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LATE MAY BROUGHT FLOWERS, and Aunt Margaret said they’d plant the rest of the garden on the weekend. Then a cold north wind played tricks on everyone, and her daffodils froze in place one night.
The next morning, Twila squatted beside the delicate, cheery flowers. Such a small occurrence in the midst of the war, and yet the way the fragile petals dissolved at her touch made her sad.
Later in the day, a guard loitered outside the gate when she passed through after work. She’d just reached up to tighten her headscarf before starting home. She nodded his way, and he fell in step with her.
“Miss Brunner, would you mind if I walked with you?”
Those blue eyes—she’d know them anywhere. A couple of times, her rescuer from the German patient had saluted her in the dining hall, but initiated no conversation. She’d wondered if they would ever talk again, and now, here he was.
“No. I mean, yes—It’s all right.”
“Private Stanley Ford at your service. Stan, if you don’t mind.”
“And I’m Twila. Thanks for taking care of me that day with the prisoner. I think I was too shaken up to say that at the time.”
“Glad I could help.” His smile highlighted a dimple in his left cheek.
“Do you go into town often?”
“Only when I get off duty a little early and there’s a pretty girl I want to walk home.” He matched his gait to hers and bent his head against the wind.
At the first crossing, an official black vehicle with a big white star painted on its side whooshed past.
“Always seems a little odd to be out in the ordinary world after a long stretch of duty. Do you feel that way, too?”
“The ordinary world? Does that even exist anymore?”
“Umm... I know what you mean. Back in Wisconsin, our nearest town has an S&L store like the one here. I’d feel at home in there if I had on my regular clothes.”
“What would they be?”
“Jeans and my dirty old cloth cap with a pleat in the back. I gave my Mom strict orders not to mess with it—requires a certain amount of sweat and dirt to maintain its shape.” He kept a straight face though his eyes twinkled.
“Will she obey?”
“I doubt it, but at least I tried.”
They stopped for traffic on the main road and continued across a busy intersection toward Algona’s south side. He seemed comfortable with silence, which stirred her curiosity.
“What’s Wisconsin like?”
“Hillier than here, with pine stands everywhere up north. My family’s been in lumber for three generations.”
“Really? My brother runs the little town lumberyard my Grandpa started years ago.”
“Where?”
“Halberton, Iowa, north of Waterloo and south of Austin, Minnesota.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised if some of our lumber ended up in his yard—before the war, that is. Now, I imagine he’s sending every extra scrap to the shipyards, just like us. And your father?”
“He’s training paratroopers in California right now.”
“That would be interesting. Must’ve had some experience in the last war?”
Twila nodded.
“Wish I could’ve gone a little farther from home, but...”
Aware that many camp guards were unable to serve in the fighting force for one reason or another, Twila stifled her next question. Like Rodney, Stan must have had some physical setback, but they both looked healthy on the outside.
When they turned, the wind blew right in faces, but after some time, Stan answered her unspoken question.
“I spent the first years of the war in the Pacific, but got sent back to recuperate.”
“You were wounded?”
“Yeah.”
He said no more, so they crossed Main Street, where Mr. Plum waved from the doorway of the Diagonal Grocery. He often was out changing signs this time of day, and took time to greet her.
“Hello there, Miss. How’s your aunt doing?”
“Fine, thank you.” She waved back and turned her attention to Stan. “My cousin’s somewhere out there in the Pacific with the Navy. We haven’t heard anything from him for such a long time. Where did you serve?”
“The Philippines.”
“Really? That’s where Paul might be—if he made it to land when the Japs attacked his ship.”
“It’s possible. Lots of small islands there, and you never know where somebody might have swum ashore. I expect some families won’t get word until the whole thing’s over.”
“The news said lots of men were captured. He could be one of them.”
“Yeah.”
“Wouldn’t Aunt Margaret have heard if that were true?”
“Not necessarily.”
Stan fell into silence, and more questions piqued her mind. Why hadn’t he been captured? Had he been wounded and sent home before the surrender? But asking him didn’t seem right, so she turned the conversation back to Camp Algona.
“What is it like being a guard?”
His voice came from far away. “I don’t mind it, but being far away was easier, in a way. When you’re so far from everything familiar, everybody knows home is an impossible dream.”
“Were you ever on Tinian Island?”
