Chapter Seven

AWARE OF A SLOW MOVING car on the street, Twila waited in the evening stillness. A few minutes later, a light flashed through the front window—that would be Honor Trimble, the town sheriff, making sure businesses had battened down for the night.

Talk about passion—even his name fit his occupation. He’d been at his post forever, and his steady plod through town testified to his determination to carry out the law.

Today’s Globe Gazette lay on a table, so she carried it to the kitchen. Mr. Olsen didn’t mind her taking it home for Mom to read—one small perk of working here.

To the rhythm of Honor tramping around the building, she locked up. He met her at the back door and touched his cap.

He tried the doorknob. “Looks as if you done just fine.” He sniffed. “Sure you shut everything off in there?”

“Proud of him—we all are. Not many serve in two different wars, doncha know?”

“Your mother’s doing her part, too. Have a good night, then.” Honor’s boots crunched down the alley, but he turned back a few seconds later as she started toward Main down the long side of the cafe.

“Awful dark between them buildings, ain’t it? Better be careful. Jest never know what’ll happen these days.”

“Thanks, Honor.” For some reason, a warning coming from him didn’t bother her.

He set off again, and she followed the length of the cafe toward Main Street. The darkness grew so thick she could barely see where to walk, but this route got her home faster. Let’s see; how far down was that old barrel, anyway?

Down Main Street, the stillness proclaimed no auto in sight—she might as well be out on a deserted country road. Between peaks and cupolas of tall old houses, bats swung from chimney to chimney like high wire artists.

Change came slowly to Halberton, but the electrical wires fit in now, when at first, they’d seemed so out of place.

At the post office, she turned the little dial to open the family box. Nothing today. Farther toward home, the idea of continuing like this until she married someone and became a mother haunted her.

Evening shadows narrowed her path through the back yard and the scent of early honeysuckle drifted from the neighbors’ place. Inside the back porch, a strong smell assaulted her—something must’ve died in here.

Too dark to check right now, so she went in and hung her coat on a hook—always the one next to Dad’s. She brushed his sleeve and pictured him out in the California desert. In the kitchen, she dropped the newspaper on the table and drew the blackout curtains above the water pump.

Might as well pull the heavy drape to shut off the back hallway, too. She felt for the lamp on the shelf above the table and switched it on.

Just like that, the darkness became light. If only she could turn a light on inside herself. What was it Mrs. Harmon had said about everyone discovering own unique talent to help people—niche?

“Dad, you know what you’re supposed to be doing. So does Mom, and you’re both making a big difference for the troops. But how can I know what I ‘m supposed to do?”

She turned to clear off the table and the Gazette’s headline story grabbed her in a stranglehold.

Algona, Iowa: Prisoner of War camp to be constructed in late summer. This facility, required by the war department to house the growing number of prisoners taken in North Africa and elsewhere, will include a modern hospital.

The camp will be built a distance from the city by Italian war prisoners. Camp Algona will be self-sufficient, surrounded by a double wire fence, and staffed by trained army guards. Citizens need not concern themselves over matters of safety.

The kitchen clock vied with Twila’s heartbeat. Algona. Aunt Margaret lived there, about two and a half hours away, maybe more with the 35-mile-an-hour speed limit. She and her children were family—except they’d only met once, at Grandma Fowler’s funeral.

What if things changed, and she and mom got together again? That seemed impossible, but just yesterday, Sharon and Rodney announced something new in family. In a few months, Lilly would have a new sister or brother.

Would they choose an L name for the new baby? But even more importantly, would Dad make it home for the birth?

Sometimes his letters helped her visualize parachute training—sounded pretty dangerous, but so necessary. He called himself a tiny cog in an enormous wheel, but that was his nature, happy to work behind the scenes.

A mourning dove issued its lonesome call from the lilac bushes out back. Every night, Twila could count on this, but changes occurred for humans all the time. She read the article again and imagined that prison camp with its brand new hospital. The camp would be like a small city springing up overnight. If only the Army had chosen a closer location.

Minute after minute ticked away, and her thoughts whirled. Then something clicked inside.

Wouldn’t the camp need workers? Her next thought made her ears hum—she could be one of them. She could almost see the walls of the camp going up, with those Italians cutting window frames and laying floorboards.

