Farewell
PFC POLK
The End of a Nightmare
In The Valley of Hope - Book II
Richard Weirich
Copyright © 2016 Richard Weirich
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations em- bodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information contact http://richardweirich.com/
ISBN: 1523234172
First Edition: February, 2016
ISBN-13: 978-1523234172
DEDICATION
FAREWELL PFC POLK is dedicated to my Uncle Buddy. His life ended in a tragic accident only two days before his 20th birthday. Although I was 7-years-old when he died, my family kept his memory alive and used his life as the standard to which I should aspire. This book is also dedicated to my grandparents, Mable and Charlie Polk, who suffered the unfathomable pain of losing a child. Their climb from the pit of despair taught me that life isn’t always fair and tragedies don’t always have happy endings. But where there is faith there is always hope.
CONTENTS
Chapter I – All in the Family
Chapter II – The Summer of ‘53
Chapter III – Mama’s Worst Fear
Chapter IV – Shipping Out
Chapter V – Shockwaves
Chapter VI – Never Say Goodbye – June 1955
Epilogue
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my wife, Janet, who has always supported me in my many endeavors. You have always believed in me which means more than you could ever know.
Chapter I – All in the Family
Nightmare on Capon Street - May 28, 1945
There was that dream again. Buddy sat up in his bed and looked around the room for more pictures like those still fresh on his mind. Black and gray images depicting deep emotions of sorrow, pain, shock and desperation. People he knew: crying, moaning, screaming. There were strangers among them: motionless, speechless, sad. And the hundreds of black flowers on a bed of stars, stripes, and brass buttons made him feel trapped, isolated, helpless, and afraid.
Slowly he awoke to the real world where there were encouraging signs that his life remained unchanged. Bright sunlight beamed from a window in a hallway casting a brilliant glow through the open door to his room. Just beyond the foot of his bed was a dresser and above it hung a mirror where he could see his reflection. A quick scan of the room revealed that everything was still in its place, just as it was.
“Time to rise and shine,” called his mother from the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t want to be late for your last day of school.”
9-year-old Charles Polk, Jr., nicknamed Buddy, was so consumed by his recurring nightmare that he had forgotten that this was the day to bid farewell to the Fourth Grade. But as he dressed, he still couldn’t get the nightmare out of his mind. Who was the kid playing with a toy cowboy and horse on the front porch? Too young to be him. Whose photograph was his mother holding against her chest while weeping uncontrollably? And who was that strange girl clutching her hand?
It was impossible to quietly navigate the narrow wooden stairway. The aging house on Capon Street was built before the Civil War and, aside from a coat of white paint and a new tin roof, little had changed since it was constructed. Buddy’s dad often joked that a burglar would never stand a chance in that old house. The creaking and shaking floors were better than any alarm system. That’s why Mable always knew when Buddy was ready for breakfast.
“You still haven’t told me what kind of cake you want for your birthday,” said his mother as he pulled a red chair with metal legs from beneath the kitchen table.
“Can I have German chocolate?”
“Of course.”
“Can Donnie come to my party?”
“Don’t see why not. Oh, and I baked cookies for you to take to your classmates today. And there’s a thank you card for your teacher. Be sure she gets it.”
Buddy took his place at the kitchen table where he rapidly devoured a plate of eggs and sausage. His mother observed that he was deep in thought. “Thought you would be excited this morning. Last day of school…your birthday on Wednesday.”
“Had that bad dream again.”
His mother believed that nightmares were the result of what you ate the night before. Buddy wasn’t so sure. He hoped it wasn’t the meatloaf or the mashed potatoes. Maybe the Brussel sprouts. Those little green cabbages were gross, but she made him eat them anyway. She employed her often used logic, “the kids in China are starving.” He still couldn’t figure how eating things he didn’t like helped the kids in China, but his mother assured him that when he grew up, he would understand.
When it was clear that Buddy wasn’t buying her theory, his mother offered another possibility. “Reverend Smith said that dreams are nothing more than a replay of what’s been on our minds. Maybe you had that bad dream because it’s VE Day. We were talkin’ about that last night at supper.”
May 8, 1945, Victory in Europe Day, a day set aside in the United States to celebrate the Nazi’s surrender in WWII. It was definitely a top of mind subject and his dad, a news junkie, had been glued to the radio in recent days. Buddy didn’t like it one bit when Fibber McGee and Molly was preempted for yet another news bulletin. However, giving up things for the war effort was a way of life. “Wonder how come Truman didn’t ration broccoli and okra?”
“Probably because they aren’t used to make fuel.”
“Why not? They cause gas.” Buddy laughed at his joke, but his mother didn’t think it was funny and returned to her reasoning for his nightmare. “VE Day. That’s all that nightmare was about. You need to forget about it.”
Maybe his mother was onto something but it still didn’t explain why this was a recurring dream. “Been going on since I started first grade. How do you explain that?”
“That’s just about when the war started,” said Mable as she put the finishing touches on a baloney sandwich and closed the latch on his lunch pail. “War is a terrible thing. It’s been hard for everybody.”