“No, about 1,500 hundred miles east. Everything looks close on a map, but thousands of miles might separate one place from another. Even getting to a hospital ship took... actually I don’t know how long.”
“How were you...”
“Wounded?”
“Yes. I mean, it’s none of my business, but...”
Stan slapped his leg and grinned. “That tells me the docs did a good job. You haven’t noticed me limping?”
“No, not at all.”
“This makes my day! The old wound doesn’t affect me much anymore.”
“I’d never have guessed you’d been hurt. You look the picture of health.”
His grin spread ear to ear, and that strong dimple winked at her. Sunlight struck his face when they turned a corner. “If you want to see my scars, I promise I’ll think about it.”
“That’s all right. I see plenty of them already.”
They walked in silence for a while longer, and at the next corner, she stalled.
“Thanks for the escort home. I live down this street with my aunt. My nephew Benny will be the only one home right now, and he’s so fanatical about the war, he’ll have a conniption fit if he sees a soldier close up.”
A door slammed somewhere, and she restated her comment. “Actually, my aunt would be the one to have the fit. She tries to keep him clear of anything to do with the camp. She doesn’t want to stir him up about the war any more than he already is.”
“Where is she right now?”
“Still at the camp—she works in the prisoners’ canteen.”
“Tall, with sort of reddish hair?”
“That’s her.”
“I know who she is. Now I see the family resemblance, although I like your freckles better than hers.”
Just banter, but his cheerfulness was catching. He glanced back toward camp.
“Well, then, it’s time for me to employ my disappearing-into-the-jungle skills.” He doffed his cap and flicked back the unruly shock of hair that dusted his sandy eyebrows.
“I’m still not used to having this much hair after having it butchered for so long. May have to get it chopped off again.”
He made a slight bow. “Thanks for allowing me this pleasure, Miss Brunner. Until we meet again.”
No limp at all as he turned and walked away—she checked that out before continuing home.
***
FOR WEEKS, PEOPLE HAD been whispering about the Allies invading occupied France. Now everyone focused on the constant clouds and rain over there. Would General Eisenhower have to call off the invasion?
June first came and went, and newscasters still jubilated over the fall of Germany in the Crimea. They also set the stage for the fall of Rome, but had nothing to offer about the European front. The word around Camp Algona was that everything depended on the obstinate weather over the English Channel.
But mid-morning of June 6th, Twila dropped by the main office to deliver some reports and found the staff gathered around a radio in one corner. They hardly lifted heads at her knock, and when she entered, the woman who usually received the medical reports held out her hand without budging from her chair.
“We’re tuned in to General Patton’s speech to the troops—the invasion is on!” She volunteered this from the corner of her mouth in a conspiratorial whisper. “Stay a minute and listen if you want to.”
Even knowing Nurse Alcott had more work outlined for her, the sharp male voice coming over the wires drew Twila in. The man’s bravado came through in his every word.
Men, all this stuff you hear about America not wanting to fight, wanting to stay out of the war, is a lot of bullshit. Americans love to fight. All real Americans love the sting and clash of battle. When you were kids, you all admired the champion marble shooter, the fastest runner, the big-league ball players and the toughest boxers. Americans love a winner and will not tolerate a loser. Americans play to win all the time. That’s why Americans have never lost and will never lose a war. The very thought of losing is hateful to Americans. Battle is the most significant competition in which a man can indulge. It brings out all that is best and it removes all that is base...
The stenographer glanced up and mouthed, “Did you need something else?”
Twila shook her head and backed away, but gradually. The General surely knew how to captivate an audience.
...the real hero is the man who fights even though he’s scared. Some men will get over fright in a minute under fire, some take an hour, and for some it takes days. But the real man never lets his fear of death overpower his honor, his sense of duty to his country, and his innate manhood.
On her way back to the ward, the speech stuck with her. Clearly, General Patton had written it to put steel into his men who were about to risk lives for the cause.
At the same time, she hoped Benny escaped hearing it, or he’d be swooning over the swashbuckling leader for the next year. This was just the kind of thing Aunt Margaret tried to keep from him.
Innate manhood—if anybody was a man, it was Dad. When he fought in the Great War, surely he had known fear. How did he overcome it, especially when he was wounded? He never talked about that time, but maybe he would if she asked him.
She bet he’d admit to being afraid, but would the prisoners here? What about the SS officers, with utter devotion to leader? If they experienced no fear in battle, surely they might have when they’d been wounded or taken prisoner.
