4
Joe Bachmann
April 1944
When Joe’s draft number came up in the spring of 1944, his father drove him in the family wagon to a church in Lancaster to meet with the Selective Service Board. Joe had only been to town a few times in his life, but Dat seemed to know exactly where he was going. Automobiles zipped around the wagon, and a few blocks away a trolley clanged along its track. In the distance, a train whistle blew. Joe’s head turned from side to side, taking in all of the sights and sounds. He loved the family farm and land, but he found the city exciting.
Soon, his father parked the wagon next to a flowering lilac bush, and Joe jumped down and tied the horse to a hitch. Together they walked toward the church.
Joe was quite a bit taller than Dat now, and he noticed his father’s shoulders hunched more than ever. Dat’s beard had been completely gray for as long as Joe could remember, and he walked with a limp from an accident two years before. A Model T had run the wagon off the road, and Dat had been tossed into a ditch on his hip. Thankfully Dat and the horse had survived.
Dat was seventy, much older than Joe’s friends’ fathers. Dat had married as a young man, but he and his first wife never had children. After she died, he married again and had three daughters and then Joe. For years, Dat had seemed ageless, but since Mamm passed away three years prior, Dat had seemed to grow old quickly. The accident hadn’t helped.
Dat hadn’t said much about Joe being drafted into the service except that, as in everything, Joe should aim to serve the Lord and do his very best.
Over the last two years, several of the other young men from their district, located in the heart of Lancaster County, had headed west to work in CPS camps—some in logging operations, some on farms, some to fight fires. A few had turned their backs on the teachings of their church and joined the army, but Joe knew he’d never do that.
Joe glanced down at his documents as they neared the church and said, “The board meets in a place called the ‘fellowship hall.’” The building was made of bricks, with a tall white steeple that reached up to the blue sky.
When they reached the front door, Joe took his hat off and held it in his hand as a middle-aged man with a round belly and a bald head swung the door open. “So you’re a Dutchy who won’t fight.”
Joe simply said, “I’m here to get my orders for the CPS.”
The man told Dat he wouldn’t be allowed in the meeting.
“All right.” He turned toward Joe. “I’ll wait in the wagon.”
Joe followed the Englisch man down a hallway and then into a large room where four other men sat behind a table. The fifth man joined them.
He was thankful for the CPS and hoped to be assigned to an agriculture camp. He’d been farming his entire life and had a knack for it. There were woods on his family farm, and he enjoyed caring for the trees almost as much as growing the crops. Anything in agriculture would suit him just fine.
But it was soon clear the Selective Service Board had a different idea for him.
“How do you feel about working in medicine?” a man wearing a suit coat and tie asked.
Working in a hospital certainly wasn’t his first choice. Joe was sure he was going to be sent to work on a psychiatric ward, like others in his district had been. He squared his shoulders. “I’ve cared for the sick before but never the mentally ill.” He’d helped his sisters nurse their mother in the months before she passed.
“There’s a general hospital in Chicago, a Catholic one, that’s been turned into a hospital for”—Joe expected to hear the insane, but instead the man said—“for soldiers. They’re currently short-staffed and looking for orderlies. We’re sending you there. There’s a staff of Civilian Public Service men who stay in barracks on-site.”
They explained that Joe would be under the direction of an army officer, most likely a doctor, but that all of his assignments and transfers would be ratified by the Selective Service Board. “You will cease to have any rights, but you may be granted privileges,” the man with the tie explained. “Ones that can be taken away at any moment. You will have no choice as far as where you are assigned or for how long you will be at any one location. You will be transferred as needed for the good of our country.”
“Understood?” The man who’d greeted him at the front door had his arms crossed over his wide chest.
“Speak up,” the man said.
“Yes, sir,” Joe answered.
The man in the tie stamped a document. “Here are your orders and train ticket. Arrive at the station early. You can take a streetcar to the hospital once you reach Chicago.”
Joe must have had a puzzled expression on his face because the man said, “A streetcar is a trolley. You’ll find the right one outside of the train station.”
The man slid the paperwork across the table toward Joe. He took the documents and then thanked all of the men on the board.
They simply nodded their heads in return.
Joe didn’t look at the paperwork until he reached the sidewalk. He was to arrive in Chicago in two weeks and report to the hospital immediately. Chicago. He never expected to be sent to a city. He was a country boy, and a Plain one at that.
