Farewell PFC Polk: The End of a Nightmare (In the Valley of Hope Book 2)

by Richard Weirich

  Mable even called his name out loud. “Buddy. Buddy. Are you in danger? Are you alright?” And then she prayed. Just a short prayer at first, but as the night wore on she prayed more fervently for his protection. “Please, please keep my boy safe,” she prayed. “Let no harm come to him.”

  If only she could pick up the phone and call her son. But there were no direct lines to servicemen in 1955. No internet. No smartphones.

  She didn’t sleep that night and when Charlie returned from work, he immediately knew that something was wrong. “Are you sick?”

  “Worried sick,” she said, rushing to get his breakfast on the table.

  “What happened?” asked Charlie, now concerned that she had received bad news.

  “You’ll think I’m crazy if I tell you.”

  “Might as well go ahead and tell me.”

  Mable then shared how she had a nightly dialogue with Buddy and that she believed with all her heart that he was in grave danger. “I’m telling you, there’s something to it.”

  “Nonsense. You’re still upset about what happened to Inky. That’s all.”

  “But there’s more. I didn’t tell you about this last night. Didn’t want to worry you at work. Just before you got out of bed, there were 3 knocks at the door but no one was there.”

  “Maybe you just took too long getting’ to the door.”

  “Thought that, too. But I looked. Nobody, nowhere, nohow. It was the 3 knocks of death. Same thing happened before my daddy died.”

  “Might be that new heart medicine Doc Whitfield put you on. Most likely you’re grievin’ over that dog. Try thinkin’ about somethin’ else. Everything’s gonna be OK.”

  Maybe Charlie was right, which she hated to admit.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and write Buddy that letter about Inky? Get it off your chest. He’s a grown man and a Marine. You’ll feel better and he can handle it.”

  Charlie’s logic helped. Too tired to clean the kitchen, Mable broke with tradition and retired to the living room sofa where she soon fell asleep.

  The Final Hours – Saturday, May 28, 1955

  The new shift was fatiguing. Buddy still had not adjusted to getting off at 0200 hours. With his last duty assignment for the week completed he was ready to hit the rack. On the way through the barracks lobby, he checked the message board before heading upstairs. And there was news, a memo from his sergeant. ‘Muster and inspection at 0800.’

  That couldn’t be right. Not on Saturday morning. So he read it again. Unfortunately, there was no mistake. Buddy looked at the clock and calculated that he could catch five hours of sleep if he hurried.

  At 0730, he joined a grumbling bunch of MPs, equally annoyed by the Saturday morning meeting. Buddy skipped a shower, but shaved and dressed for inspection. Just in time, he was in line, in place, and prepared for whatever the Master Sergeant had planned for ruining his day.

  “Atten-hut,” growled the Sergeant. “I suppose you men ain’t happy about bein’ here on Saturday morning. Well, I don’t like it neither. But when I get called in by the Captain, concerned about my Marines not doing their job, then it means you and me need to have a little talk. Now, there’s been a string of robberies here on the base and the problem has gotten worse, not better. Since we haven’t put a stop to it, there will be no liberties, no leaves, and no time off of any kind until the thief or thieves are behind bars. As I call your names, step forward.”

  Buddy was relieved that his name was not among those called out. He had been in the Corps long enough to know what was about to happen.

  “I want to thank you men for volunteering,” announced the Sergeant. “You will follow me to the drill hall for further instructions.”

  Noticeably missing from the meeting was the promised inspection. Fortunately, no suck-up Marine called it to the Sergeant’s attention. The confab took less than 30 minutes. By 0830, Buddy was again sound asleep.

  Buddy was awakened by the sound of rumbling. No, not a storm or explosion. His stomach was reminding him that he skipped breakfast.

  At 11:30, he joined the line into the chow hall. Just ahead was a sign that displayed the lunch menu. He always got a kick out of the colorful descriptions of everyday food. Corn was represented as Golden Sweet Corn. Some days, tiny pieces of chopped green pepper were added, resulting in Festive Southwestern Corn. Today, the fare featured Golden Crinkle Cut French Fries, Charbroiled Angus Burgers, and Creamy All-American Strawberry Milkshakes. Why not just tell it like it is? Same thing they had every Saturday. Burger, fries, shake.

