Once the big guns were in place and the people hiding underground were sent on to registration, I knew the infantry would soon be heading toward the escarpment, the high cliffs where the Japanese were dug in. Intelligence told us that we shouldn’t have any confrontations until we got closer to the towering bluffs. I watched my men finish setting up the three 155mm artillery batteries. We weren’t fooling around.
I kept walking around and looking down in those holes in the underground caves where the natives had dug in. The Japanese had terrified those poor people into believing we were the dragons from the West who were going to devour them with fire blowing out of our noses. When the roar of our bulldozer started, the noise must have confirmed their every fear. The volcano god had descended on them for lunch.
I watched the men stack the wooden boxes of ammunition. For once, I decided to take a breather and let someone else worry for a while. Sitting down on the trunk of a tree the caterpillar had knocked over, for the first time in days I thought of home. For the moment a million miles away seemed right there under my feet. I started walking down the sidewalk again in Ada, Oklahoma, where I’d always delivered the papers. The Oklahoma Times and The Daily Oklahoman came down from Oklahoma City and that’s how everyone got their news. The Great Depression had turned everything upside down and Oklahoma had fallen out on the floor. Making a nickel was big time. A dime put you over the top. Back in the thirties everyone was poor.
On my paper route, I soon discovered that the people who still had money were the hardest to collect from. That was probably why they still had money: they were so tight. For instance, Howard Smith owned the most prosperous business in town. At some time or the other, everyone needed his hardware store. Smith had the best flow of money around, but you’d think that he was about to fold at any second.
“Mr. Smith,” I said politely, “you’re a month behind and owe me a quarter.”
“Don’t have time to talk to you now,” Smith grumbled. “Got a customer. Come back later.”
“But—”
He turned around and walked off, leaving me furious. Finally, I told him I wasn’t delivering any more newspapers until he paid the twenty-five cents he owed me for the month and paid another twenty-five cents in advance for the next month.
“Robbery!” Smith nearly shouted. “Absolute robbery.”
I walked off saying nothing. A couple of days went by and he stopped me on the street. “Where’s my paper?” Smith growled.
“You ain’t got a paper coming until you’re paid up,” I said with determination in my voice of someone well beyond my age.
“Listen, you little snap. If I don’t get a paper, I’m not paying you a quarter.”
“Then you ain’t getting any newspapers,” I said defiantly.
“You drive a hard bargain,” Smith conceded, sticking his hand in his pocket. “All right, here’s your quarter.”
“And I need another quarter for next month,” I insisted.
“Highway robbery!” Smith squealed. “A hoodlum holdup!” But he put another quarter in my hand.
“Here’s your newspaper, sir.” I handed him the news and walked off.
When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw a grin on his face. Later I learned that he thought I was a real businessman.
Old man Smith was indeed a businessman. He sold caskets on the second floor of his hardware store. He was the only person in the town of Ada selling caskets, so business kept booming. (Pardon the expression.) Of course, every kid in town wanted to go up and look in to see what a casket really was like. We’d try to sneak up there and take a peek. What we didn’t know was that Smith had installed a pipe that ran from his office through the ceiling into the casket room. When he’d see a kid sneaking up the stairs, he’d wait until the boy tried to look into one of the caskets. Then Smith would say through his secret tube, “What are you doing looking at my rest place?” The kid would go flying down the stairs and run out of the building.
“Major Shaw,” the sergeant said.
I jumped and stood up. “Got lost in my thoughts. What can I do for you, Sergeant?”
“Looks like the Deadeye Ninety-Sixth Infantry Division is getting ready to march north. They’re preparing to pull out.”
I nodded. “Okay. We need to be ready to give them artillery support. Are we so positioned?”
“Just about. Give me another hour or two and we’ll be done.”
“You got it,” I said. “This lull won’t last long, and we’ll be back in the thick of it.”
The sergeant saluted and hurried away, knowing the 361st Artillery Battalion provided support for the 381st as well as the 96th Division.
I sat down again. My mind drifted back to Ada. The newspaper route taught me to respect people like the villagers down in those dark caves that we uncovered. You learned that people like Smith had a place in the town and they were important even if they didn’t seem so then. That was true of Aunt Molly. At least that’s what we all called her. She lived out on the edge of town, so it took some walking to get to her house with a newspaper.
I didn’t know her very well, but she took a newspaper every day. Three days had gone by when I realized her newspapers were stacking up. Something had to be wrong. Of course, no one locked their doors, so anyone could walk in. I decided maybe I should see what had happened to Aunt Molly, so I let myself in.
“Aunt Molly? You in there?”
I heard a groan from a distant room.
“Aunt Molly?” The groan came again.
I peeked around the door. The poor woman looked terrible. I knew she was in a bad way, so I ran for the phone and called Doc Seibert. I was surprised how fast he got there.
The old town doctor took one look and said, “Son, you did the right thing. I’ll take care of her from here. I know Molly’s got some cows out that probably haven’t been milked in three days. I think there’s three of ’em. You go out there and take care of them poor cows.”
I stared at him. “Sir, I never milked a cow in my life. I wouldn’t know what to do.”
“Ain’t nothing to it. Just start pulling on those tits. Them cows is probably about to bust as it is. Now get out there and take care of ’em and I’ll handle business here in the house.”
I had no idea what to do, but I was about to learn. When I got out to the barn, the cows were throwing a fit. They were obviously in pain from going three days unmilked. I grabbed a stool and a bucket and went to work. Somehow or the other, I got the task done.
I brought the buckets of warm milk in and set them on the counter in Aunt Molly’s kitchen. Dropping into a chair exhausted, I waited to see what would happen. Finally, Doc Seibert came out and started washing his hands in the sink. I just watched.
“Son,” the doc said, “you got some grateful cows out there.” He laughed. “Yes sirree, grateful indeed.” His countenance changed, and he looked serious. “Art, you probably saved Molly’s life. She’ll be thankful.”
“Major Shaw!” a soldier yelled, running up the trail the bulldozer had dug. “Anyone know where Major Shaw is?”
“Over here!” I called. “I’m Major Shaw.”
The corporal stopped and caught his breath. “We just got word that there’s a resistance movement out there. Villagers who opposed the Japanese. We don’t know where they are, but probably the resistance is roaming around. Just wanted you to be aware.”
“Thank you, Corporal. We’ll pay attention.”