At Mom’s footfall on the back porch steps, she started up and hurried with supper. She also made a decision—not a word about this. No use getting Mom upset.

YET ANOTHER NIGHT PATROL. Mosquitoes buzzed Stan’s ears, and thick jungle roots and branches made every attempt to foil this trek. If he wasn’t tripping, Cap was. The two of them fell behind the others, but what could he do?

Cap had taken off his boots, soaked through after wading through a low place, and slung them over his shoulder. Now they flap-flapped against each other as he walked. Without them, it was only a matter of time before he injured a toe or his whole foot.

These intricate trails wound back and forth in such profusion that there was no use trying to keep track of direction. They were moving eastward, generally, but the paths meandered up and down. Taken altogether, they proceeded upward.

A screeching night bird lanced an ear-piercing cry. At least he hoped it was a bird—might just as easily be a Jap calling out his location to a patrol leader, or reporting that he could hear some fool GIs making a whole lot of noise.

Perspiration drooled down the back of Cap’s neck, and the endless mosquitoes were enjoying a feast. Weariness became a living thing, a snake wrapping its body tighter and tighter around Stan’s chest.

He’d always believed sleep would eventually come. Didn’t every human being have to sleep sometime?

But for him, that time never seemed to arrive. If he slept, some Nips might sneak up on them, and then... Mostly, he accepted this, but seeing Cap or Carlos drop off into slumber at the slightest opportunity had begun to irritate him.

At times like this, he had to practice mind control. “It’s all in your head,” his dad used to say when he complained of aches or pains out in the forest.

“Think about something else. Picture the load we’ll haul home tonight, and the new boots we’ll be able to afford. Think how good you’ll feel about putting in a hard day’s work.”

Advice from the Wisconsin forest came in handy out here in enemy territory on a pitch-black night with a Nip patrol waiting at any curve in the trail. And Stan embraced it—he could keep going. He had to.

Every time the Filipinos stopped, he at least closed his eyes. Mimicking sleep like this made an adjustment in his near-despair.

If he added up all the brief halts when a scout left to sniff out the terrain, there might be ten before dawn. Ten times ten minutes each—that meant he’d slept about an hour and a half.

Just then, Cap groaned. Stan reached for him through the darkness. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears, but at least Cap quieted at his touch. Then the brush stirred slightly, and Stan reached for his knife.

But like a jungle animal, Carlos’s bright eyes glinted. “Keep it down, muchachos. We’re almost on top of an enemy outpost. Been on trail all night.”

Carlos gripped the bolo tied to his waist and whispered, “Not Cap. And we can’t leave him alone. Stay here—I’ll come for you when it’s over.”

He blinked and then was gone, a cat slinking into the gloom. Dense wet foliage brushed Stan’s shoulder as he leaned toward Cap.

Nothing could describe his relief when Cap gave no more argument and dropped to the earth. From the noise he made, he must be carving out a niche in thick jungle grass.

Something about being told to stay put brought a sense of relief. Carlos would never have suggested this if he hadn’t felt position safe—relatively, of course. But beyond that, it had been a long time since anyone issued Stan an order. He had often chafed at that very thing, but not tonight.

In the dense darkness, he sank near the intermittent whisper of Cap’s breathing and wiggled out a space for himself in the grass. Then he closed his eyes, let his shoulders loosen against the earth, and set himself to listen.

Not a sound from the direction where Carlos had disappeared. He waited, counted to fifty, and bent his ear again. Nothing. Cap’s breathing deepened—good.

The next thing he knew, a patchwork of jungle foliage created holes for the sun to shine through. He started up from his warm nest, aware that full daylight displayed location to anyone who happened along. A few feet away, someone moved through the tangled vines. Cap still slept, his clothes a veritable thorn patch. Stan brushed his pants as he sought his knife—full of those tiny barbs, too.

But no matter. He must’ve conked out for several hours. For the first time in weeks, his eyes had stopped itching. Even as he readied his bolo to attack, a fresh realization came to him. He was still capable of sleep—he would survive.

That is, if Carlos or one of the Filipinos broke through the brush instead of an enemy soldier.