Buddy was finally ready to discuss his birthday. “Get my pocketknife yet? I’m a scout. I can handle it.”
“You’ll just have to wait to find out. Don’t want to ruin your surprise.”
“You didn’t get me a toy cowboy and a wind-up horse did you?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Just wanted to be sure. Don’t want it.”
“Still have to pick up a picture frame for your school picture, though.”
“Don’t need a frame,” he said. “Looks just fine as it is.
Buddy’s nightmares did stop that day, but he never forgot them. His older sister, Helen, believed in something she called, “premonitions.” But whenever she brought it up, Mable quickly renounced her idea and said that such notions were of the devil. “Nobody knows the future except the Lord, himself.”
What Mama Don’t Know – Nov. 8, 1952 –7 Years Later
Ever since the opening of the Virginia Restaurant in the 1930s, teenagers have been standing on the corner in front of the building. What or who started the nightly ritual is unknown, but the practice is as much a part of the sleepy little town of Strasburg, Virginia as Highway 11 that runs along Main Street or the Shenandoah River that flows nearby. And those of driving age fortunate enough to have wheels, well, they add animation to the routine by patrolling the block, round and round, wishing and hoping t
hat something eventful might happen, although it seldom does.
Most of the corner gang is composed of boys of questionable character, that is, according to Buddy Polk’s mother, who forbade him from joining their ranks. In fact, there were two places that she had declared off limits: the infamous corner hangout and Freddy’s Pool Hall just down the street. Even if he was tempted to disobey his mother, he knew that she would find out. Mable Polk had a sixth sense about such matters.
With the Strasburg Rams final football season concluded, the restaurant filled up quickly, except for the tables in the front by the jukebox. That’s where the football team gathers, a special place of honor for those who fight for the Purple and Gold. On this night, November 8, 1952, there will be little to celebrate, since Strasburg suffered an embarrassing loss to rival Central of Woodstock, 42 – 0. Nonetheless, the agony of defeat will be short-lived. The comradery and zeal of young friends will, as always, overshadow the importance of a football game. When you are young, there is always next year.
As seniors, Buddy Polk and Donnie Turner had just played their last high school football game. They joined the procession of other players, led by Coach Al Simpson, for the short walk from the high school on High Street to the popular teen gathering place on West King Street.
“Can’t wait for Boot Camp,” said Donnie while pulling a pack of gum from his pocket. “Here, take a piece. This might be the night you kiss your first girl.”
“You kiss one girl and now you’re an authority,” said Buddy annoyed at his friend’s teasing.
“They’ll be lined up to kiss me when I’m in that uniform. Come on. Sign up with me.”
From up ahead, the team’s quarterback, Bo Butler, called back to Buddy. “Hey, Polk. Where was my blocking tonight?”
“You had plenty of blocking. You’re just too dadblamed slow,” replied Donnie in defense of his friend.
“You all shut up,” yelled Coach Simpson in a muffled southern drawl. Tobacco juice squirted from the corners of his mouth as he exhorted his players to act like gentlemen. “Everybody stunk tonight. Even your coach.”
“Wondered what that smell was,” said Bo. “Thought it was Donnie’s jock strap. When was the last time you washed that thing, Donnie?”
“I’ll loan it to you sometime. You can wear it as a Roman nose guard.”
“Both of you get an extra 20 laps at practice on Monday,” declared the coach.
“Season’s over, Coach,” said Donnie and they all laughed.
When the entourage neared the Hotel Strasburg on Holiday Street, the joking and frivolity turned to silence. The old hotel was once a hospital that dated back to 1902 and locals believed that the old place was haunted. The founder, Dr. Mackall Bruin was rumored to have run off with one of the three original nurses and it was her ghost that was still roaming, searching for her lover. Others theorized that the old doc had something going with more than one nurse and that the jilted loser in the triangle was on a perpetual mission to get even. As the students passed by they looked across the dimly lit street for some sign of something to verify the myth but, as usual, there was nothing.
“Boo,” yelled Coach Simpson, which resulted in a scream from his quarterback and in an instant the laughter and cutting up resumed all the way to their final destination at the Virginia Restaurant.
Hank Williams version of Jambalaya was playing on the jukebox as they filed through the front door. As usual, the seating arrangement was insufficient for all the members of the team so some of them were forced to fend for themselves. Donnie suggested to Buddy that this was the perfect opportunity to get a booth where there would be plenty of room for the two beautiful women who would be joining them for the evening.
“What beautiful women?” asked Buddy.
“Don’t know yet. With your good looks and my phenomenal charm they’ll be here any minute.”
“You are sick,” said Buddy laughing as they sat on opposite sides of the wooden booth.
Saturday nights were always busy and noisy, even more so after ballgames. Well-meaning waitresses gave their all for the cause, but mischievous teens were hard to handle. It was not uncommon to see a member of the wait staff angrily walk off the job. But the owner, Shuggie Jones, always took them back. He understood the pressure they were under. The kids were equally cruel to him.