Once he reached the wagon, he squinted up at his father, shading his eyes, although he didn’t say anything, and hopped up to the bench.
“How’d it go?” Dat asked.
“I’m being sent to Chicago.” Joe tried to hide the excitement in his voice, but he must have failed because Dat had a confused expression on his face.
“I’ll be working in a hospital for soldiers. As an orderly.”
He showed the document to his father. Together, they leafed through the papers. There was a packing list, obviously the same one they gave to everyone. One suit with a white shirt and a tie. Three changes of denim pants and shirts. Two good pairs of work shoes plus Sunday shoes. Several pairs of Sunday socks. Two pairs of pajamas. Toiletries.
Joe folded the orders as Dat pursed his lips and snapped the reins. Their old horse lurched forward. Joe guessed his father was thinking that caring for wounded soldiers would come mighty close to supporting the war, but Joe didn’t see how it was any worse than growing food to feed soldiers.
Was it all right to provide services that made it possible for others to employ force? That was the constant question in his mind. Being nonresistant, holding the conviction that it was always wrong to employ force against another human being, was a complicated concept.
But at least Joe had a place to serve and didn’t have to worry about being arrested for evading the draft. He’d heard of some Englisch people who resented nonresistant men for not fighting. But Joe wasn’t acquainted well enough with any Englisch people to know—or care—if they were critical of the CPS.
Dat didn’t say anything, but he slumped a little more as he drove the wagon out of town. Joe felt a tinge of guilt about his excitement at going to Chicago. Now Dat would have to farm alone. Well, that wasn’t true. Joe’s sisters—Faith, Hope, and Charity—would help. None were married, and all three were strong and capable.
His heart fell, and he swallowed hard as reality set in. He’d miss his sisters, including Faith, even though he didn’t have a great relationship with her. He’d miss his Dat most of all. He’d spent more time with his father than anyone on earth, and although the man didn’t speak much, he’d led by example and had cared for his family in a loving way.
Jah, he felt bad about leaving, but it couldn’t be helped. He’d have to make the most of the days he had left with his family.
It was a long ride to the farm, first on pavement and then gravel and then up the dirt road. As they rounded the curve, the newly whitewashed farmhouse gleamed in the sunlight. The pink blooms of tulips swayed in the wind.
But it was the two women waving at him on the porch who made him smile. Hope and Charity. Faith was most likely busy in the house.
In some families, the youngest might have been spoiled, but not in his. Hope and Charity had high expectations for their little brother, and they never let him forget it. Faith, on the other hand, could be downright mean to him.
Hope leaned against the rail, and Charity skipped down the steps. Both were thin and tall, with dark hair and brown eyes.
Joe reached for the reins from his father. “Go on into the house and rest. I’ll take care of the horse and get started on the chores.”
“Denki,” his father said as Joe pulled on the reins. Dat climbed down, but before Joe started the wagon back up, Charity came running toward him. She was the youngest of the sisters and the most cheerful.
“Wait!” she called out. “It’s my turn to help.” Charity and Hope took turns with the chores while Faith took charge of the house. The younger sisters helped with that too, but Faith never worked in the barn or fields. Joe knew she would have to soon, which wouldn’t make her happy.
Charity boosted herself up into the back of the wagon, swinging her legs off the back. “Giddy up!” she yelled.
The horse started toward the barn before Joe snapped the reins.
“How’d it go?” Charity called out to him.
“Just fine.”
She scrambled up the bed of the wagon and knelt behind him. “Were our prayers answered? Are they letting you stay here to farm instead of sending you away?”
He shook his head. “Dat’s here to farm—that’s enough for them.”
Her voice dropped in tone but not volume. “Where are they sending you?”
“Why a city?”
“I’m going to work in a hospital.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
He shrugged again. “That’s where they need me.”
“Oh, Joe,” Charity said. “What are we going to do without you?”
He laughed. “Get married?”
She pushed against his shoulder. “I’m not getting married until Faith and Hope do, and we all know there’s a shortage of men around here with all of them going off with the CPS.”
“Oh, there are plenty of old widowers around. Like Abe Yoder.” The man wasn’t that old—only thirty. And, unlike many widowers, he didn’t have any children.
