“Need you to sign here, please,” he said, smiling.
How could the herald of bad news be so happy? Apparently, he didn’t lie when he said he couldn’t read telegrams. Her hand was shaking so badly that she could barely write.
“Do I owe you anything?”
The man laughed. “Oh, no mam. That’s handled by the sender, like when you mail a letter. Have yourself a good day.” Then he scampered down the steps, jumped in his car, and backed out of the gravel driveway so quickly that he spun his wheels.
Mable stared at the Western Union envelope, fearful of its contents. She returned to the sofa where she had been napping only moments before and proceeded to remove the wrapping from the document. Therein, she encountered a mother’s worst nightmare.
“I deeply regret to inform you that your son PFC Charles F Polk, Jr. died 28 May 1955 in Iwakuni Japan. He was accidentally killed when sustaining a wound to the head while on guard duty. Please accept on behalf of the United States Marine Corps our sincere sympathy in your bereavement. General Lemuel C. Shepherd, Jr., USMC Commandant of the Marine Corps”
There is no right or wrong way to respond to the worst news imaginable. Mable’s first reaction was disbelief. Couldn’t be. Not her pride and joy. Not Buddy. For a while she just read the note over and over, hoping that maybe there was a mistake or she was reading it wrong. But then denial gave way to devastating reality, so severe that she could not think or feel. The rumbling roar of a passing thunderstorm had no effect nor did a nearby bolt of lightning, but it did wake up Charlie.
When he emerged from the hallway, he immediately expressed his concern about the storm. “That lightning was close. Scared the wits out of me.”
Mable didn’t respond, just stared at the wall.
“That lightning didn’t bother you?” said Charlie, annoyed at her indifference to his question. But then he noticed the blank stare. “Mable?”
Still no reply.
Charlie walked closer to her and waved his hand in front of her face. “What’s the matter with you, woman?”
This time, she looked up and tears rolled down her cheeks as she spoke. “Buddy’s dead.”
“What did you say?”
“Buddy’s dead.” And then it was like a levee broke, sobbing the likes of which he had never heard.
Whatever doubt existed about the veracity of her statement was swept away by the torrent of tears. And then he saw the telegram laying on the sofa. Although Charlie couldn’t read, this wasn’t the first time he had ever seen a telegram. He had lived through two world wars. Friends and family members alike had received similar documents upon the loss of loved ones. Charlie sat down beside Mable and rested his face in his hands. “How did it happen?”
It was all she could do to speak. “Accident. Wounded in the head.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” said Charlie, agitated by incomplete information.
“All I know is what it said.”
“Well, that could mean anything. Was he in a wreck? Did he get shot? Did something…”
“I don’t know. What difference does it make? He’s gone,” said Mable, who then slumped over on the sofa. “Can’t handle this.”
They sat for a long time in silence. Heartbroken. Crushed. Wondering…why? Why Buddy? Why did God take him? Charlie thought that possibly he was to blame. Maybe God was punishing him.
Again there was a loud clap of thunder followed by heavy rain. “Shouldn’t you call Helen?” asked Charlie, raising his voice to be heard over the thunderstorm.
“You’re going to have to do it,” said Mable, trying to sit up.
“She needs to know,” insisted Charlie.
“Can you get me a glycerin pill?” said Mable, holding her chest.
Charlie walked across the room and snatched a pill bottle from the top of the television set. “You know I can’t call Helen. That infernal telephone box and me don’t get along.”
“Then go get Annie. She’ll help us.”
Annie Roberts was Mable’s best friend and the mother of Buddy’s friend, Buster.
Immediately, Charlie ran to the bedroom and put on his shoes and a shirt. Mable was laying on the sofa when he returned. “Will you be alright ‘til I get back?” he asked,
“Just go get Annie,” said Mable, weeping uncontrollably.
A moment later, Charlie made the short block and a half drive to the Roberts home. When Annie saw him standing on the front porch, she could tell by the expression on his face that there was a problem.
