“How did you end up being in the Philippines?” This was off the subject of the book, but my historian’s heart couldn’t help delving into her incredible history.
“I was looking for adventure, so once I finished nursing school, I signed up for the army. Nothing scared me, not the meanest bull or the biggest rattlesnake.” She smiled, her teeth the pale yellow of churned butter. “I killed many a snake in my younger days. When we were in the camp, I was the snake killer. Some of the others girls weren’t raised out in the country, and snakes just scared them silly. Killer was another name they called me, but they weren’t being mean. They appreciated my talent with the sharp edge of a shovel.” Her round face, dotted with age spots, softened in memory. “The city girls had it so much harder than us country girls. We were used to doing things by kerosene light, used to critters like rats and spiders.” She sighed. “I wanted adventure, and I sure got it.”
“It must have been hard for your mother,” I said.
“Oh, Lordy, it was. I was her only girl, you know. I had five brothers; all of them but one joined up. One in each service—army, navy, air corps and marines. The youngest, William—that’s who my Billy is named for—had a bad heart, so he couldn’t serve. He died a week after VJ day. But he was with Mama the entire war, helping her and Daddy on the ranch as best he could.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He was a real comfort to her, especially when I was captured.”
I reached over and took her hand. The skin felt like warm tissue paper. “I’m so sorry, Miss Winnie.”
She pursed her lips; her head gave a small jerk. “But we made it. That’s what is important. You know, I told some of my stories to that lady who was writing the book, but I didn’t tell her everything. That would have taken much too long.”
“Maybe what I can do is write up a bunch of questions to get you started, and you could work on it when you felt like it. I could read them, then ask you for more details where I think it’s relevant. Only a little of it will be in Isaac’s book, but I think it would be great to get your whole story down for people to read. People need to hear your story.”
“I can do that,” she said. “But, you know, the others have their wartime stories too. Did you know that Thelma Rook wrote me every day without fail the whole time I was in the prison camp? She didn’t mail the letters because they probably would have never gotten to me. But she saved them and handed me the whole lot of them when I got back because she said she knew I’d be back. Took me a month to read them all. I still have them.”
“Wow,” I said. For oral history research, they would be invaluable. So many of the people of her generation had passed on already, and who knows what happened to their letters, pictures and memories?
“Billy’s got ’em. Bet he’d give those to you too if you asked.”
“That is incredibly generous. Thank you.” I clicked off the tape recorder. “You know, I love all this, but I need to focus now. What I’m here for today is something for Isaac’s book, so we need to concentrate on home as a specific concept.”
She shifted in her wheelchair. “Ask away.”
I clicked the recorder back on. “What specifically did you miss about the Central Coast, about your home here, when you were in the prison camp?”
She pressed her lips together, thinking. “Besides the obvious things like my mama’s voice and her sourdough biscuits, I guess I’d have to say that I missed the tule fog.”
“Tule fog?”
“Just any kind of cool fog, actually. It was so hot there, so tropical. Now, at first, it didn’t bother me. The first two months I lived there, before Pearl Harbor was bombed, it was like living in a paradise. We had a houseboy for the nurses’ quarters, and he used to deliver us fresh-squeezed papaya juice every day. You could go to the movies, polo matches, bowling.” She touched her cheek with her hand and, for a split second, the daring young woman with the dark lipstick returned. “Monkeys swung from vines and parrots darted through the trees with feathers as bright and pretty as circus balloons. I thought someone had dropped me off in heaven. It was so different from our ranch.”
“You didn’t think about home much when you first got there?”
“I thought about it, but like I said, it was the people I missed. Mama and I were very close. I’d only been away from her for the time it took me to attend school in San Francisco. When I went to the Philippines, I was unmarried and on my first big adventure. I thought I’d only be there a little while. I felt like home, my home here, was a place that would always be here.”
“Once you were captured, what were your feelings then?”