Or, as someone recently said in the dining room, were they so sated with propaganda—brainwashed, the guards called it—that normal human emotions failed them? Except anger, maybe. Didn’t the Fuhrer rely on stirring up anger to recruit supporters?
That night, Benny fidgeted so much at the table that Aunt Margaret threatened to staple him to his chair to get through supper. In spite of her harsh admonition, he kept breaking out in chatter about the Channel crossing to the Normandy beaches. He simply couldn’t keep his excitement inside.
“Didja hear ‘bout the landing craft? They made...”
Aunt Margaret cut him off. “Benny, stop. We all realize the invasion’s begun. I know it’s impressive, but you don’t have to repeat everything you hear word for word, all right?”
Diana elbowed him in the ribs. “For once, why don’t you listen to mom? You’re driving all of us crazy.”
But nothing could calm him this evening. Even faster than usual, he dashed through drying the dishes and raced to the radio. Diana shrugged off the reports and went to her friend Betty’s house, while Aunt Margaret joined Twila and Benny around the radio.
Even she seemed mesmerized by the broadcaster’s depiction of soldiers stuffed like sardines into landing craft designed especially for this mission. The wind and waves tossed them to and fro, seagulls accompanied the landing craft, and many soldiers were beset by nausea.
The newscaster outdid himself in bringing the scene to life—hordes of Allied planes in the skies, enemy guns strafing the beaches, and salt spray billowing all around.
Aunt Margaret’s knitting needles couldn’t have clicked faster as the three of them entered into the tension of approaching the French beachheads under enemy fire. Twila picked up her needles, too, to keep her hands busy.
Of course, Benny sat entranced, his eyes bulging with excitement. Afterward, he was effusive. His “Didja hear’?” resounded through the living room time and again. Twila only had to nod her head now and then. How could he ever get to sleep tonight?
Aunt Margaret commented only once. “This sounds inhuman—horrendous. I thought being in the Pacific was the worst, but now I’m glad Paul’s there instead.”
“Oh, man! I’d wanna be in on this, wouldn’t you, Twila? Now we get to show them Germans what for.” Benny punched the air with his fist. “Now we’re on French soil, and they’ll realize what we’re made of!”
Aunt Margaret sighed and rubbed between her eyes. What could anyone say? Then an idea occurred to Twila.
“Come down in the basement with me for a minute, Benny.”
“What for?”
“I need help finding something.” On the way down, she added, “We need a big square to write on.” After scrounging in several corners, he pulled out an old bulletin board.
“This is just the ticket.”
He looked baffled as she shook the dust off in the back porch and told him to bring some pens and pencils, even crayons or chalk—whatever he could find. By the time he did, she’d spiffed up the bulletin board and set it on the table.
“Ok, now bring the F volume of the encyclopedia here—oh, and some straight pins.”
Half an hour later, with Aunt Margaret’s needles vying with the clock, that old board bore a sketch of France’s north coast. Sitting back, Twila admired work.
“We did pretty well, don’t you think? This is as complete as we can make it for now. Now, you write the names of the beaches where our guys have landed. Tomorrow, you can add more.”
Face flushed and eyes alight, Benny would have continued all night. But Aunt Margaret shooed him up to bed.
“Aw, Mom—do I gotta go at ten? Even on this big day? For the love of Mike...”
Aunt Margaret’s sigh sailed the room. “Do I have to go at ten... and who is Mike, anyway? There’ll be more news tomorrow. Didn’t the announcer say we have a fierce fight on our hands, with those blasted French hedgerows blocking our troops and providing cover for the enemy?
“Ah, heck. Why didn’t General Eisenhower set the invasion for a Friday instead of a Tuesday?”
Twila helped out. “You know the answer—the weather in the English Channel. Tomorrow, the newspaper at the library may have a more detailed map you can copy after school. Then we’ll transfer the details to ours. Make sure you jot down all the names of the towns.”
After he went upstairs, Margaret turned to her. “What’ll I ever do with him? And Diana’s supposed to be home by now. I’ll have to wait up for her—might as well get my nightgown on. Before you have children, think long and hard.” She started up the stairs.
“I’m in no hurry at all.” Her response produced a wry grin, so she added, “If you want me to, I’ll wait up for Diana.”
“No thanks. She’s my cross to bear.”
***
From a special bulletin reported by John Snagge of the BBC at midday today, June 6, 1944.
