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

by Richard Weirich

  People were surprised to see how well Mable and Charlie were holding up. However, outward appearances can be deceiving. On the inside, the Polks were falling apart, and both wished that the well-wishers would go away. They needed space…to grieve…to think…to cry.

  Peace wasn’t restored until 10:30 when the last visitor walked out the front door. Even the phone had stopped ringing and quiet prevailed. Annie stuffed as many perishable food items into the refrigerator as she could and then called it a day.

  Eight hours had passed since first receiving the dreadful news of Buddy’s death. Emotionally they were wrecked and now fatigue was a factor. Charlie fell asleep in his chair and Mable slumbered on the sofa. Temporary relief from life’s greatest tragedy had finally come.

  The Grapevine – May 29, 1955

  Tragedies have a way of staying with us, permanently recorded on an internal calendar, preserved as a reminder of where we were and what we were doing when we heard the news. May 28 was one such day for the residents of Strasburg. On graduation day in 1953, 5 Strasburg High School teens were killed in a horrific traffic accident. Then, two years later, came the word of another disturbing loss, the death of 19-year-old, Charles Fletcher Polk, Jr.

  The editor of the Northern Virginia Daily was spot on when he opined that Buddy was “very popular with the younger set, as well as the older citizens of Strasburg.” It was hard not to be touched by the tragedy. Those who didn’t know him knew somebody who did.

  Many of Buddy’s friends heard the news announced at the Sunday Church service at St. Paul’s. Bobbie Jean was there. She had only recently moved back home with her mother and was still reeling from an ugly divorce. Coach Al Simpson was in attendance with his family. He had just accepted a new coaching job at a high school in Pulaski County. Tommy Clem, Strasburg’s lone policeman and Buddy’s former scout leader were seated on the back row with his new girlfriend, Lula Mae Whitfield, the waitress who begged Buddy and Donnie to stay out of the Corps.

  Hardly a person existed within that congregation who lacked knowledge of Charles Polk. Sunday School teachers, former classmates and their parents, the barber who cut his hair, and the mailman who delivered his letters to his mom and dad. However, there was an empty seat of note, on the front row. The little lady who sat there almost every Sunday since 1940 was missing.

  The organist began the prelude, Reverend Smith waited by a side door to make his entrance. Like always, he helped the acolyte prepare for the lighting of the candles. He still remembered when Buddy wore the white robe and assisted in the worship celebration. The pastor took his seat on the platform and then briefly scanned the room noting that attendance was a little off. Pretty much what he expected for the Sunday after high school graduation. He often wondered why young people dropped out of church after getting their diplomas. True enough, some went off to college or the military, but most stayed in the town in which they grew up. But on this day, he had more on his mind than church drop-outs. One glance at the empty seat on the front row reminded him of the unpleasant task before him.

  The pastor didn’t take his usual place behind the lectern to begin the worship service. Instead, he stepped to the middle of the platform to address the assembly. “I have sad news to report this morning. Yesterday, Mr. and Mrs. Polk learned of the accidental death of their son, Charles, Jr., while on duty in Japan. It will be several weeks until the body arrives in Strasburg. A date for the funeral has not yet been set. Please remember that family in your prayers as they deal with the tragedy.”

  It’s difficult to say who was hit hardest by the news. During the singing of the first hymn, tears were still flowing. Bobbie Jean was so upset that she thought that she was going to have to leave the room. Her marriage to Cliff Norris was a matter of convenience, to get her away from her domineering mother. But Buddy was the love of her life and she had not given up hope that someday he would feel the same way about her, that is, until now.

  Lula Mae Whitfield had a good reason for wanting Buddy and Donnie to avoid the Marine Corps. Her husband had been killed in Korea. Hearing the news brought back the horrible memory of her loss. And how could she ever forget the day that Buddy secretly handed her a one hundred dollar bill to help her and her children?

  While Lula Mae wept, Tommy Clem was in a bad way himself. He was reminded of how happy Buddy was on the day he learned that he had made Eagle Scout. Buddy took the Laws of Scouting to heart and it was evident that he not only believed but lived every word. “A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.”