“Get out of the rain before you catch your death,” she said while opening the door. “What’s the matter?” Annie had known Charlie for fifteen years and this was the first time she had ever seen him so glum.
He ignored her invitation to ‘get out of the rain.’ A thunderstorm was the least of his worries. “Buddy’s dead.” Annie took a moment to process what he said so he repeated it. “My boy’s been killed,” and with those words, tears streaked down his face.
“Oh, my Lord.”
“Can you come to the house? Mable’s pretty bad off.”
“Let me grab my purse. Got an extra umbrella if you want it.”
“No. Please hurry.”
Charlie retreated to the driveway and waited for Annie to join him.
The front door slammed and Annie held onto a handrail to prevent falling as she negotiated the wet steps that led to the sidewalk. “What happened?” she asked while rushing toward him.
“All we know, there was an accident,” said Charlie, who then opened the passenger door for her.
“I’ll drive my car so you don’t have to bring me back.” She saw his hand trembling on the door handle. “You sure you’re OK to drive?”
“I’m OK,” he said rounding the car. Even if he were in no condition for operating a vehicle, Charlie Polk would never admit it. No pain or circumstance was a match for his male ego.
As she followed him to the Polk residence, Annie worried that she wouldn’t be up to the task of rendering the help needed. She had known Buddy since he was five and loved him almost as much as if he was one of her children. But whatever grief or anxiety she was experiencing from the dreadful news, she had to rise above it.
When they arrived, Mable was still on the sofa, sobbing, and mumbling incoherently. Annie immediately sat down next to her friend, embraced her, and then became a participant in the shedding of tears. It took her a few moments to regain her composure. “What do you want me to do?”
“Please call Helen. I would…but I just can’t. Her number’s on the front of the phonebook.”
Middletown, Virginia - 3:00 p.m.
Annie was surprised when Woody answered the phone. Saturday was his off day and Helen was next door, visiting with her neighbor, Jane.
“Hello,” he said, in his booming bass voice.
“Woody, this is Annie.”
“Annie?”
“Annie Roberts.”
“Oh. Of course. Didn’t recognize your voice. Unfortunately, Helen is next door. I’ll have her call you back.”
“It would probably be best if you break the news.”
“What news?”
“Buddy’s been killed. Mable asked me to call. She wasn’t up to it.”
It took Woody a minute to respond.
“Are you there?” asked Annie.
Woody recalled the last time he saw Buddy. Seemed like only yesterday when he dropped him off at the train station. “How did it happen? When?”
“Don’t know all the details yet, just that it was an accident. A wound to the head.”
“How’s Mable and Charlie?”
Annie paused and inspected the scene. “Taking it hard.”
“We’ll get over there as soon as we can.”
“Mable said to take care of Helen first. I’m going to stay with them as long as they need me.”
There’s no easy way to share bad news. Woody weighed the options carefully and determined that Helen needed to be home and away from
the company of others.
Jane Hudson answered the phone when he called. He could hear Helen laughing in the background and considerable noise from kids at play. “Hello.”
“Jane, this is Woody. Let me talk to Helen.”
“Well, hello to you, too,” said Jane. “Don’t you want to speak to me? I don’t bite.”
Typically, Woody would have played along with Jane’s kidding, but today there was a more serious agenda. “Tell you what. Tell her she needs to come home right away and would you mind keeping Dickie over there with you for a while?”
“What’s he want?” complained Helen.
Jane relayed the message. “Says he needs you to come home right away.”
“What for?” growled Helen, loud enough for Woody to hear her response. “Tell that fool that it’s raining.”
“It’s just a drizzle. She’ll be OK. It’s real important for her to come home right away.”
Helen was mad. How dare he interrupt her good time with her best friend, especially on Saturday. Unless the house was burning down, there wasn’t anything she could think of that merited being summoned home. When she started to leave she called for Dickie to come along but Jane quickly intervened. “Let him stay. They’re having a good time.”
