here, but their menus I will gladly leave behind. I would take lutefisk over kidney pie any day. And you know how fond I am of lutefisk!
When Uncle Tryg gets back from Alaska this summer, why don’t you ask him if there are any chores you can do? It would give your mother heart palpitations were you to go out on the Lily Bess, but there are plenty of jobs that can be done from the safety of dry land. It would mean a lot to me if you could lend a hand, since I can’t be there.
All right, my boy. Here’s a new one for you. It’s a knee-slapper, in my book: What happens when it rains cats and dogs? (You might step in a poodle.)
Aim, fly, fight!
Love,
Dad
Dad’s joke was pretty lame, but Mrs. Lee would get a kick out of it next time Hobie went to the store. Hobie skimmed the letter again. Aunt Ellen made lutefisk every Christmas, but Dad wouldn’t touch it. “It tarnishes the silver,” he’d say. “Think what it does to the innards!” Aunt Ellen would argue that every good Swede eats lutefisk, and Dad would say, “Well, it’s a good thing I’m Norvegian, isn’t it?” Hobie suspected Aunt Ellen only served the smelly stuff to get Dad’s goat.
The part of the letter that really jumped out, though, was where Dad wrote about Hobie helping with the Lily Bess. Neither Erik nor Emil had been allowed to work on her until they were thirteen. Hobie was not yet twelve. He took a deep breath. It was like he’d won a ribbon, himself, for Dad to say what he had.
Hobie’s top dresser drawer held quite a collection of letters. He tucked this one from Dad in, along with the others, including a nice stack from Duke, too. Well, from Pfc. Corff. He hadn’t heard from them in a while. He picked up the letter they’d sent back in February.
Dear Hobie,
I don’t want you to think it’s all work, work, work for me here. We dogs had a bit of fun the other day with some paratroopers. Seemed they thought the war dog unit was a bunch of hooey and had been digging at us but good — howling whenever they saw our handlers, throwing hot dogs at them, and generally being jerks.
Then they got the bright idea to sneak into our unit one night, thinking to cut the ropes on some of our guys’ tents. Those jumpers didn’t count on me and Big Boy. We kept them at bay until Marv and the rest rounded them up and sent them on their way. I don’t think they’ll be any trouble anymore.
I’ve been doing all that’s been asked of me. Some days, Marv can barely stand on his two legs at the end of a training session. But I have the zip to chase a ball for hours, no matter what.
Your pal,
Duke
P.S. Hobie — wish you could have seen the look on those paratroopers’ faces when Duke and Big Boy took them down. Two dogs. Six men. No problem!
Semper Fi — Marv
Hobie could very well imagine the looks on those troopers’ faces. He’d seen a similar look on Mitch’s that time in the park. He wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of Duke’s bad mood. But it sure sounded like those guys deserved it!
He riffled the edges of the envelopes lined up in his drawer. He was supposed to take something to school tomorrow, for the class Memorial Day program. The letters from Dad seemed too personal. There were the letters from Pfc. Corff, but what if someone — like Mitch — thought Hobie really believed Duke was writing to him? He’d never live it down.
But it wasn’t a bad idea. Sharing about Duke. Hobie bet no one else would think about remembering the four-legged members of the military. Mrs. Thornton might even give Hobie extra credit.
He pulled out the Dogs for Defense pamphlet Mr. Rasmussen had given him, and grabbed Volume Five of the World Book encyclopedia from his bookshelf. It had great pictures of all kinds of dogs. Hobie slid onto his desk chair and began pulling together some notes. Across the top of a piece of paper he wrote, K-9s for Uncle Sam. K-9s. Canines.
Mrs. Thornton would like that. She’d like it a lot.
“Welcome to the Room 31 Memorial Day celebration,” Mrs. Thornton announced the next morning. No one was surprised that her contribution was another photograph of her husband. He looked like a movie star, too, but not a heartthrob like Cary Grant. More like Jimmy Stewart.
Several students also brought pictures of fathers and uncles.
“This is my big brother, Mike.” Mitch waved a photo around without even waiting to be called on. “He just made Sergeant First Class.” There wasn’t much resemblance between the two brothers. For one thing, Mike wore a big smile. Looked almost friendly. “He’s whipping the Nazis in Italy,” Mitch boasted before sitting down.
Catherine Small showed off a muffler she was knitting for one of “the boys.” “This is the fifth one I’ve made,” she said. “I knit every day, after school, while I listen to the radio. My favorite shows are Dick Tracy and Jack Armstrong.”
“What a lovely gesture, dear,” said Mrs. Thornton.
Hobie never knew girls liked those kinds of shows, too. Come to think of it, Catherine wasn’t really the type to listen to anything like those soap operas Scooter’s sisters went crazy over.
Preston Crane, the class whiz kid, brought in a scrapbook he’d made of war headlines and articles, divided into color-coded sections.
“My goodness, this is thorough,” said Mrs. Thornton. Preston puffed up like he’d won the World Series, single-handed.
Mitch raised his hand. “We haven’t heard from Max,” he said in a weaselly voice.
“He was waiting his turn,” Hobie called out. Why did Mitch have to be so mean to Max? “And it’s way better than a picture,” he added. Max had given him a glimpse in the cloakroom before school.
Maybe what he’d brought would shut Mitch up for once.
“Max, would you like to share now?” Mrs. Thornton asked.
He pushed his chair away from his desk and pulled something from a paper sack. “My cousin sent me this belt buckle made from a coconut shell.” Max held it up. “He’s on the USS Enterprise,” he added. “A radio operator. He was there.” He paused. “In Pearl Harbor. He saved two of his buddies after the attack.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Thornton. She dabbed her nose with a lacy handkerchief. “You must be so proud of him.”
“Yes.” Max stared straight at Mitch. “Yes, we are.”
Right then, Dorine Bunch, one of the quietest kids in the class blurted out: “I miss Tomiko.”
It might have been the longest speech Hobie had ever heard her give. And he’d known her since kindergarten.
The classroom grew still. Hobie thought about the Japanese kids who’d been at their school. One day they were there, and the next day they weren’t. They’d been sent away to camps because of Pearl Harbor. Hobie didn’t even know where Tomiko went. Maybe to Minidoka. That’s where Uncle Tryg’s neighbors, the Sasakis, were. And from their letters, it didn’t sound like those camps were very nice.
“Tomiko was a great jump roper,” said Catherine.
“I still have the origami frog she made me,” said Marty.
“Remember when she brought us rice-paper candies on her birthday?” asked Preston.
Dorine put her head down. Tears dribbled onto her desk. Mrs. Thornton placed her arm around Dorine’s quaking shoulders.
“Thank you, dear, for helping us remember a good friend,” she said.
After a few moments, Dorine lifted her head up. Mrs. Thornton whispered something in her ear. Dorine nodded and left the room.
Mrs. Thornton went back to the front, by her desk. “Hobie, would you like to go next?”
Hobie stood up, his notes in hand. “I have a German shepherd, Duke. He’s really smart. And fast. And brave.”
He caught Mitch’s eye as he said this. “Well, my neighbor told me that the Army needed dogs. And then I heard about some kids on the Hop Harrigan show who gave their dog to the Army. And, well, I know how important it is to give our all here at home —” That earned a nod from Mrs. Thornton. Hobie stood taller.
