No Ordinary Joes

by Larry Colton

  Tim was trying to keep a positive attitude, not just about his dad but about everything. On the days he had to go to Balboa Naval Hospital for tests, however, it was tough. Located next to scenic Balboa Park in San Diego, the hospital had become the primary care provider for thousands of military families in Southern California, and now housed nearly 20,000 war wounded; a walk down a hallway could be depressing. The facility was so short-staffed that on some rotations young doctors were overseeing as many as a thousand patients. For Tim, who was born impatient, the waits seemed endless.

  He glanced out the window again, hoping to see Gordy arrive; there was still no sign of him. Bulldozers and contracting crews worked on a new subdivision across the street. Chula Vista was on the front edge of suburban expansion in southern California, and with the return of thousands of servicemen who wanted to stay in the area, the lemon tree orchards that once covered the landscape were now giving way to low-cost housing developments soon to be financed by the GI Bill.

  Tim spotted the postman and his hopes soared, just as they did every day. Maybe there would be another letter from Valma. Since his release, he had reconnected with her by mail, telling her that he’d thought about her every day in prison camp and that he still wanted to marry her. To his great relief and happiness, she’d written back, telling him how she’d never taken off the engagement ring he’d given her the last day they were together in Perth. He was also happy to learn that she and his parents had been exchanging letters for over a year while he was in prison camp. She’d even sent them a picture of herself, which was now framed and sitting on a shelf in the living room. But Tim was even happier when she agreed to his proposed plans. He’d already sent her the money for the trip to the States; she had said that she wanted to get married in Los Angeles. She’d never been to America, but she’d read about LA in magazines and seen it in movies, and it seemed so romantic, the perfect place to be married. LA was fine by Tim. Now he just had to wait for the red tape to be removed. According to reports, Congress was about to pass the War Brides Act, which would make it easier for servicemen to bring their foreign girlfriends to America to wed. There was still a lot of paperwork they would have to complete before it could happen, but Tim was impatiently counting the days.

  On this day, however, there was no letter from Valma, for the tenth day in a row.

  Finally, a car arrived and Gordy stepped out, accompanied by a woman. At first glance, Tim figured his crewmate had gotten married, but upon closer examination, Tim saw the gray hair and wrinkles. It was Gordy’s mom.

  Tim ushered them into the living room and introduced his parents.

  Gordy explained that he and his mother and youngest brother, Willie, had driven down from Yakima to deliver Willie to Navy boot camp. “But that’s not why we came to see you,” added Mrs. Cox, looking first at Tim, then at his mother.

  She paused, choking back tears, and pointed toward Tim. “Young man,” she said, “as a mother I want to thank you for what you did for my son. He tells me you saved his life.”

  Tim remembered smuggling portions of rice back into the barracks to feed Gordy when he was close to death. “We all did what we had to do to survive,” he said.

  Mrs. Cox turned to Tim’s parents. “Your son’s a hero,” she said.

  “They’re all heroes,” said Tim’s dad, beaming.

  Tim checked the mailbox again, hoping for a letter from Valma. This time there was a nice thick one.

  He was nearing the end of his ninety-day leave, and soon he’d have to make a decision on what he wanted to do next. He’d always admired his uncle’s success in the insurance business and considered the possibility of going to work for him. But his uncle was back in Texas, and with his parents now living in California, that might be a harder transition. It was more likely that he would stay in the Navy and try to become an officer. Before he had been captured, he really liked the life—the camaraderie, structure, job security, and feeling of being part of something special, especially as a submariner. But he didn’t know whether he could qualify for training as a naval officer. He hadn’t completed high school, and although the Navy would count the time he’d spent as a POW toward a commission, he didn’t feel confident that he’d learned the skills necessary to advance, at least not yet. His second, and bigger, concern was Valma. It would be hard enough on her coming to a new country and culture without knowing anyone, but to have her husband away from home and out to sea for long periods of time seemed a truly daunting way to start a marriage.