  Although Buddy tried to write at least one letter every day, Saturdays provided the most opportunity. In fact, the barracks was like a ghost town on weekends. A little extra quiet and fewer interruptions helped him stay focused while replying to friends and family. Sally was a must, as was his mother. Beyond that, it was first come, first served, with the possible exception of Roxanne Smitherman whose letters were frequently moved to the bottom of the pile. Buddy didn’t want to be rude, but the girl just wrote him far too much and she wanted a closer relationship that just wasn’t going to happen. If she had just been a couple of years older, he might have thought differently. But now, feeling as he did about Sally, Roxanne was off the radar.

  By 1330, Buddy had dropped off his letters and stopped by the gym for PT. While there he ran into Covington Philpott, the Military Police Airman he met while working the air show. Covington invited Buddy to a pickup basketball game in which he participated for nearly an hour. Then, at 14:45, Buddy returned to the barracks for a shower and a nap, in anticipation of his late night shift.

  He awakened at 1630 and dressed for duty. Then Buddy removed a New Testament from his locker and sat down for a few moments to read his favorite scripture, the 23rd Psalm. He tucked the little Bible into his shirt pocket and began the short trek to the chow hall for the evening meal. Along the way, he stopped briefly to view the sun setting over the mountains. Not the mountains that bordered the Shenandoah Valley for sure, but a reminder of the home he missed.

  In two days, Buddy would reach an important personal milestone, his 20th birthday. Finally, no longer a teen. If only Sally could be there to celebrate his birthday with him. At least, there was that promised phone call on May 30. He couldn’t wait.

  Ever since Buddy graduated from high school, he had been searching for God’s purpose for his life. For the longest, it seemed that he would find the answer in a vocation. The Virginia Highway Department proved to be a disappointment and the Corps was no better. Even the prospects of becoming a Lutheran pastor had lost its appeal.

  Standing there, in the land of the rising sun, watching the setting sun, Buddy had an epiphany. He was wrong to think that God’s plan could be found in a career choice. One of the lines from the 23rd Psalm came to mind. ‘He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’ God’s design wasn’t about a job…it was about character. Godliness. Right living according to God’s standard. Finally, Buddy’s restless spirit was at peace. And then the final verse of that rich Bible passage came to mind. ‘And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’

  Buddy had been attending church services for as long as he could remember, but he had never experienced anything like what he was feeling at that moment. He always believed that God was with him, wherever he was. But here, now, 7000 miles away from home, he felt a supernatural divine presence like nothing he had ever known. It occurred to him that he was standing on holy ground which moved him to tears. Why, he wondered, am I so emotional? What is happening?

  “Hey, Polk. You, OK over there?” asked someone.

  Buddy still had tears in his eyes. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Buddy was embarrassed and wondered how many other Marines passed by and saw him standing there. “Sergeant Davis. Didn’t recognize your voice. I’m good. Just thinking about home. Got a little carried away I guess.”

  “Ate supper yet?”

  “No. I was on my way.”<
br />
  “Well, come on then. Let’s see what Uncle Sam has cooking.”

  Buddy looked at the wall clock as they entered the chow hall. It was 1730.

  Sergeant Davis read the menu aloud. “Boston Baked Beans with Barbecued Franks, Sautéed German Kraut, and Golden Brown Yeast Rolls.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Buddy.

  “Yep. Glad I’m not sleepin’ in the barracks tonight. There’ll be more explosions than we heard at the Battle of Chosin Reservoir in Korea,” said the veteran Marine.

  “You were there?” asked Buddy.

  “Right out of recruit training. You never saw anybody dig a fox hole so fast.”

  This was Buddy’s first opportunity to talk to his Sergeant. “Where’s home?”

  “Cheyenne, Wyoming,” said Sergeant Davis, while a mess cook dropped two scoops of beans on his tray.

  “Where cowboys come from. Wow,” said Buddy, who was a big fan of western movies.

  “Get along little doggies.”

  “What is a doggie, anyway?”