Lula Mae Whitfield finally made her way to Buddy’s table. At age 27, Lula Mae looked all of 40. Her husband, Tommy, was killed in the Korean conflict leaving her to raise two children on a waitress’s salary. She put up with a lot for the meager tips left by teenagers. “What’ll you have?”
“I’ll have fries and a large Coke,” said Donnie. “And my friend here wants a kiss.”
“I get off at eleven,” joked Lula Mae while Buddy’s face turned beet red.
“Gonna kill you, Donnie,” said Buddy giving his friend the evil eye. “Mam, please pardon his manners…and I’ll have what he’s having.”
Donnie had all he could take of the same song playing over and over again on the jukebox. He was convinced that somebody was blowing their life savings, a nickel at a time, on Tell Me Why, by the Four Aces. “It’s time to get some real music playing on that machine. Buddy, give me a nickel.”
“Use your own nickel.”
“Got just enough for my order.”
Seconds later Donnie dialed up B-42, Kitty Wells singing, It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels. And when it started to play applause, laughter, and cheers followed as just about everybody sang along.
“You hate that song,” yelled Buddy over the noise while Donnie stood in the aisle waving his arms like a musical conductor.
With the song concluded, Donnie returned to his seat and pointed excitedly toward the front door. “Babes at 12 o’clock high. They found us.”
A group of Strasburg High School cheerleaders were coming through the front door and again the teen crowd responded with cheers and applause. Donnie climbed onto the booth table top and waved his arms wildly to get the girls’ attention and then slipped two fingers into his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Charlie ducked his head, embarrassed at his friend’s all too familiar antics.
“You won’t get away with that in the Corps,” said Charlie shaking his head in disapproval.
With no seats left in front, the girls scattered looking for a place to sit down. Soon, two of them, Trudy Miller and Bobbie Jean Beeler spotted Buddy and Donnie, and more importantly, two available seats.
“Good evening, ladies,” said Donnie looking like he had just hit the jackpot. “This is your lucky day.”
“Is that right?” said Trudy. “How do you figure?”
“You get to sit by me.”
Buddy had enough of his friend’s shenanigans. “Donnie, get over here beside of me so the girls will have a place to sit…together.”
“Thanks, Buddy,” said Bobbie Jean. “At least one boy at this table is a gentleman.”
As soon as the girls sat down, Lula Mae Whitfield arrived with the boys’ food orders.
“That’s what I was going to get,” said Trudy.
“Me, too,” replied Bobbie Jean. “Smells so good.”
Buddy pushed Donnie’s plate in front of the girls and told them to dig in.
“Hey,” said Donnie.
“Ever hear of sharing?” said Buddy. “Mrs. Whitfield, we’ll need two more fries and two more Cokes.”
Trudy Miller was an honor student, runner up for Homecoming Queen, and President of the senior class. Her best friend, Bobbie Jean Beeler held the title of Miss Strasburg, which she won at the 1952 Strasburg High School Beauty Pageant. These weren’t just ordinary girls. Nobody was more aware of that than Donnie, who couldn’t stop staring at them.
“So, what have you boys been talking about?” asked Trudy.
This was Donnie’s night to humiliate Buddy. “We’ve been talking about the fact that Buddy has never been kissed by a girl,” said Donnie laughing at what he thought was funny…but no one else was a
mused.
Ignoring Donnie’s attempts at getting attention, Bobbie Jean quickly changed the subject. “What are you going to do after graduation, Buddy?”
“Don’t really know just yet? Might sign up for the Air Force. Would love to be a pilot. How about you?”
They dined on fries soaked in the Virginia Restaurant’s homemade ketchup and talked mainly about the future. Trudy was the only one with designs on college. “More than likely Madison College in Harrisonburg,” she declared.
Bobbie Jean had her heart set on nursing school, but both girls were sure that marriage and a house full of kids was in their future. As for Donnie, he was convinced that he would become a USMC lifer. Of course, when asked why he was so set on the Marines he responded with his stock answer. “Best way to get girls.” But since neither girl seemed impressed by his logic he eventually confessed that he loved America and wanted to fight for his country.
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by Wendy Williams, definitely not a member of the in-crowd, but nonetheless, a sophomore with a crush on Donnie and the source of his one and only kiss. On this night, she was sporting a very tight knit sweater which was, at least, two sizes too small for her extra-large figure and sufficient perfume to have shared with all the girls in the restaurant. More noticeable was the sizeable and perfectly round hickey on her neck, causing Buddy to wonder if Donnie was the source of her trophy. Apparently, other SHS students witnessed the sign of Wendy’s passion which eventually resulted in the offensive nickname, Electrolux.
“Hi, Donnie,” said Wendy.
“Hey, Wendy,” replied Donnie as he wished that there was an escape hatch under his seat.
For those who didn’t know Buddy, they would likely think that this was payback time, a chance to get even with Donnie for his “never been kissed” jabs. But when Buddy asked Wendy to join them, his motive was purely an act of kindness. “Make room for Wendy,” he said while motioning for Donnie to move over.
Farewell PFC Polk: The End of a Nightmare (In the Valley of Hope Book 2) Page 1