She laughed. “Jah, Abe’s perfect for Faith—not me.”
Faith was twenty-eight. Most Amish women married by their early twenties, if not sooner. But Faith was picky. Then Mamm got sick. Then all the young men her age were already married or had gone off to serve.
“I’ll take care of the horse while you get started on the milking,” Charity said as Joe pulled to a stop.
Joe let his sister take over and headed toward the pasture for the cow. They only kept one, although Dat talked about starting another dairy herd. They’d gotten rid of their milk cows during the Depression. However, milk was more profitable now.
Dat wouldn’t buy dairy cows with Joe leaving, though. It would be hard enough for him to keep up with the crops, let alone a herd.
That evening after the dishes were done, Dat told Joe to give Faith his packing list. He did, reluctantly. She took it from him, sat at the far end of the oak table their father had made a decade earlier, and pulled the lamp close. She was rounder than her sisters and a little shorter too.
Faith harrumphed a few times as she read. Joe wished he could collect the needed clothing himself, but she was in charge of the household budget and would have to decide what could be made and what would have to be purchased.
“I don’t know why you need the denim pants,” Faith said. “You have plenty of other work pants.”
Joe didn’t respond. He disagreed more with Faith than anyone, but he didn’t want to argue now, especially not with Dat at the other end of the table.
“Sister, buy one pair of denim pants and a denim shirt too,” Dat said. “And sew a new white shirt to go with Joe’s suit.”
Faith wrinkled her nose. Joe was sure she would have said his old clothes would work just fine if Dat hadn’t been in the room.
Joe supposed he deserved her wrath. He’d been a mischievous boy, playing tricks and putting off his chores up until a few years ago. She’d told him, more than once, that he’d never amount to anything. “You’ll never be worthy of this farm,” she’d said when he was fourteen and the slash fire near the woods got away from him. He’d yelled for help and Dat and the girls had all come running. They’d extinguished it before any of the trees caught fire, and everyone had been relieved. Except for Faith. She’d berated him about it for days.
Not long after that, Mamm was diagnosed with cancer and Joe stopped his foolish ways, but Faith hadn’t seemed to notice. She still thought of him as the irresponsible fourteen-year-old boy.
Dat pushed himself up from the table and headed to the back door, on his way to the outhouse. Once the door closed, Faith turned toward Joe and said, “You’re looking forward to leaving, aren’t you?”
Joe hung his head, ashamed that his excitement was obvious. He’d never choose to go, but, jah, he planned to make the most of the adventure ahead of him. He didn’t tell Faith that though.
“I’m worried for your soul,” she said. “You haven’t joined the church and here you are going off on your own, to a city, with no accountability. I wouldn’t be surprised if you never come back.”
He raised his head. “No, I will. I promise.” He’d join the church and take over the farming, God willing. That was all he’d ever wanted.
She crossed her arms as her eyes drilled through him.
He was tempted to drop his head again, but he didn’t. Nor did he say anything more.
Finally, she said, “Only God can know for sure, but I won’t be holding my breath.”
Regardless of Faith’s predictions about her brother, she followed Dat’s orders about the clothes and gave them to him in a bundle the night before he left. He packed everything in a leather satchel of Dat’s. He’d make do with what he had.
The next morning, Joe dressed in the new white shirt, carefully pinning the opening. Then he pulled on his trousers and suit jacket.
When he sat at the oak table to eat one last breakfast with his family, Dat led the silent prayer. Joe asked God to care for his father and sisters and to look over the land. Then Joe prayed that God would use him to serve others and give him the strength to remain true to his faith and upbringing.
After Dat ended the prayer, they ate mostly in silence. Hope had cooked hotcakes, Joe’s favorite, but even with butter and maple syrup they stuck in his throat. After Dat said the closing prayer, Joe snuck out the back door onto the enclosed porch that was the original Bachmann cabin, built back in 1752. The river rock fireplace still existed, although no one used it anymore. He strode across the wood floor, through the door, and down the back steps. To his right was the barn, and to his left was the pasture with the old oak tree, and then beyond it, the woods. He breathed in the cool spring air. Would he come home someday and be worthy to farm the land? Or would Faith’s predictions come true?
