The spotting post is in the western part of town, over on the river where it joins the sea, facing the unformed sunset in the rich young afternoon with the thunder wrapped in black in the north and the telephone handy for the flash when you hear Go Ahead Please. The post is on a ledge, high above the river and the sea, facing west, behind the postmistress’s barn, a gray ledge of solid granite sprinkled with the broken shells of clams. At my feet the pasture, sultry in the summer afternoon, heedless of the grumbling shower—the juniper and laurel, the paths worn by the cows’ feet, the little paths so artfully contrived among the rocks and sweetfern. Behind is the henyard where the mourners stand; the hens step gingerly among the empty clam shells and the dusting holes. I hear the thin small whining of a plane, invisible, and follow with my eyes, my ears, the eyes following the ears. Beyond the white cloud here it comes. To arms! An airplane in the sky! To arms, attention, this … is war! I crank the phone, which makes a sickly ring as though its throat were sore. Flash. One plane, unknown. High. The secret name (this is confidential) of this implausible and secret post where I watch the sky trails, where I scan the nimbus for the approaching foe. North, three miles, southwest. And may I say, before you cut me off, that I’ve observed in addition to this single plane (high, unknown) an unsurpassed example of an afternoon. Flash—sweet fern and juniper. Flash—the distant sea, my secret post and secret joy, the distant and impending shower, cumulus, the fields beyond the little stream, the holy spire of the small white church, children playing (against the rules) around the post and trading glimpses through the old binoculars. Flash. A little portion of America, imperiled, smiling and beautiful as anything. On my right the village, church and school, imperiled, still warm and to all appearances intact and safe; on my left a farmyard, threatened, brooding, waiting for the immediate thunder in the north and for the delayed thunder that you read about; and at my feet the pasture, warm and sultry, dropping to the sea. I just report it for your files, for the interceptor’s files, for your information at a time when we need all the information we can get. Perhaps it is none of my business. I abuse my privilege.
The postmistress has come out of her house. On the clothesline she hangs a suit of Navy whites. She takes the clothespin from her mouth.
“My boy is home today,” she calls. “On leave.”
“How does he like it?”
“Good. He’s only home a day and wants to get right back. Misses the other boys. He washes these himself, most generally, but doesn’t really get ‘em white. I used some Oxydol and still they show a little grime. He loves it, what he’s seen so far. They gave him three months’ training in five weeks. They taught him self-defense, jiu jitsu, wrestling, boxing, how to swim, how to take to the boats, all that stuff. He’s raring to get back and when he gets there he’ll be shipped. He don’t know where. They never let them know.”
The Navy whites are added to the scene, the thunder gains, the woman goes indoors, the world darkens, the rain descends. I slip my oilskins on and watch the sky, dripping very slightly. Out of the thin rain, in from sea, a plane comes flying north. I crank the phone. Flash, one multimotor seen. The ebb has siphoned off the river, the bar is dry, the hawk hangs fishing in the sky, the air is thunderous. I light a pipe. A small breeze passes by, the suit of whites flies flapping in my rear. A tug with barge in tow sets slowly in the west. The hours pass. A heron fishes on the flats. The tide has turned. The flood begins. My watch is done.
We serve three meals a day here still. The food is pretty good, starvation is unknown, and all that stuff is nonsense that you read—those kids in Greece and Poland couldn’t be. Tonight is suppertime, the pie is blueberry, the watch is over, the observation is no more. This is the edge of dark and suppertime.
I have a date tonight. I have some hens I promised to a neighbor’s wife, six laying hens. Tonight I make delivery. This is important. This (as the radio used to say) is war. The shower has passed, the air is clean and cool and sweet, the voice of Lowell Thomas comes without a squawk. Six hens, a load for a wheelbarrow; but first you need some fertilizer bags to tack across to hold them in, to make a little cover for the rig. The bags smell rich with the remains of phosphate, the hens are uneasy in the semidark. The terrier directs the transfer, tends to the nailing down, convoys the transport on the pleasant road. The hens are quiet now, concerned with balancing themselves against the jounce. The farmer chats with me a while, this being eveningtime. Together we unload the hens; they receive an ovation from some geese. The farmer wants that I should see his sow—a great big snuffling Chester White. She’s easy kept. She pigs in three weeks now. I know this farmer well, our talk is effortless, he tells me what is on his mind.
“I don’t feel as though I was doing enough,” he says. “I’d just as leave go in one of the freight boats if it’s men they need.”
The day has come to rest at last, the terrier rides the empty barrow home, as happy as a boy. It’s half-past eight. Light up a Lucky Strike. Ladies and gentlemen. Question and answer. These are the boys that know the answers. They know the answers up till five of nine. From half-past eight till five of nine they know the answers—then they miraculously disappear. At 8:55 exactly the Russians resume their withdrawal, the Germans resume their advance, the Japanese resume their position along the Siberian border, and it’s time to shut the pullets up; for no one knows the answers any more and the dark is here and one more day is done.
This should be the sweetly scented night, the hay strong in the long-bearded mows; but the night has picked up something on the way, like a dog that has met a skunk. The night has been abroad and met a skunk. The night is all stunk up with trouble and alarm. I listen for the phone, making the rounds, shining my flashlight in the nests. It’s hours later when it starts, the ringing on the line, first five short rings (that would be Freethey’s) then a sign-off, and then in quick succession Henry Tapley, Josie Dow, then ours.