  He opened the envelope, smelling the letter as he pulled it out. He liked the way her letters always were written on scented stationery.

  Congress had just passed the War Brides Act, and Tim was just one of tens of thousands of U.S. military personnel now involved in bringing their potential mates across the Atlantic and Pacific to marry. America was now experiencing an unusual new wave of immigrants, dubbed “petticoat pilgrims” by the press, women who’d first met American servicemen during a time of war and chaos. These women were now arriving daily on converted warships. It wasn’t an easy transition; prior to leaving, they had to fill out mountains of forms in triplicate and endure sometimes humiliating physicals. They were also often the target of anger and scorn from returning servicemen in their own countries, who were resentful that the women were chasing after a romanticized version of love in America. And now these war brides were quickly encountering difficulties for which love in wartime hadn’t prepared them. They stepped off the ships and discovered men much different from the ones they’d met during the war. Some were battle-scarred. Some had gone from romantic to abusive. Some were broke. Some were jobless. Some were drinking too much. And now, on top of all that, these women were far from home and incredibly lonely, with no money for return passage.

  But unfolding Valma’s letter, Skeeter wasn’t worried about any of that. What he knew was that she was the prettiest girl he’d ever met, with an accent so sweet and lilting that he would never get tired of listening to her. In his eyes, for her to be willing to give up everything she had to come halfway across the world to be with him … well, she certainly had to love him an awful lot.

  He began to read:

  Dear Tim,

  It is with the deepest sorrow that I am returning your engagement ring and the money you sent for my trip to America.

  He stopped reading. “No, no,” he gasped; it felt like someone had sucked all the air out of his lungs. How could this be true? His mind flashed to their last night together, and how he’d shouted for joy when she accepted his proposal. And all those nights in prison camp when he lay in his bunk and thought about her and dreamed of their life together. It didn’t matter that they had probably spent less than ten days together, or that they had never made love. This couldn’t be happening.

  Maybe he’d misread that first line. But no, it was true. He continued reading: Valma’s mother had cancer and Valma needed to be there for her. His first thought was that Valma had just made up the story to let him down easy. His second thought was that maybe her mother would die soon and Valma could come to the States then.

  But the more he reread the letter and the more he thought about it, the more hopeless it felt. Nothing he’d suffered in prison camp—the starvation, the days in the bunker, the constant battle with the guards—had ever caused him to lose hope. But this was pushing him to the edge.

  Part Nine

  SIXTY YEARS LATER

  47

  Chuck Vervalin

  Concord, California

  As far as Las Vegas buffets go, it was pretty pathetic: skinny chicken thighs, lumpy mashed potatoes, soggy green beans. But the tasteless food didn’t matter to the Grenadier survivors, men familiar with eating rice one grain at a time. It was December 2000, and they were gathered for their annual reunion within the Sub Vets Reunion at the Imperial Palace, a low-rent hotel on the Vegas strip.

  Chuck Vervalin was holding court, his deep voice rising above the low din of slot machines and gamble
rs on the other side of the wall. Of the dozen survivors at the reunion, he seemed the most robust, a cross between Ernest Borgnine and Ed Asner.

  “Has anyone heard from Johnny Johnson?” he asked, inquiring about his bunkmate at Fukuoka #3.

  For Chuck, seeing Johnny Johnson had been a big incentive to attend this reunion. They had not seen each other since the day in 1945 when Chuck and Tim walked out of camp. They’d each sent a few Christmas cards over the years, but there had been no other contact. Johnson lived in Winston-Salem, North Carolina; Chuck in Concord, California.

  Since Bob Palmer organized the first Grenadier reunion in 1975, Chuck had been to all but one. Now, with most of the survivors in their early eighties, there was a greater sense of urgency; fewer and fewer men attended each year, their ranks depleted by death and illness. A bottle of Dom Perignon was being held in safekeeping by a son of one of the crew, to be delivered to and shared by the last two remaining survivors.