“The jungle lost its appeal real quick once we had to live in it. And the poor boys who were trying to fight the Japanese . . .” She shook her head, sighing deeply. “They tried so hard. They were so valiant. But they didn’t have a chance. We’d been caught by surprise, and no one was ready.”
“How did you keep going? Specifically, how did thoughts or memories of your home keep you encouraged?”
“You know, some of the other girls and I used to play a game called ‘What do you miss most about home.’ We’d play it when we were too tired or scared to sleep. Someone would start, and we could continue for hours. The memories would start out normal and expected, like I said, my mama’s voice and the taste of her sweet milk biscuits. All the girls had similar memories. But we played it enough times that people began to get creative. We would try to one-up the other, see who could come up with the most original or unusual memory. We came from all over the United States, so we were learning about backgrounds other than our own. One girl from Chicago, an Italian girl with the most gorgeous black hair—Teresa Daniello, her name was—said she missed the meaty juicy Italian roast beef sandwiches her grandma made. Another girl, Bridget—oh, I don’t recall her last name—she was from a Wisconsin dairy farm. She said she missed the feel of a cow’s udder. Oh, we teased her about that one.”
“What were some of your memories specific to the Central Coast?” That was exactly what I was looking for. Her answer might help Isaac decide how to photograph her.
She cocked her head, resting her cheek in her hand. “The smell of eucalyptus. Mama’s Coty powder. Daddy’s Saturday night boots.”
“His boots?”
She laughed softly. “I missed the sound of the shoe brush as he shined his good cowboy boots.” She moved her hand back and forth over her feet. “Shush, shush, shush. It meant we were going to town. Mama, the boys and I went to the picture show at the Fremont Theater in San Celina, and Daddy met his friends for a beer at the Bull Corral. Then we’d all eat pancakes and sausage afterwards at the Golden Horseshoe. It was where Liddie’s Café is today.”
“The Bull Corral? The bar across from the Chamber of Commerce?” It was a bit of a dive bar now, where tourists poked their heads inside to see if they could catch a glimpse of a real cowboy.
“The very one. It has been there forever. Anyway, those were my original memories. Eucalyptus and Daddy shining his black leather cowboy boots. Those were the things that made me think of home.” Her body seemed to sag slightly, and I realized we’d been talking for almost an hour. It was easy to forget that Miss Winnie was in her late eighties.
I stood up and brushed off the back of my jeans. “I have enough for now. Besides, I can come back another time. “Would you like me to take you back to your room?”
“That would be nice,” she said, her eyes blinking rapidly. “All this remembering is making me crave a good long nap.”
Back in her room, I helped her into bed and arranged a white afghan over her legs. “I appreciate you talking to me, Miss Winnie. And I really appreciate what you did for our country. I know I’m not the first to say this, but you are a hero.”
“Oh, pshaw,” she said. “A lot of people sacrificed back then. It was hard, but you know, the main thing we knew is we were in it together. We had something to fight for. It sometimes felt harder when everyone got back home, truth be told. Women didn’t alway
s know what to do with themselves. The fifties were hard to figure out. So many boys were injured, and I don’t just mean physically. Like my Frank, they were all jumbled up inside their heads from all the horrible things they saw and did.” She sighed, closing her eyes. “But we made it through, most of us, anyway, by just tending to our homes and families, putting one foot in front of the other. When I talked to the man upstairs, it seemed like the answer always was to get back to work. There’s comfort in good hard work. And remember that better times are coming. You mind that now, Benni. You and your nice husband. You’ll get through all right because you’re a hard worker and you don’t give up. Your mama would have been so proud of you.” Her eyes fluttered, and soon she was snoring softly.
“Thank you, Miss Winnie,” I said softly, touching her hand. Then I picked up the album and shut the door quietly behind me.
I was certain that Isaac would approve of putting Winnie Dalton and her story in the book. He’d have many picture possibilities with her. Maybe we could even go up to San Miguel, find the ranch where she grew up, if there was anything left of it, and take her photo there. I’d check it out first; see if it was possible to take her out there and if she wanted to go.