Dat hired an Englisch neighbor with a Ford pickup truck to drive all of them to the station. As the neighbor pulled up, Faith said she had too many chores to do to traipse into town and told Joe a quick good-bye, adding, “Don’t do anything foolish.”
Charity gave their oldest sister a wilting look but didn’t say anything.
As Dat climbed into the passenger seat, Joe placed his bag in the bed of the truck first and then helped Hope and Charity over the tailgate. At least there were benches around the bed of the truck. After he jumped up, the neighbor accelerated down the lane. Joe stayed on his feet, holding on to the high side rail. He thought Faith might be watching from the porch, waving good-bye, but she’d already stepped back inside. He stood until the house, barn, and farm disappeared, thinking of soldiers leaving to go to Europe or the South Pacific who wondered if they’d ever return. At least he had no worries of that. Jah, the idea of going away and seeing a little bit of the world appealed to him, but he was happy he would be returning to the land that had been in his family for nearly two hundred years.
As the farm faded from his sight, Charity grabbed his hand and tugged on it. “Sit down.”
He did. Soon the truck reached the highway and gained speed, and the spring air cooled even more. Joe grabbed his hat, holding it to his head, and his sisters tied their black bonnets. The closer they grew to town, the more expressionless Hope and Charity’s faces became, and Joe guessed he appeared the same.
The truck slowed as they reached the city limits. Soon the large brick houses on the edge of town gave way to row houses. Englisch children played in front of the homes, and old men sat on the stoops.
When they reached the city center, the driver drove past the train station and then found a parking place a block away. Once the truck stopped, Joe helped his sisters down and grabbed his bag. The neighbor climbed out of the cab and extended his hand. The man’s grip was firm, and he pumped Joe’s hand several times. “Some think you boys are taking the easy way out, and I can’t say that I don’t agree, but just the same I’m grateful for the effort you’re making. I know it’ll be a hardship for your family to have you gone.” The man nodded toward Dat. “I’ll wait out here.”
Dat tipped his hat to the man and led the way toward the station.
Several soldiers walked with their families too. Joe thought of the Englisch boys he’d gone to school with through the eighth grade. He knew the older ones had all been drafted. Some were in the South Pacific. A few others were in England and North Africa. Many more were in training and would be deployed soon. Now his classmates were being drafted too. Those students had gone on to high school while Joe, who was six feet tall by then, had gone to work with his Dat. But he still thought of them often.
As soon as they entered the lobby, Dat checked with the stationmaster about the train to Chicago. When he returned, he said, “The train’s on time. It’s boarding now.”
Dat shook Joe’s hand. “Write to us,” he said. “Remember who you are and whom you belong to.”
Joe nodded. He belonged to God. He’d been taught that his entire life. He clung to his Dat’s hand for a long moment but then let it go.
Hope patted him on the back. “I put paper, envelopes, and stamps in your bag. Follow Dat’s instructions and use them, as soon as you arrive.”
Charity patted his other shoulder. “Don’t forget us.”
His voice caught as he spoke. “Never.”
Even though they didn’t hug, and especially not in public, the tears in Charity’s eyes gave away her emotions.
Joe didn’t dare say anything more, afraid his voice would break. He gripped his bag and headed toward the platform, glancing down at his ticket. Once he reached his train, he looked back. His family stood in the middle of the lobby, the only Plain people in the place, as the crowd flowed around them. His father and sisters all appeared forlorn, but then they waved in unison. He raised his hand in response and then bolted up the steps to the train.
The crowds in the Lancaster station were nothing compared to the hordes of people in Union Station in Chicago. He’d never seen so many people. He’d been on the train for nearly twenty-four hours, but the energy of the station revived him. Englisch girls told soldiers and sailors good-bye. The smells of eggs and coffee from nearby food vendors filled the air. Shoeshine boys and paperboys shouted out to those passing by. A man sold single stems of roses, and a soldier quickly bought one and then rushed toward a woman waiting for him at the far end of the station.
The Selective Service Board member had told him to take the streetcar to the hospital. He asked a vendor for directions, but the man laughed and said, “There’s a streetcar out there for every direction. Just go hop on the right one.”
Puzzled, Joe didn’t press the man for more details. From the paperwork he had, it seemed the hospital was near the train station, not more than a few miles. He found a kiosk that sold maps and bought one, then sat in a chair and spread it over his lap. Once he found the hospital, he decided to walk. It wasn’t far.