  During dessert Bernie Witzke, who now lived in San Diego, brought up the subject of reparation. He had recently written Senator Orrin Hatch of the Armed Services Committee, inquiring about the status of a proposed bill to make restitution to all former POWs. He pulled a sheet of paper out of a folder.

  “I got this form letter back telling me the same old bullshit they’ve been telling us for years,” said Witzke, passing around the letter. “It’s funny how our government has been able to somehow pay $25,000 to all those Japs that had to go into internment camps but has never given us a dime. I’m not saying those Japs didn’t deserve compensation, it’s just that we were the ones fighting for our country.”

  As Chuck pushed back from the table, ready to call it a night, he glanced across the room and spotted a handsome, elderly man with thinning silver hair entering the room, escorted by an elegantly dressed elderly woman. Chuck studied the man, trying to place him. Suddenly a light of recognition went on, and he quickly headed toward the couple.

  “Johnny!” he exclaimed, his voice cracking.

  The two men walked toward each other, meeting in the center of the room. They paused ten feet apart, each trying to peel away five decades. It was Chuck who spoke first.

  “You old blanket hog,” he said.

  “Friend,” drawled Johnson, “I do believe it was you who hogged the blanket.”

  Chuck and Johnny embraced, tears rolling down their cheeks.

  After his visit with Irene Damien, and her letter telling him that she wanted to get a divorce and be with him, Chuck wrote back and gently told her that he just couldn’t do it. Instead, he continued exchanging love letters with Gwen in Australia, and in May 1946 he brought her to America on the War Brides Act. Three days after her arrival, they were married in a small wedding ceremony in Chicago, where Chuck was first stationed after deciding to pursue a career in the Navy. His best man was Eugene Lutz, the Marine he’d met at Fukuoka #3. At Gwen’s request, Chuck converted to Catholicism.

  Their wedding night at the Blackstone Hotel was a disaster. Like many young men who’d gone off to war, Chuck had not yet learned a more gentle approach to lovemaking. For Gwen, a virgin, the experience was painful and traumatic. She screamed so loudly for him to stop that hotel security came to the room to make sure everything was okay. Chuck assured them that it was, but it was an inauspicious start to the marriage.

  Over the next couple of months, Chuck tried to introduce Gwen to life in America, taking her to a Cubs game at Wrigley, midget auto racing, a Sinatra concert, and even an opera, but for Gwen, the transition was difficult, and she had serious doubts about her decision to move to America. Chuck took her to parties with other Navy personnel and their wives, but she didn’t drink and found it hard to fit in.

  Six months after they were married, Chuck was transferred to Pensacola, Florida. By this time, Gwen was pregnant, so she stayed behind in Chicago, living in a $30-a-month, one-room hotel studio, sleeping on a Murphy bed. With no friends or family for support, one lonely day passed into another. When their son, John, was born in July 1947, Chuck did not return to Chicago, and Gwen became deeply depressed.

  She thought about getting a divorce, but she couldn’t reconcile that with her strict Catholic upbringing. For the next twenty-five years, while Chuck traveled the globe with the Navy, including a stint in Vietnam, and climbed to the rank of lieutenant commander, Gwen stayed home and raised their children: John and a daughter, Marilyn, born in 1954. Chuck’s career took him out to sea for months at a time, and Gwen resented his long absences. After thirty-eight years, they divorced in 1984. Neither remarried.

  It was June 2002, and Chuck was at his daughter Marilyn’s house on a cul-de-sac in Walnut Creek, a suburb twenty miles east of San Francisco. His car, a Japanese-made Toyota with a “WWII POW and Submarine Vet” license frame, was parked in front. Marilyn was at work at her job as an insurance adjuster, and her two children, Paige, a fifth grader, and Jonathon, an eighth grader, were at school. Chuck, who lived five miles away in nearby Concord, was at the house to supervise the installation of new windows, for which he was paying. Chuck’s son-in-law had died of a stroke three years earlier at the age of forty-two. That same night, Chuck suffered a heart attack after he rushed over to Marilyn’s house; he spent a week in intensive care and missed his son-in-law’s funeral. Adding to the family’s grief, his son John died a year later at the age of fifty-three.