I drove back to the museum and locked the album in my file cabinet. Since the museum and co-op buildings had a security system, I figured it would be as safe there as at my home. First thing Monday I would see about scanning the photos and articles about the Angels of Bataan, as they were called in the articles. There was a historical society meeting next week. I had an idea that I hoped the members would like, a dual exhibit at the folk art museum and the historical museum honoring nurses throughout our county’s history. Winnie Dalton and her story could be a huge part of the exhibit. More people needed to know about these remarkable women.
Excited about this new idea, my mind was already starting to write the ad I’d place in the Tribune asking nurses to come forward and tell their stories. It would be wonderful if we could have interviews from nurses serving in all the wars—World War II, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War. I wondered if there were any nurses still alive from World War I. That seemed unlikely, but one never knew. Maybe I could convince a reporter to write an article about military nurses and as a sidebar ask any of them to contact the museum or the historical society.
I passed the historical society building, the old brick Carnegie Library, where I’d gotten my first library card when I was five years old, and noticed Dove’s little red Ford pickup parked in front. I swung into the side parking lot. I was excited to run my idea by someone, and Dove was the perfect person. She and Aunt Garnet were no doubt there getting the historical society table ready for the farmers’ market tonight. Wayne Burrows, my high school American history teacher, who’d retired last year, was staffing the front desk. He wore a brown and pink argyle vest and brown wide-wale corduroy pants.
“Hey, Mr. Burrows,” I said. “Is Dove here?”
He straightened some brochures and nodded toward the stairs. “Down in the basement. She and her sister are boxing up the materials we’re taking to the farmers’ market tonight.”
“Have many people asked about the Memory Festival?” The historical society had been one of the festival’s biggest sponsors, memories being their forte, so to speak.
“A fair amount of inquiries.” He rubbed a finger along the side of his ski slope nose. “The first time for anything is always a crapshoot. I have a feeling it’ll do real well, though, which will make next year’s more popular.”
I grimaced. “I don’t even want to think about next year. I just want to get through Saturday. Then we’ll talk.”
“Best laid plans of mice and women,” he said, chuckling.
“Robert Burns,” I called over my shoulder. “With some poetic license.”
“Good girl,” he called back.
Downstairs I found Dove and Aunt Garnet folding down the lids of two almost identical pasteboard boxes.
“Hola, hermanas Honeycutt,” I said. “Do you need me to carry those anywhere for you?”
Dove looked up and smiled. “No, thanks, honey bun. One of the men is just going to walk them over with a dolly.” Lopez Street, where the farmers’ market took place, was only two blocks away.
“We’re sharing a booth with the Paso Robles Historical Society,” Garnet said. “They’re setting up; we’re in charge of taking it down.”
“Sounds good. How are things looking for Saturday?”
“We’ve got our own booth for the Memory Festival,” Dove said. “But don’t you worry about it. We’ve got everything under control.”
“Glad to hear that.” I sat down on an office chair in the corner and spun myself around a few times, then stopped myself with my toe. “Say, did you two ever hear anything about the Angels of Bataan and Corregidor?”
“Oh, my, yes,” Aunt Garnet said, taping the top of her box closed. “They were famous. Back during the war, all the newspapers across the country wrote about them. We all thought they were incredibly brave and glamorous.”
“Bet they didn’t feel all that glamorous after eating weevil-infested rice and canned sardines for three years,” Dove remarked, not bothering to tape her box. “That’s if they were lucky, from what I hear.”
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way, Sister,” Aunt Garnet said irritably. “I just meant we admired them. They were very brave.”
“Yes, they were,” Dove agreed. “But it couldn’t have been easy coming back. After what they went through, which was more horrible than any of us could imagine, they paraded those women around like prize ponies. I bet a lot of them would have just liked to have gone straight home and take up their lives again without everyone asking them left and right what it was like, secretly itching to know all kinds of personal details they probably wanted to keep to themselves.”