If there was any doubt that he had stirred up a hornet’s nest, it was eradicated by the slamming of the back door. Seconds later Helen appeared in the kitchen. “This better be good.”
“Come with me to the living room,” said Woody.
His solemn demeanor was disarming. Were those tears in his eyes? “What’s going on? You’ve got bad news, don’t you? What is it?”
“Come have a seat,” said Woody, who then sat down beside her on the sofa and held her hand. “Buddy was killed in an accident.”
If there was a facial expression that said, ‘Tell me it’s not so,” Woody just saw it. Helen couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. She just glared at him in disbelief. Then came a flood of tears and such a loud scream that it scared Woody. He tried to hold her but she pushed him away and bellowed like a cow when its calf is taken away. Helen became so distraught that he asked if she needed to go to the hospital.
She motioned for him to get off the sofa then she laid down in a fetal position. Woody slipped a pillow beneath her head and ran to the kitchen for a cold washcloth. When he returned, Helen was weeping and moaning. When she finally spoke, it was to make a strange request. “Dickie. I want him here…with me.”
“He’s OK,” replied Woody. “You left him with Jane, remember?”
She insisted. “I want him here.”
Woody failed to comprehend her rationale. “Why? No point in upsetting the child.”
There was enough fight left in Helen to stand her ground. “Do it. Now. I need him here.”
He couldn’t have disagreed more, but seeing her state of misery he complied. Even Jane Hudson thought it was a bad idea. Reluctantly, she granted the telephoned request and instructed Dickie to head for home.
When Dickie entered through the back door, Woody was waiting, and then led the 7-year-old to the living room. “Your Mama’s real upset but everything’s going to be alright.”
It wasn’t uncommon for Dickie to see his mother crying. In fact, she did it a lot. However, he could see that this was different and it frightened him. Helen waved for him to come to her.
“Come. Come sit down beside me,” she said, rising back up on the sofa and holding out her arms.
Dickie didn’t budge.
“Now,” demanded Helen.
Slowly and unwillingly, Dickie surrendered. When he sat down, Helen wrapped her arms around him and hugged him as if holding on for dear life. She gave no explanation. There was only weeping and trembling, which terrified the child.
Woody watched, wondering how he might rescue his son.
“Can I get up now?” said Dickie, desperately wanting to escape her grasp.
“Helen, you’re upsetting him,” said Woody.
She objected. “I need him right now,” and then clutched even tighter.
Woody decided that Dickie needed an explanation but when he started to speak, Helen quickly interrupted. “Stop. Not now.”
“I think he needs to know,” said Woody.
“Get out of here. You’re making it worse,” she shouted, and then returned to sobbing.
This wasn’t the first time Helen acted this way. She did the same thing during thunderstorms, gathered her son on the couch and held him tightly until the storm was over. Her explanation for such behavior was that she had already lost three children and wasn’t going to let anything happen to the one that remained.
Strasburg, Virginia - 4:15 p.m.
Annie Roberts patiently assembled a death notification list. Neither Charlie nor Mable were in a state of mind to recall the names of family and friends who would want to know about Buddy’s untimely demise. She did what she could to jar their memories and eventually solicited the help of one of Charlie’s sisters. Annie also recommended that they contact Dr. Whitfield for grief medication.
A black automobile stopped in front of the house and when the occupants did not get out, Annie went to the front door to investigate. Clouds from the recent storm were dissipating, and the faint sunshine glimmered on the hood of the car. When the occupants stepped out of the vehicle, there was no doubt as to their identity or the reason for their visit. Two men, decked out in United States Marine Corps dress uniforms, climbed the steps to the front porch. Annie pushed open the door.
“Mrs. Polk,” said one of the men.
“No, I’m Annie, her neighbor.”
“We would like to meet with the family if possible.”
“Sure. Come in.”