  Those qualities endeared Buddy to the St. Paul’s Lutheran Women’s Guild. They were never short on opinions, gossip, or blue hair…and they kept close tabs on the youth of the church. Buddy had passed their close scrutiny with flying colors. His loss touched them deeply and they were already whispering among themselves as to what ministry of encouragement they could bring to their fellow member, Mable, and her family.

  Even the toughest guy in town, Coach Al Simpson, had tears in his eyes. Buddy wasn’t his best player, far from it. But nobody ever tried harder to do what was expected of him. In the 1950s, a 300-pound player was a rarity. Along came Wilbert Haystack Jones, the biggest football player ever to play for the Strasburg Rams. When it came time for blocking drills, none of his players were willing to take on the hefty athlete. So, the coach called upon Buddy to give it his best shot. He could still see the Polk boy running into Haystack and then bouncing off his massive belly. Buddy got right back up and hit him again…and again, each time with the same result. The coach never laughed so hard nor was he ever so impressed with the determination of one of his players. Must have made one heck of a Marine.

  Buddy touched the lives of people in ways that he never knew. Shuggie Jones, the owner of the Virginia Restaurant, was also moved by the announcement. He had been teased and pranked by many of Strasburg’s teens. However, Charles Polk was always polite and considerate. On occasion, Buddy intervened and asked his friends to tone it down. Shuggie nudged his wife and whispered, “We’ll cook a ham today and take it over to the Polks.” Mrs. Jones nodded approvingly.

  Reverend Smith anticipated sorrow in the congregation, but nothing like this. Should he continue? What about the message that he had prepared? “God Protects Those Who Love Him.” Just didn’t seem to fit the occasion. Changing his topic was no easy task…since he preached from a handwritten text. Winging it was not in his skill set. Yet, only an impromptu message would be appropriate. It was time to step out of his comfort zone.

  Mable Polk’s favorite scripture came to mind. When visiting with her the previous evening she said that she and Buddy were fond of the 23rd Psalm. He announced the title of his new message, “The Lord is My Shepherd.” For the next 20 minutes, Reverend Smith expounded on how the Lord leads us and cares for us, even in the most difficult times.

  Reverend Smith was in his 20th year as pastor of St. Paul’s Lutheran Church and in that time he had grown very close to the fellowship. Presiding over funerals had become increasingly more difficult. These weren’t just church members. They were friends. More like family. On the wall of his office hung 20 confirmation photographs, a reminder of all the young people he had educated in the faith. An 11-year-old Buddy was in one of those photos.

  As the congregants filed out of the sanctuary, Reverend Smith stood at the door to bid them farewell. But there were few smiles, still some tears, and a lot of questions, most of which started with the word “why.”

  Bobbie Jean cried all the way home. Could barely see to drive. After sharing the news with her mother, she called Trudy at her home in Harrisonburg. Just like all the others, Trudy said, “it can’t be true. Not Buddy. He was too young to die.”

  Once upon a time, Trudy Miller thought that she was in love with Buddy but that assessment was proved wrong when she met David Conwill. “Love at first sight,” she often said. But that didn’t mean she no longer cared for her high s
chool friend. “He will always have a special place in my heart. Sweetest guy I ever knew.”

  The girls had a good cry together. Then Trudy wondered if Donnie had been informed of his best friend’s death. Neither of them knew of a way to make an immediate connection with him.

  “I’m sure his mother will know what to do,” said Trudy.

  “I’ll call her,” replied Bobbie Jean.

  With the call ended, Bobbie Jean walked into the kitchen to continue her conversation with her mom. She was surprised to see that her mother was upset. It was nice to see that Darla Beeler cared so much about one of her friends. That seldom happened. “Like Reverend Smith said, ‘he’s in a better place.’”

  “I ain’t fumin’ over that boy,” said Darla. “I’m mad about you makin’ a long distance call. You’re payin’ for it. I hope you know that.”

  It was times like this when Bobbie Jean wondered which was worse, living with her abusive ex-husband or her controlling mother. Somehow, someday soon, she had to find a place of her own.