‘D’ Day has come. Early this morning the Allies began the assault on the northwestern face of what Hitler calls his European Fortress. The first official news came just after half-past nine when Supreme Headquarters of the Allied Expeditionary Force—usually called SHAEF from its initials—issued Communique number one.
I share it with you in its entirety: ‘Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied Naval Forces supported by strong Air Forces, began landing this morning on the Northern coast of France.’
It was announced a little later that General Montgomery is in command of the Army group carrying out the assault. The Army group includes British, Canadian and United States Forces.
General Eisenhower has issued an order of the day addressed to each individual of the Allied Expeditionary Force.
‘Your task will not be an easy one. Your enemy is well trained, well equipped and battle-hardened. He will fight savagely. But this is the year 1944. The tide has turned. The free men of the world are marching together to victory.
I have full confidence in your courage, devotion to duty, and skill in battle. We will accept nothing less than full victory. Good luck, and let us all beseech the blessing of Almighty God upon this great and noble undertaking.’
This order was distributed to assault elements after embarkation. Appropriate commanders throughout the Allied Expeditionary Force read it to troops.
And so we also commend these words to you. We here in America join General Eisenhower and our boys in heartfelt prayer for victory in Europe.
THE OFFICER LAID ASIDE the paper he’d just read and addressed the guards gathered in the dining hall. “Gentlemen, we wanted to update you concerning our troops in harm’s way.
“I am sure we all agree with these sentiments and lend our support to our expeditionary forces. At the same time, we must emphasize the need for utmost secrecy about this invasion here in the camp. As you know, our prisoners have no access to news from the outside, and this must continue.
“Thank you for the work you are doing here. We can expect more prisoners to be arriving, and will continue to add to and support our staff.”
“Work we’re doing, my foot!” Leaving the meeting, Stan couldn’t help muttering. The command meant well, but to someone who knew what it meant to face a ruthless enemy, his words rang hollow. What those GI’s faced in Normandy went far beyond work.
At least the Allies were making progress—that was good news. But Stan’s next thought brought consternation. What had he heard lately about the situation in the Philippines? Close to nothing.
With such a strong focus on securing Europe, how could General MacArthur ever amass enough resources to save his men in captivity? He said he would return; made a solemn promise. But at this rate, would any Americans still be alive when he finally did?
***
THE PRISONER ROLL INCREASED even more, and Stan told Twila he’d been assigned to orient the latest group of new guards. Just before the new commander arrived on the twelfth, the whole camp was in a flurry. One day, Nurse Alcott passed around copies of the Geneva Convention and beamed as she described the new commander’s wishes.
“Colonel Lobdell is requiring all staff to read this in full, for a better vision of our goals. I’ll give you two days. Report to me when you’ve finished.”
At lunch, a guard said that office workers had spent half the previous night mimeographing the copies. “Things are gonna be different around here. I don’t think much gets past this new Colonel. Either we shape up or ship out, as they say.”
Back at home, the garden never ceased to need weeding, so Twila plunged in during the evenings, with Diana fuming along behind her. Benny pulled too, with constant chatter about the day’s news.
Aunt Margaret weeded like a madwoman, but also supervised.
“If you’d pull weeds as fast as you talk, Benny, we’d be done in ten minutes.” Quite the mismatched team, they razed the latest crop of smart weeds, plantain, and chickweed in record time.
***
“GREEN BEANS ARE ALMOST as disgusting as peas. They’re the worst vegetables ever!”
Aunt Margaret shushed Diana. “Hey, remember who created them.”
If only she could ignore her instead of egging her on. At first, Twila thought summer vacation would quiet things down, but she already wished school would start soon, and it was only late June.
Snap, snap, snap. Four sets of fingers waged war on a pile of beans. A robin chortled from the maple tree, and a cardinal retorted from the neighbor’s old burr oak that towered above every other specimen in the block.
Dad’s voice sounded in her head. “See the little fringe of bristles around the cup of this acorn? They’re burrs—that’s why they call this tree a burr oak.”
They spent so much time outdoors together, and he often explained natural wonders. At times like this, he might have been right here beside her. She cherished the sensation until Aunt Margaret broke the spell.
“We’ll soon have this batch boiling in the canner. Thank goodness for pressure canners—the water bath method took even longer, and definitely gave us a bath.”
