It was difficult to tell which was older: the
skinny, bent man or his sway-back mule. But it was the second year the
two had shown up to plow the small patch of ground behind our house on
Bois D'arc. The old man and his ancient mule had just finished a small
garden plot for a family on the next street, and I watched with the
fascination that all six year-old boys hold for the teamwork of a
working man and a working animal. The old man hitched the small plow
behind the mule, and with the one piece reign over his shoulders,
gripped the handles of the plow, talked to the mule in a language known
only to the two of them, and starting turning the earth for our Victory
Garden. In some way, not clear to me but unquestionably factual because
Dad had told me, turning the ground and planting vegetables would help
the boys come home from The War.
During those years between the end of 1941 and the summer of 1945, The
War controlled everything our family did, as it did with
families all over Duncan. The War was an entity, a
thing, not just an occurrence; it permeated every facet of life. The
grown ups talked about gas rations, sugar and coffee stamps and the
scarcity of automobile tires, nails, lumber and tools, with the same
intensity people now talk about the stock market or their favorite
sport: Did we have enough sugar stamps to last until the first of the
month when the new stamp allotment would be made? Could we drive to
Grandpa's and still have enough gasoline stamps to use the car for
another week? Some people obtained more than their share of permitted
goods on the black market, which, in the fertile imagination of a 7
year old had to be a big, dark warehouse on a back alley somewhere,
where wicked people bought gasoline, sugar and coffee over the allotted
limit.
Our family was lucky when it came to gasoline: the old Model A burned
very little gas and Dad was within walking distance of the Halliburton
shops where he worked as a machinist. (Dad was over the age limit for
the draft, and he always joked that the only reason he got the job at
Halliburtons was because he was too old to fight and one helluva
shortstop. Semi-pro baseball teams were an important part of big
companies like Halliburton, Rock Island Refining and others throughout
the country during those years.) The close proximity of the shops made
it easy to meet Dad and walk home with him after work. When the 4:00
whistle blew, I could make it across 10th street and down to the main
gate before the shift started making their exit. But even here, the war
played its part in the seemingly innocuous task of leaving work for the
day. Armed guards checked each lunch bucket to be sure none of the
military related projects Halliburton was involved in got outside the
fenced shops.
Entertainment was simple but complete, but it too revolved around the
war. Our games of cowboys and Indians were replaced with war games. In
our front yard, a small depression where a tree once stood, though only
about 8 inches deep, became the neighborhood foxhole. Accuracy in
shooting the enemy was directly related to the shooter's talent in
placing his teeth, tongue and lips in exactly the right position to
duplicate rifle fire; if you were really good you could sound like a
machine gun, which gave the enemy no chance at all.
A boy's love of cars showed up early on Bois D' arc. The street was a
combination town thoroughfare, State Highway 7 and US 81. The last new
car models were the 42's, with no new ones to be produced until the end
of the war. Skill in naming the year and make of each passing car was
practiced hour after hour, sitting on Max Grove's front porch. You
named them until you missed one, and then the next one got his chance.
Max's younger sister, Janice, my first close friend outside my family,
wasn't allowed to play. Cars were the playthings of boys!
Each day at noon, whoever was home had the task of tuning the old
cabinet Zenith radio to WKY's "News While It's News." No one was
permitted to speak as news of the progress of the war was broadcast. I
had a lot of older cousins in the war: J.P. in China, Woody in Germany
as a POW, and Jerry Johnson flying in Europe. The no-speaking rule was
shattered one noon day though when Mom let out a shriek, which was very
much unlike her. According to the WKY newscaster, Jerry Johnson from
Milwaukee, Wisconsin, had managed to crawl from the tail gun position
of his bomber which had been hit hard by enemy fire, move the wounded
pilot from the seat, and return the plane to base. Apparently, the
copilot was killed.
As the years went on, the war games in the front yard took on more
realism. Even the grown-ups walking to work noticed them. We would wave
to them, and they would call us by name. Occasionally, one of the men
who regularly walked by would be called to active duty, and it was one
of those who taught us the seriousness of what our game portrayed. Bud
was married to Donnis Marsh's sister, Imogene, and they lived at the
corner of 9th and Bois D'arc, about a half block from our house. Bud
was a friendly, smiling, man who always had something to say to us as
he walked by our foxhole on his way to or from work. Bud was called to
duty, and within a very short time, word was received that this
friendly, smiling guy who always had something nice to say, was killed
in action. The war games stopped for a long while.
About once a week, Dad, Mom, my brother and I would walk up 9th street
to "downtown", only about 8 blocks away. Along the way, in that short 8
blocks, were four houses which had small flags with a single star in
the window, signifying that the family who lived in that house had lost
someone in the war. We always walked by those houses in quiet respect.
One evening while sitting on Max's porch with the "Name That Car"
contest going full throttle, a loud boom, followed by another loud
boom, jarred us. The sound seemed to come from our house, and we all
looked that way immediately. Dad was standing in the front yard
breaking down his 12 gauge double barrel shotgun which was still
smoking from the birdshot he had fired. We couldn't believe it! Dad was
a pretty quiet guy who played it close to the vest. But there was no
doubt that he had stood right out on Bois D'arc and fired the shotgun!
We all ran toward him, knowing something very important had happened.
He looked up as we neared, and said, "The War's
over, kids. It's really over!"
Within minutes, Bois D'arc was filled with cars, their passengers
waving and shouting, the horns honking. One line of cars was westbound
and the other line east. At the end of the block they would turn north,
using 10th Street and 9th Street to honk and wave their way back to
Main. It seemed to be an endless line, and it would go on until well
into the night.
Dad told us we should walk downtown and watch the festivities, so we
all started the trek to Main Street, waving at the celebrating people
as they passed in their cars. Main Street was jammed as what seemed to
be hundreds of cars crept slowly around the circle drive of the
Stephens County Courthouse at the west end of the business district.
There was more joy in that celebration than I had ever seen in my young
life. Something else was different that day, too: the stars on the
small flags in the windows of those four houses on 9th Street seemed to
glow a lot brighter.