  Since using her mother’s phone was apparently a touchy subject, Bobbie Jean walked to the Turner house. But Bobbie’s information did not come as a surprise. Ruth and Howard Turner had known since the previous evening when Annie Roberts called. “Donnie was Buddy’s best friend,” said Donnie’s dad. “My wife is going to write him a letter today. The Polk’s want him to be a pallbearer at the funeral.”

  It hurt Bobbie Jean that Donnie’s parents received notification and she didn’t. She was a close friend, too. Closer than anyone knew. That secret love intensified midst her troubled marriage. Frequently, she received updates on Buddy’s status from his mother at church. With her divorce in the rearview mirror, she had been considering the best way to make him aware of her feelings. Even a trip to Japan was not out of the question. But now, all hope had been dashed on the rocks of shattered dreams and a broken heart.

  Moving In – Monday, May 30, 1955

  Middletown Elementary School – 1:00 p.m.

  Dickie hated it when his parents whispered when he was in the room. “Big people talk,” they would say. Even worse was when they spelled out certain words to keep him out of the loop. That method had become a little less useful since he was now nearing the end of the first grade. However, since Saturday, those parental confabs had been taken behind closed doors. Fortunately, for him, he had spent Sunday at the neighbor’s house, playing with his best friend, Lily. It couldn’t have come at a better time. His mother’s persistent crying was disturbing.

  On Monday morning, Dickie got ready for school and caught the bus, just like always. The only notable difference was that it was his dad who prepared breakfast and gave him his lunch money. When Dickie asked his father why he wasn’t at work, Woody said he was just taking a few days off. Seemed like a reasonable answer. Hopefully, his dad could do something to cheer up his mom.

  Dickie looked forward to his final week of school. On Thursday, his teacher promised a class party. For the last five days, there was to be extra recess, a whole lot of coloring and book reading, and no more tests.

  The class had only been back from lunch for about an hour and Mrs. Strosnider was explaining the afternoon assignment. She instructed the children to draw a picture of what they planned to do on summer vacation. Just as Dickie was pulling the required supplies from his desk the classroom door opened. Mr. Dingle, the school principal, waved for the teacher to join him in the hallway.

  “Now, class. I expect you to be on your best behavior while I’m out of the room,” said Mrs. Strosnider. A few minutes later she reentered the classroom and made her way to Dickie’s desk.

  “Your daddy’s here to pick you up,” she said. “I need you to clean out your desk and take all your work with you. I’ll take care of your books.”

  All the other children watched as Dickie pulled up the lid on the top of his desk, removed the contents, and stuffed everything in his book satchel.

  “If you’re finished, you can leave,” said Mrs. Strosnider. “I hope you have a good summer.”

  Dickie didn’t know what to think about this unexpected turn of events. He couldn’t recall doing anything wrong. Did this mean that he wouldn’t graduate on Friday with his class? That wouldn’t be fair. As soon as he opened the door to exit the room, he saw his dad. “What’s going on?” asked Dickie.

  “Come on. We have to hurry,” said Woody, leading the way, across the oil-soaked wooden floor, down a flight of stairs, and onto the front sidewalk.

  As they walked, Dickie fired off a volley of questions. “Will I miss the class party? Does this mean I won’t graduate? Where are we going? Did I do something wrong?”

  “You’re not in trouble,” said Woody, “but you will miss your class party.”

  His father failed to address the most important issue.

  “I won’t finish the first grade. No fair,” said Dickie.

  “Calm down. Your teacher is going to mail us your report card and diploma. You graduated.”

  “Really?” said Dickie as he considered an incredible possibility. “You mean, I finished before everybody else?”

  “Yep. You’re a second grader.”

  “Alright,” said Dickie, reveling in the good news. His thoughts then turned to the matter at hand. “You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

  “We’re taking your mama to the doctor in Strasburg. See if we can get something to cheer her up.”

  Dickie was more than OK with that. Up ahead, he spotted his Dad’s car.

  “Be real quiet when you get in,” said Woody. “Mama’s not feeling good.”

  Helen didn’t acknowledge her son when he got in the car. He said hello but she didn’t respond. Her eyes were closed and her head was leaning against the glass in the car door. Dickie worried that something awful was wrong with his mom. He was glad she was going to see the doctor.