The Marines removed their hats and tucked them under their arms as they stepped through the doorway. Annie was surprised that both Charlie and Mable stood up to greet them.
“I’m Sgt. John Thomas and this is Sgt. Ronnie Kline. We’re here to talk with you about that bad news you received earlier today.”
After Annie had introduced the Polks, everyone sat down.
“We are sorry for the loss of your son,” said Sgt. Kline. “You and a grateful nation have suffered a great loss. You have our deepest sympathy.”
“Just got finished looking over his service record,” offered Sgt. Thomas. “Charles Polk was a good man…a good Marine.”
Mable was now more alert than at any time since reading the telegram. Charlie asked the question that she was thinking. “Do you know what happened?”
Sgt. Thomas did his best to answer the question. “There remains an investigation so we don’t know all the details but this is what we do know. At just after 2000 hours, Japanese time, when your son was coming on guard duty, the Marine, who he was replacing, had a problem with his weapon, it accidentally discharged, and Private Polk was fatally wounded.”
Mable asked the question that had weighed heavily on her mind since reading the telegram. “Did he suffer?”
“No, mam. The bullet struck him right above the right temple. Death was immediate.”
Annie joined the conversation. “What’s the difference between Japanese time and our time here in Virginia?”
The Marines looked at each other, both attempting to calculate the time of death based on the Eastern Time Zone. Sgt. Kline was the first to respond. “2000 hours in military time is 8 at night. Japan time is way ahead of U.S. time, 14 hours ahead, which I learned serving in Korea. Gets pretty complicated, so I learned a little trick. Subtract 2 hours from Japan time and flip flop a.m. or p.m.”
Sgt. Thomas chuckled at his partner’s answer. “So, after all that, what time are we talking about here?”
Sgt. Kline simplified his response. “8:00 p.m., minus 2, equals 6. Flip-flop from p.m. to a.m. and that places the time of death at 6 o’clock this morning, Eastern Time.”
“Learned something new,” replied Sgt. Thomas.”
“What about the fellow that killed him?” asked Charlie. “How do yo
u know it was an accident?
“They were best friends,” said Sgt. Thomas.
“Oh, my Lord. That poor boy,” said Mable. “Buddy’s best friend is gonna have to live with that for the rest of his life.”
Charlie took exception to Mable’s compassion. “Even if that was his best friend, there ain’t no excuse for pointing your gun at somebody you don’t aim to kill. There’s got to be more to it than that.”
“That’s what the Corps is looking into,” said Sgt. Thomas.
Despite her grief, Mable acted true to herself. “Can I get you boys something to eat?”
Her offer was quickly refused by the Marine Corps representatives, although they were gracious in their response and moved by her unexpected kindness. There was still the unfinished business regarding funeral arrangements. It would take about three weeks for Buddy’s body to arrive back home for burial. The Marine Corps was also conducting a military funeral to be held before departure and the family would be provided with a recording of the event.
5:30 p.m.
News travels fast in a small town. Annie had done her part in spreading the word and from there it was like a line of falling dominoes. Everybody was talking about the Polk tragedy.
One of the first names on Annie’s list was the pastor of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, Rev. Jonathon Smith. By the time he arrived, the visiting Marines had already departed and Annie was trying, without success, to get Mable and Charlie to eat something.
Shortly after the pastor’s arrival, the floodgates opened, as the community responded to their loss. The telephone rang so repeatedly that Charlie begged Annie to “turn that noisy contraption off.”
Mable objected. “That would be rude. They’re calling because they care. They loved Buddy, too.”
Soon, a line of parked automobiles formed along the perimeter of the corner lot. When one left another took its place. Most visitors made a quick appearance, offered expressions of sympathy for their loss, and then departed. Even if they had wanted to stay longer, it would have been impossible. There just wasn’t room in the tiny living room to accommodate so many guests. Many of them brought food, enough to feed an army.
Farewell PFC Polk: The End of a Nightmare (In the Valley of Hope Book 2) Page 22