  “A motherless calf.”

  “How about that? All these years I pictured a cowboy and his puppies.”

  “Saw your name on the schedule for tonight,” said the Sergeant. “How you like that post?”

  Buddy sighed deeply. “You want the truth?”

  The older Marine laughed. “Haven’t found an MP yet who’s taken a likin’ to that duty.”

  They talked for nearly an hour and when they parted company. Buddy still had an hour and a half of free time until the start of his shift. With nothing better to do, he walked back to the barracks, laid down on his rack, and spent his remaining time listening to Armed Forces Radio. When the DJ played Frank Sinatra’s version of You’d Be So Nice to Come Home To, Buddy couldn’t help but apply that thought to Sally. It sure would beat nice to come home to her.

  At 1930, Buddy closed the padlock on his locker and set out for the MWSG-17 Air Freight and Passenger Terminal. Along the way, he stopped by the Military Police Command Center to sign in and then walked the remaining one hundred yards to his duty post at the entrance to the terminal. A civilian aircraft was taking off as he arrived.

  “Was hopin’ you’d show up early,” said Eddie.

  “Why would I want to do a thing like that?” replied Buddy.

  “Because you’re my friend and it’s Saturday. I hate working on Saturday.”

  Buddy loaded his weapon and snapped it into the holster. “Heard any more about the robberies?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to rob out here but a butt can and a broom,” said Eddie pointing to the objects mentioned.

  “I hear tell that brooms are in high demand over at the WAVE barracks,” said Buddy making a joke about the often denigrated women of the Navy.

  “There are some witches over there, for sure. By the way, did you hear from your mom? Did her birthday gift make it on time?”

  “Haven’t heard,” said Buddy as he checked the time. “It’s 8:00 o’clock. Step aside and let a real Marine take over.”

  “We do military time around here, fella,” jabbed Eddie.

  “2000 hours, then,” replied Buddy. “Man, it’s quiet out here. Where is everybody?

  “Like I said, ‘Saturday night.’ They're out havin’ fun like I should be doin’.”

  Buddy assumed the post as Eddie stepped aside and proceeded to remove his sidearm. “What is the matter with this dadblamed thing? Magazine clip is stuck.” Eddie slapped his hand forcefully against the grip.

  “Hey, be careful with that weapon,” said Buddy.

  “I know what I’m doing,” complained Eddie as he slapped the gun one more time. “Finally, out of there.”

  Buddy was still uncomfortable with the way his friend was handling the weapon. “Did you check the chamber?”

  Eddie was now frustrated. “Come on, Polk. You’re not my superior and I don’t appreciate you tellin’ me what to do.”

  “Didn’t tell you what to do. Just, check the chamber.”

  Eddie angrily complied and when he raised the weapon it fired. “Damn,” yelled Eddie. “Man, you were right, I am so…”

  And then, in an instant, he saw what no human should ever have to see. Buddy fell backward on the pavement and blood poured from a wound just above his right temple. “Oh, my God. No. No. No. What have I done? No!” screamed Eddie.

  Eddie checked for a pulse, but there was none. “Charlie. Charlie. Come on, man. This can’t be happening.” And then he cried, moaned, and wailed with unspeakable grief. No amount of Marine Corps training had equipped Eddie for handling such a crisis. No book, no manual, no instruction dealt with the horror of killing your best friend. What should he do? What could he do?

  His weapon was still on the ground, where he had dropped it when he saw Buddy fall. His first thought was to pick it up and take his own life. He couldn’t imagine living with this burden forever embedded in his mind. Any thoughts he had about the Corps’ punishment for his crime were inconsequential. There was nothing they could do to him that could possibly be worse than what he had done. A foolish thought entered his mind. Maybe he could claim that Buddy took his own life. A wound at close range to his head. Just one problem with that report. Eddie’s gun was the murder weapon.

  Whatever crazy thoughts that were warring in Eddie’s mind, he fought for the right result. He kept thinking of the quality of Buddy’s character. Buddy Polk was a good man, as good as they get. Eddie must do right…for the one who always did right.