  Office of Dr. Whitfield –Strasburg, Virginia – 1:45 p.m.

  Woody held Helen’s hand as they walked from the car to the doctor’s office. She staggered as she walked and still had nothing to say.

  “We have a 2 o’clock appointment,” said Woody to the receptionist.

  “Take a seat. We’ll call your name.”

  Dickie passed the time by drawing pictures on a pad retrieved from his book satchel. After what seemed like an eternity, a nurse stepped into the room. “Helen? Helen Weirich?”

  “Stay put,” said Woody, when Dickie started to follow. “We’ll be out in a little while.”

  Dickie knew Doc Whitfield. Liked him. But he sure didn’t like the medical examination. Regardless of the ailment, there was always poking and gouging, and that cold metal thingy on the end of the doctor’s stethoscope. How was anybody supposed to follow the instruction to “breathe” when that cold object, pressed against your chest, took your breath away? And then there was the shot. Always…in the butt. As a reward for being a good patient, you got a candy sucker, even your choice of colors.

  No longer interested in his drawing project, Dickie looked around the room for something else to hold his attention. That’s when he realized that he was alone, except for the receptionist, who had her head buried in a newspaper. Then something grabbed his attention. A picture of his Uncle Buddy, on the front page of the Northern Virginia Daily. Dickie took great pride in being the best reader in his class, but nothing in his Dick and Jane Reader prepared him for this. ‘Strasburg Boy Killed in Japan: Cpl. Charles Polk is Accidentally Shot.’

  He jumped up from his seat. “Excuse me, mam. That’s my Uncle Buddy. Charles Polk was shot? He was killed?’

  The receptionist didn’t know what to do. She quickly laid down the paper. “I’ll be right back.”

  Soon after, a nurse appeared and summoned Dickie to follow her. After a quick trip through a maze of hallways and rooms to who knows where, they arrived at a screened-in back porch. As usual, there was no explanation, just an order. “Sit here. Your parents will be out shortly.”

  The
re were others in that room, most of them old, and all of them strangers. If only there were someone to talk to, somebody to answer his questions about his Uncle Buddy. Maybe, he read it wrong. Eventually, he heard his dad’s deep voice and soon after Dickie saw him enter the room.

  “Time to go,” said Woody. “Hurry.”

  Doc Whitfield waited for them at the end of the hallway.

  “Hi, Dickie,” said the doctor. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a sucker. “Red OK?”

  “Am I gonna get a shot?” asked Dickie.

  The doctor laughed. “No. Just thought you would like it.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  The doctor handed a piece of paper to Woody. “You’ll want to get this filled no later than tomorrow. If Mrs. Polk needs anything, tell her to call me.”

  Woody thanked the doctor who then opened the door to his office. Helen was sitting in a chair in front of his desk.

  “She’ll need some help,” said Dr. Whitfield.

  As soon as Helen saw Dickie standing outside the door, she started weeping again. So, that’s what this is all about, thought Dickie. Mama is upset about Buddy.

  Once back in the car, Woody turned around in his seat. “We’ve got some bad news.”

  “I already know,” said Dickie. “Uncle Buddy was killed.”

  For the first time since Saturday, Helen responded. She even stopped crying. “What?” And then she turned her attention to Woody. “You told him.”

  “Nope. Not a word.”

  She looked back at Dickie.

  “Read it in the paper.”

  “What paper?” she said.

  “The newspaper in the doctor’s office,” said Dickie.

  Helen smiled faintly at Woody. “Well, how about that?”

  Woody turned the key and started the engine. “Our boy is growing up.”

  Polk Home – Strasburg, Virginia – 3:00 p.m.

  It took them only five minutes to drive from the doctor’s office on Massanutten Street to the Polk house on Capon Street. When they pulled into the driveway, Helen finally explained why Dickie was taken out of school. “We’re going to be living here for a while. Maybe as long as a month. Mammaw and Granddaddy are going to be very sad, so you need to be on your best behavior. Stay out of their way and be as quiet as a mouse. If you want to play, go outside.” She didn’t say it, but the message was clear. The ‘children are to be seen and not heard’ rule was in effect.