“Why aren’t you in uniform?” an older man sitting next to him asked.
“I’m with the CPS,” Joe answered. No doubt the man noticed his accent. Perhaps he thought Joe was German.
“What’s that?”
“The Civilian Public Service. I’m working in a hospital.”
The man sneered, “Oh, you’re one of those pacifists.”
Joe folded his map. “I’m happy to serve my country as I can.”
The man shook his head. “While others die.”
Joe slipped the map into the pocket of his jacket, grabbed his bag, and wished the man a good day. Then he quickly walked away. Perhaps the man had a son or grandson who’d been killed. One never knew what might be at the heart of someone’s criticism. He tried not to take it personally.
He bought an egg sandwich before he left the station. There were no meat sandwiches available—the woman selling them said she’d sold out hours ago. Living in a city would be quite a bit different from the country. His family had to live on rations like everyone else, but they raised steers and chickens. Granted, they sold most of what they butchered, but they still had more than most. He ate as he walked, heading out the east door toward Lake Michigan. He’d seen it from the train and wanted a closer look.
He walked across a couple of streets to the seawall. The wind tugged at his hat. He finished his sandwich and put his free hand on top of his head. He’d never seen such a mass of water. He’d actually never seen anything bigger than the Susquehanna River. The body of water he was most familiar with was the pond back home.
He breathed in deeply, smelling fish from the nearby dock, diesel fuel from the boats, and smoke from the factories. Several fishing vessels were within sight, and a few ships chugged toward the city. Beyond them was the endless lake with no shore in view.
Several couples strolled along the lake, and Joe stepped back, taking it all in. He’d courted several girls back home, a few who were older than he was. Faith had commented more than once that she wasn’t sure what all those girls saw in him. He wasn’t sure either, but he did his best not to dwell on that.
He did know, however, that he hadn’t courted—or met—a girl he thought he could marry. And it certainly wouldn’t happen now. Marriage could be years away for him.
In the meantime, he’d see all he could.
He turned back toward the station and then headed northwest toward the hospital. The city bustled around him. He’d never seen such tall buildings or so many vehicles—and streetcars too. They did seem to be going every direction.
People rushed past him, going this way and that. Women wore fancy dresses, high heels, and red lipstick. The men were dressed in tailored suits and wore fashionable hats. He touched his old straw hat and sighed. One of the men on the Selective Service Board had told him to blend in as best he could and not draw attention to himself, but he stuck out like a sore thumb in Chicago.
Even though the late April day was cool, Joe had broken a sweat by the time he reached the hospital, a large multistory brick building that covered at least a few blocks. He took out his orders and marched up the front steps. Once he entered the building, he stopped for a moment, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. On one side of the lobby were several chairs clustered together. On the other was a statue of a woman with a baby—Mary with baby Jesus, he assumed.
Once his eyes adjusted, he approached a woman sitting behind a desk and told her his name and that he was reporting for the Civilian Public Service.
“Goodness, I didn’t know we were expecting a new orderly,” she said. “I think Captain Russell is away for the day. I’ll call Lieutenant Shaw and see if she can put you to work.”
She? Joe didn’t know that women could be officers.
“Wait over there.” The woman gestured toward the chairs.
He did as he was told, but he waited so long that he began to grow drowsy. He was too tall to rest his head on the back of his chair. Afraid he might fall asleep and topple over, he stood and walked to a window that looked out onto the street. A horn honked and then a taxi stopped. An older woman climbed out, her face worn and weary. Joe’s heart lurched. Perhaps she had an injured son inside the hospital. The woman reminded him of his Mamm, and the ache of losing her washed over him all over again. So many people were hurting in the world. A mother for a son. A son for a mother. Joe hoped he’d be able to ease a measure of pain in his work at the hospital.
A voice behind him called out, “Joseph Bachmann?”
He turned. A young woman with intense blue eyes stood by the receptionist’s desk, a file in her hand. Her blond hair was tucked under a nurse’s cap, and she wore a white dress and a frown.
“I am Joseph.” He stepped forward. “But you can call me Joe.”
“I’m Lt. Shaw,” she said. “And you can call me ma’am.”