Aunt Garnet’s face turned thoughtful. “I imagine you’re right. Guess I didn’t think about that. It was just such a special thing back then to see women being praised for their bravery. I think we all sort of wished a little bit that we’d been the ones celebrated.” She rested her long fingers on the top of the box. “They represented what we all hoped we could be: brave and resourceful in the face of evil.” She smiled at me. “I bet toy nurse’s kits were probably the most popular Christmas request for little girls the year the Angels were going around the country talking about their time as POWs.”
I stood up, picking up my purse. “Do you know Winnie Dalton was an Angel of Bataan?”
“I do,” Dove said. “That’s where I found out about how they were treated when they got home. She was proud to serve her country and tell her story, but she also told me that being asked to talk about it so much sometimes made it harder. Everyone expected her to always put on a brave face when all she wanted to do was go home, have about ten glasses of cold milk and take a long bubble bath.” Dove looked down at her hands resting on the pasteboard box. “But she did her duty again, speaking wherever she was asked to speak until people’s attention went to something else. Then the nurses were pretty much forgotten.”
“She gave me her photo album,” I said. “I mean, not me personally, but the historical museum. I was thinking we could do a special exhibit on nurses. All nurses in the history of San Celina County, but maybe military nurses could be the center of the exhibit.”
“Sounds good to me,” Dove said. “Once this festival is over, let’s talk about it.”
“Okay, I have to get going.” I started out of the room, stopping when I reached the doorway. “Say, now that I have you two together and there’s no one around, what’s the deal with fixing up Daddy? Why, all of a sudden, are you interested in finding him a woman?”
Dove and Aunt Garnet exchanged a look that was similar to one of our ranch dogs when they were caught chasing calves.
“What are you two cooking up?”
“We only want your daddy to be happy,” Dove said, crossing her arms across her blue chambray work shirt.
“
He seems pretty dang happy to me,” I said. “At least he was until you two started putting him up on the auction block.”
“Now, we’re not that bad,” Aunt Garnet said primly, straightening a stack of flyers. “We merely introduced him to a select number of appropriate women . . .”
“And we’ve had to work darn hard at it,” Dove interjected. “He’s getting old. There’s not that many women around his age who aren’t married, dead or—forgive my French—loony tunes.”
“Or have questionable families,” Aunt Garnet added.
Tempting though it was, I didn’t comment on the questionable family reference, since there were those—okay, me—who thought that comment could very well apply to our family.
“He’s not old,” I said. “He’s only in his sixties.”
“Too young to be alone,” Dove said.
“Wait, I thought you said he was too old to find anyone . . .” Dove waved her hands at me impatiently. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Don’t you have important things to do before Saturday?”
“That’s a subtle way of telling me to get lost.”
“See you downtown, honey bun.” She fluttered her fingers good-bye.
“Whatever,” I muttered to myself, ascending the wooden stairs. Actually, she was right. I did have somewhere to be. Home. It was almost five p.m. I needed to feed Scout and hustle over to the Memory Festival booth. Some of the other committee members had agreed to set it up, but it would open at six p.m. when the farmers’ market started with the blast of a loud air horn from in front of the Chamber of Commerce.
I brought in the mail, fed Scout and played ball with him for a few minutes, with promises for a longer session tomorrow. While grabbing a quick glass of orange juice, I glanced over the pile of mail I’d tossed on the kitchen table. Just the usual bills, junk mail, a couple of magazines and a white envelope with my name scrawled across it. I recognized Emory’s handwriting.
The envelope contained a single sheet of paper. A fuzzy photocopy of a Washington State driver’s license showed an unsmiling Linda Snider. I peered closely at her photo. It looked like her and it didn’t, like many people’s driver’s license photos. Her hair seemed darker in the photo, though it was hard to tell from the copy. Everything seemed to match—height five ten, weight 148. She certainly weighed less now, but who ever weighed what they said on their license?
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