“The yellow has come through … the alert.” Yellow, the color of dandelions, color of buttercups and country cream, the yellow for alert—this is the color of tonight, a yellow sky, a yellow thought, a yellow command. The evening stiffens. I’m lucky I’m dressed. Others are not so fortunate; they failed to notice how the night smelled, so they went to bed. They must be tumbling out now, dressing hastily to meet the yellow occasion, to spread the buttercup of alarm. I wave and blow the horn and as I disappear I see, in the rear-view mirror, that the lights go out.
Yellow is the color of pumpkin and of squash, yellow’s a pretty color for a girl, a yellow sweater with the sleeves pushed up. The yellow has come through. The squash vine yellow in the night. I blow the horn continuously, passing farm by farm, the night is loud, more loud than yellow when I blow the horn, continuously. Dark at the Wardwells’, dark at Charlie’s house, all dark at Earl’s—he’s gone to Rockland anyway, nobody home, give him the horn though, just the same, make dark the night by making it so loud; dark at the Allens’ house, at First Selectman Kane’s, at Carter’s, Gott’s, and Henderson’s, all dark, all orderly, now slow for Staples’ corner, now step on it and blow—blow, Gabriel, blow, this is the yellow, this is no fooling, this (as they used to say in the curious yellow voice) is war.
The town lights still are on, yellow and bright along the road, and one old lady’s reading by her lamp. I turn and start for home. It’s up to Albert Anderson to get the lights out; this is his patrol. I see him coming from his house. I stop, tell him about the lights, and then drive on, returning home. I leave the truck in the driveway, headed out, and take up my patrol. I climb the gate, sit on the top rail. No cars must move now, during the red. Stop all cars. There’ll be none along, I know that well enough. Only the warden’s on the adjoining beat—he’ll be along now, soon. He’ll use my drive for turning. There’s his horn and here he is.
The night has stiffened, now it changes color suddenly. The phone again: the red’s come through. Red is for roses and for human blood. The gate on which I sit out my patrol is wet with dew. I feel it through my pants. The stars are bright. This is my country and my night, this is the blacked-out ending to the day, the way they end a skit in a revue. Here, in the compulsory dark, I sit and feel again the matchless circle of the hours, the endless circle Porgy meant when he sang to Bess: “Mornin’-time and evenin’time …” It’s almost midnight now. Nothing has meaning except the immediate moment, which is precious and indisputable. Morningtime and eveningtime … here on the gate, with my toes hooked under the second rail, I can smell the lost morning, which was memorable and good, hear the lost voices of the crows in sprucewoods calling, which were haunting and loud, feel with the flat of my hand the water being swished in the watering pails in the field, my first job on arising. The pullets come to drink, forming the circle around the pans; the day begins. My hair hurts slightly because it is still uncombed. I find one tiny range egg, laid by a four-months novice—a morning jewel, a perfect little thing in my hand, something to take back to the house at shaving time. Breakfast is not for a while. I shave carelessly, without removing my shirt. I shave mournfully, with hardly a grimace.
(This gate is dewy on a man’s behind …)
The day is young, the sun shines on the orange juice and on the coffee with the news. Coffee bringeth the dark tidings—coffee with cream and a little sugar, allotted; black news, straight, no sugar. The bend of the Don at breakfast. The Don bends around my cup, the great bend. The men fall back, the men I don’t know but call by the name Russians. The Germans advance, not much, not without losses, but always advancing, always getting where they want to go. I don’t know them, but they advance. Then there are the conferences. I am informed that the leaders are talking but am not told what they are saying. Breakfast is over, all but the cigarette, all but the last falling back of the Russians and the last putting out of the cigarette against the saucer.
(No cars must move during the red, but none will be along.)
In midmorning the sun has gained in the southern sector (you can rely on that) and the sheep, relying on it, knowing that the sun gains no matter who falls back, come up and lie in the thin shade that the fence rails make at the top of the lane. I catch the ewe whose lamb we butchered in warm blood day before yesterday—first the hammer blow on the head, then the knife jab in the throat—the same lamb I sat up late in March for, with such apparent tenderness, the kind of tenderness that refuses to look ahead because it knows that to look ahead is fatal. The tenderness of March, the brutality of August, one lamb serving both moods. I catch the ewe to milk her and relieve her bag. Midmorning now, and all the civilized world at war, in every continent warring. The clouds in the fine blue sky assemble, squad by squad, answering the bugle of the noon, and I go indoors to work.
Stonily I sit at the machine, refusing, as a jumping horse refuses the hurdle. All that comes forth I drop without regret into the wastebasket; nothing seems to make sense, no matter how you spell it or arrange the words. You write something that sounds informative, throwing the words around in the usual manner, then you put your head out the door, or somebody puts his head in, a knob is turned, somebody says something to you, or your eye is caught by something in the news, a dog barks, and no longer is what you have said informative, or even sensible. At the mere barking of a dog the thing explodes in your hands, and you look down at your hands. As though you had crushed a light bulb and were bleeding slightly. And after lunch the thunder in the north.
It’s almost midnight now. No cars must pass. In the west, from the other side of town, the church bell rings, so far away that I can barely make it out, yet there it is. Give me to hold the beloved sound, the enormous sky, the church bell in the night beyond the fields and woods, the same white church near which I stood my watch this afternoon. That was before the sky had cleared. The sky is now intemperately clear. Ring, bell … forever ring!