Someone whistled from down the street, a fresh sound on this sweltering afternoon. Soon, the rhythm became clear—bum bum bum, b-bum bum bum, b-bum bum bum bum bum ... pause... bum b-bum bum bum bum. Twila couldn’t quite make out the tune, since the whistler employed more gusto than musical sense.
Yesterday as she left the building after work, she’d bumped into Stan and invited him over, but he gave a non-committal reply. Maybe she asked him too many questions about the war.
Diana, Aunt Margaret, and Benny sat in a semi-circle facing her, with backs to the alley. The whistling grew closer, and when someone emerged from the line of lilacs along the back fence, Twila waved a handful of string beans.
Stan had come, after all. He spotted her and ambled over.
“Just like our prisoners. Never any rest for the wicked.”
Aunt Margaret bristled. “I know it’s the Sabbath, but we worked at the fundraiser all day yesterday, so this is the only chance we have to—”
“What a great carnival you folks put on—you sure know how to do fundraisers around here.” Stan leaned on the clothesline pole. His jovial smile tempered the defensive cut of her reaction.
“Oh, were you there? I didn’t see you.”
“Nope—I volunteered to work so the younger guards could spend hard-earned money. They brought back rave reviews.”
He pulled up a chair next to Benny, grabbed some beans and started snapping off ends. “How’ve you been, buddy? Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”
“Didja hear our boys are liberatin’ Cherbourg? Almost a thousand soldiers have landed, not countin’ more’n 20,000 airborne troops and 1,500 tanks. Besides that, Lightning Joe Collins has got 4,000 fighter planes and 4,500 bombers in the skies. Altogether, there’s over 12,000 vehicles in France right now—ain’t it somethin’?”
“Wow. Quite the offensive, I’d say. Where do you get all of your figures?”
“The paper said four British parachute divisions have landed between Cherbourg and Le Havre. That’s four times the amount the Nazis landed on Crete.”
He took a quick breath, so Stan had a chance to jump in. “And Hitler has taken command of his forces in France—what do you think that means?
“Must be runnin’ scared?”
“Exactly. But he’s got four field marshals under him who don’t like to lose, so it’s still going to be quite a fight. And then there’s the weather—a bad storm blew into the Channel on June 19th and wrecked a lot of our supplies on the mulberry docks our engineers made. Did you hear that?”
“No, but we’ll still win. General Bradley’ll find a way.” Benny studied Stan. “You believe we will, don’t you?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“Why d’ya think so?”
“Because we have to.”
Missing something in Stan’s reply, Benny flashed ahead. “And we’re gonna win in Saipan, too. Those da—”
He winced at his mother’s severe look. “Them Japs might as well surrender, ‘cause they don’t got no hope with our boys after them. My brother’s in the Navy, y’ know, and—”
“Don’t have any hope.” Margaret’s interruption momentarily silenced him, so Stan seized his opportunity.
“Been listening to the radio again, eh? Just keep this in mind: the word surrender doesn’t translate into the Japanese language. They’ll only give up when emperor orders them to, and I doubt that’ll happen real soon.”
“Didja ever see any Japs? Ever shoot any?”
On the edge of his seat, Benny waited. But Stan paled. He leaned back and stared down the alley, and the life seemed to drain out of him, Aunt Margaret sucked in her breath.
Stillness mushroomed, except for the steady snap-snap-snap. Margaret and Diana scowled at Benny, whose forehead developed more furrows than a field of corn.
But Twila feasted her eyes on the thickness of Stan’s biceps under his shirt. Something was bothering him now, but he certainly had a way with people. Even when Aunt Margaret interpreted his greeting in the worst possible way, as if he were chiding them for working on Sunday, he knew exactly how to appease her.
Finally, he blinked and turned his attention back to Benny. “I have seen some. Way too close-up, and they made quite an impression on me. They may be smaller than most of us, but they’re mighty devoted to cause. We’ll have to keep at them until the bitter end.”
A house wren skittered along the pump handle to her nest in the wooden house hanging from a young maple. From there, the little chanter put her all into her song.
In the shade along the slatted side fence, sparrows searched for seeds in the grass. Under Margaret’s reproachful gaze, Benny snapped beans like crazy. Diana even stopped cracking her gum—blessed relief. The heat turned oppressive, and moments dragged like hours.
When Twila tried to catch Stan’s eye, he seemed intrigued by the handful of beans he held. His shoulders slumped, and his eyes were veiled.