  Wearing khaki pants and an Old Navy T-shirt, Chuck sat outside in the sun-splashed backyard, proudly pointing out the deck that he had built.

  “I wasn’t the best husband or father,” he admitted. “I was never around when my kids were growing up. I guess I’m trying to make up for it now with Marilyn and her two kids.”

  He pointed toward a new flat-screen TV he’d just bought for his daughter. “I pulled a groin muscle trying to unload that damn thing,” he said. “But I did a good job negotiating down the price. The salesman was Jewish. They know how to deal.”

  Over the sound of hammers and Skilsaws in the background, Chuck talked about his life over the last sixty years. When he talked about Gwen, he was gruff and surly, but when talking about Marilyn and his grandkids, he was thoughtful and borderline sweet. He also showed signs of the devilish sense of humor that had repeatedly gotten him into trouble as a child, and despite being in his eighties and having suffered a number of physical setbacks, he was clear-minded. When the conversation turned to his time in prison camp, he furrowed his brow and stiffened.

  “Those little bastards were fuckin’ evil,” he said, almost snarling. “I’ll never forget what they did to us.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “But I can forgive them. A few of the guards and pushers were actually nice to me. When you think about it, they were just doing what they’d been trained to do. It was all that Bushido bullshit. It’s like the Palestinians today. They don’t know any other way.”

  * * *

  Chuck planned well for his retirement; he was collecting a Navy pension, Social Security, disability compensation, and another pension from the fifteen years he worked for the Contra Costa Humane Society after retiring from the Navy. In total, his income was almost $6,000 a month, plus his house was paid off and he was making a little money from investments in the stock market. He claimed he broke even on his regular excursions to the racetrack. In addition to being able to contribute to remodeling and other household expenses for Marilyn, he still made monthly support payments to Gwen, even though they’d been divorced for nearly twenty years. He co-owned her condo in Concord a few miles away.

  Chuck vividly recalled the details of the sinking of the Grenadier and how Captain Fitzgerald had been waterboarded.

  “That’s one thing I can’t forgive ’em for,” he bristled. “That was inhuman. Believe me, Fitzgerald was one tough sonuvabitch.”

  Chuck was interrupted again, this time by a phone call from Gwen. They still talked on the phone or saw each other almost daily. Perhaps it was because of a shared grief over the loss of their son, or because t
hey were both deeply involved in the lives of their daughter and grandkids, or because they had met and fallen in love in the frenzy of wartime. Whatever the reason, the connection was still there. When Chuck was sick the previous week, Gwen had brought him meals and done his laundry. The day before, he had gone to her condo to fix a leaky kitchen faucet and help get her car repaired. Although hard-pressed to say anything nice about Gwen, even about her parenting skills, he generously gave her his time and provided a big part of her financial support.

  “Two weeks ago is a perfect example,” he said. “I spent almost the whole day taking her to get her medicine up at Travis Air Force Base because it’s cheaper there, but when I asked her for three dollars for bridge fare, she acted as if I was some sort of serial killer.

  “And I’ll tell you something else that pisses me off about her. From the day we got married, she has constantly told me how I ruined her life. If you listen to her, I practically kidnapped her from her beloved Australia. Well, if that’s the case, why didn’t she move back? I’ll tell you why … she’d rather stay here and bitch at me and remind me what a bad father and shitty husband I was.

  “I’ve tried to be nice, but it doesn’t work. I tried not talking to her and that didn’t work either. She just keeps complaining. Just once I’d like to talk with her when she doesn’t complain about something. She goes to church every week, but as far as I can tell, it doesn’t do her any good.”