  Through the open doorway, on a wall just beyond Buddy’s outstretched body, Eddie could see the base telephone, a direct line to the MP Command Center. He stood to his feet, trembling so badly that he had trouble walking. When he reached the phone, it took several frantic tries before he could accurately dial the number.

  “Command,” said the Marine who answered but there was no immediate reply. “Hello. Hello. Who’s there? I hear you breathing. Who is this?”

  Eddie could barely speak. “There’s been an accident.”

  “What’s the situation, where, and identify yourself?”

  Again there was a delay. “Situation and location, please.”

  There was no diplomatic or delicate way of telling the truth. Eddie cried as he spoke. “A Marine has been shot.”

  “Where?”

  “Marine Wing Support Group 17 Air Terminal.”

  “How bad is it?”

  Another long pause followed. “He’s…dead.”

  “Your name?”

  “PFC Eddie Johnson,” said Eddie as he slid to the floor with his back to the wall.

  “Hello. Hello. Private Johnson. Speak to me.”

  Eddie was no longer able to speak. He was in shock, overwhelmed by the site before him, unable to close his eyes for fear that he would see a replay of Buddy’s death.

  Less than 3 minutes later, at 2019 hours, a jeep sped across the runway and screeched to a stop near the entrance to the terminal. Three Marines carrying rifles jumped out and rushed toward the scene of the accident. When the saw that they were not in danger, they lowered their weapons and assessed the situation.

  “I’m not believing this,” said Sgt. Davis. “This man and I had supper together this evening.”

  One of the Marines standing by Eddie asked, “When did this happen?”

  Eddie continued to stare into space. “Shift change.”

  Seeing that Buddy’s revolver remained in its holster, Sgt. Davis called out to Eddie. “This your weapon?”

  “Yes.”

  A Navy jeep arrived on the scene and two Medical Corpsman jumped out and joined the others.

  “Too late,” said the Sergeant, shaking his head sadly. Then he started giving orders. “Miller, bag the evidence. Stanley, take good notes. Nobody’s to touch the body until we have all we need.” Stepping over Buddy’s body, the Sergeant made his way over to Eddie.

  “He was my best friend,” said Eddie. “I killed my best friend.”

  “What happened?” asked
the Sergeant.

  “Had trouble removing the clip. Once I got it out…I guess there was still a round in the chamber.”

  “You guess?” replied Sgt. Davis, mad about Eddie Johnson’s carelessness. He paused momentarily and then shouted his next question. “Even if your weapon malfunctioned, why was it pointed at Polk’s head? Why would you do something like that?”

  Eddie had no answer. Just shook his head.

  “Miller, is the evidence secured?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Then get over here and cuff this idiot and get him out of here before I do something I’m sorry for.”

  “Brig?”

  “Damn right. The Brig.”

  Chapter V – Shockwaves

  Clouds of Darkness – May 28, 1955

  Strasburg, Virginia - 2:15 p.m.

  The Strasburg weather forecast called for thunderstorms. Thus far, there were only dark clouds and a slight wind, perfect sleeping weather. Charlie was resting from the graveyard shift and Mable was catching up on the sleep she missed from staying up all night. Neither heard the Western Union vehicle pull into the driveway.

  The sound of gentle tapping on the screen door didn’t wake her but the pounding that followed got her attention.

  “Hello. Anybody home?”

  It took her a moment to gather her thoughts and when she stood up, the knocking was repeated.

  “Hold on,” she said, grabbing the back of a chair to keep from falling.

  Doors in Strasburg were never locked and neighbors didn’t knock. They just came on in. Consequently, Mable knew right away that her visitor was a stranger. She hoped it wasn’t another traveling salesman, like the one last week who offered her a free family Bible if she purchased an expensive set of encyclopedias. Took forever to get that pushy man out of her house.

  Her caller was visible through the screen door, but no one that she recognized. “Can I help you?” she said, still not fully awake.

  “Western Union telegram for you,” said the man.

  “What is it?” she replied.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know that. We’re not allowed to read the messages.”

  Mable’s heart rate intensified. This was the bad news she had anticipated. The omen warned her of death in the family. She pushed open the door and took the envelope from the man’s hand.