“Benji! Wake up!”
He jerked up to a sitting position, looking around wildly. Was that Mose’s voice? He couldn’t be sure. And then he realized that a woman was screaming too, but from farther away.
“Benji. I need you! Now!”
It was Mose. And in a flash, it all came back. Kansas. The storm. The Martin Family. Benji remembered he wasn’t in a bed. He was in his bedroll on the floor of the kitchen. He jumped up, looking around wildly as he heard Mose scream at him again. It was pitch black and he could see nothing. He reached out and his hand hit the chair next to his bedroll. “Mose?”
“Up here! Hurry, Benji. Get the flashlight.”
The shrieking was something out of nightmare, and for a moment Benji could only focus his mind on that. He realized that what he had thought was a woman’s scream was the howling wind outside. It was battering the house in a high fury. He groped for the chair and found the flashlight and turned it on, swinging the beam around.
At first he thought the house was on fire. The air was filled with so much dust that the beam didn’t penetrate it very far. “Over here!” He turned toward the back door of the kitchen. Then he gasped. Mose was hanging in midair, his hands high above his head, and he was dancing up and down like a puppet on a string.
What the heck! Benji thought he was back in his nightmare.
“The roof!” Mose shouted. “The wind’s ripping the roof off! Use the chair. Grab a hold of the rafters above you. Hurry! I can’t hold it down much longer.”
Another blast of wind hit the house, and in the beam of the flashlight, Benji saw the whole east end of the roof lift up five or six inches, nails screeching as they started to pull free of the wood. He tossed the flashlight onto his bedroll so that it still gave them some light, grabbed the chair, and clambered up. He wasn’t as tall as Mose, so he had to jump up to grab two of the beams. Immediately, the whole roof settled again, though it was jerking Benji about now too. “Got it!” he called.
Just then the door from the kitchen to the rest of the house flew open and lamplight flooded the room. Garrett was there, his eyes wide and his mouth open in utter astonishment.
“The roof is ripping off!” Mose shouted over the deafening sound of the wind. As he spoke, the whole building shuddered, and Benji and Mose were yanked upward again, but this time the roof lifted only a couple of inches before it settled back again.
SuAnn appeared beside Garrett. A moment later both Charlie and Scooter came as well. They stared up at the two dangling men, mouths agape. Garrett thrust the lamp at his wife, rushed into the room, and vaulted upward, grabbing the crossbeam closest to the door. He yelled down at his son. “Charlie! Out in the toolshed there’s a keg of nails. Grab that and a couple of hammers. Go! Go! Go!”
“No!” SuAnn cried. “Not outside!”
Garrett considered that for a second and then dropped down again. “Charlie, you get up here and take my place.”
Charlie was hanging beside Benji in a second. Garrett started for the back door, even though he was barefoot.
“No, Garrett!”
“I’ll be all right. The ropes are in place.” He turned. “Scooter, get another lamp. Bring it in here so we can see better. Hurry!” And he was gone.
Chapter Notes
Though I have the characters in this chapter use the term “Dust Bowl” in 1934, it was actually coined by a journalist the following year.
Much of SuAnn’s conversation here is drawn directly from a remarkable set of letters written in the summer of 1935. The writer, Caroline A. Henderson, and her husband had been farming in Oklahoma for twenty-eight years. Her letters to her friend in Maryland provide a poignant glimpse into what life was like at that time (see “Letters from the Dust Bowl,” www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1936/05).
May 22, 1934, 8:22 a.m.—Martin Homestead
They sat huddled around the kitchen table, saying nothing. They had given up on breakfast. The air was thick with dust, and everything around them was covered in a thick patina of grey, including their uneaten toast and bowls of mush.
Outside it was mostly dark. Even though they were now more than two hours past sunrise, the light was pale and dim. Inside the house it was completely dark. They had only one lamp burning now. With no sign of the storm letting up, Garrett had said they had to conserve their kerosene. No one objected. They were about twenty hours into the storm now, and it was still raging with full ferocity.
The one encouraging thing was that the roof of the kitchen was now secure. It had taken two hours and almost a third of a full keg of nails, but they had done it.
Abruptly Garrett stood and looked up at the clock. Then he turned to Mose and Benji. “I need to go out and check on the stock. I could use your help. I’m sure we’re going to have to clean out their mangers and get them fresh hay. If they eat too much of this dirt. . . .” He frowned and looked away.
Suddenly SuAnn was at the door to the kitchen. Her face was lined with anxiety. “Garrett? Are you sure? It’s blowing harder than ever right now.”
He nodded grimly. “I should have gone out before this.”
Mose and Benji stood up and pulled their hats down tightly.
“Don’t let go of the ropes,” SuAnn cried as the three men started for the back door.
Charlie followed. “I’ll come shut the door behind you.” His father nodded.
But when they tried to open the back door, it budged only an inch. The door opened outward, and through the narrow opening, they could see that there was about a foot and a half of sand on the porch, which was blocking the door. “Help me,” Garrett cried, putting his shoulder against it. Benji and Mose both jumped forward. Together they were able to push it open enough to slip through.
Garrett turned back to his son. “There’s a shovel out here, right next to the door. While we’re gone, I want you to clean off the porch.”
“No, Garrett!” SuAnn cried, rushing forward. “I don’t want him outside.”
“We can’t have that door blocked, hon,” he said gently, and then he turned to Charlie. “You keep it shoveled off, but don’t you take so much as one step off the porch. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Dad.”
Garrett kissed SuAnn quickly. “We’ll knock on the door when we come back. Don’t open it until you hear us.”
She nodded. “Just hurry.”
9:21 a.m.
SuAnn jumped up as Rusty’s ears perked up and he erupted into frantic barking. “It’s Dad,” she cried, speaking to Charlie. “Don’t let go of Rusty’s leash. I’ll open the door.”
A gust of sand and dust swirled into the house as SuAnn forced the door open. A moment later, the three men were inside. Garrett pulled the door shut and bolted it. “How are the animals?” SuAnn asked.
Garrett’s expression was grim as he shook his head. “We lost the heifer.”
“No!”
“The mangers had plenty of hay, but there were three or four inches of dust on it. Her whole mouth and throat were choked with mud. Dolly was in bad shape too, but we were able to clean out her mouth and get her milked. She was about to burst. And I think she’ll make it.” He ran a hand across his eyes. “I should have gone out last night.”
“It’s all right,” SuAnn said, rubbing his shoulder. “And the rest?”
“We’ve lost eight chickens, but the rest are all huddled in the corner and seem to be doing all right. They’re pretty traumatized. We probably won’t see any eggs from them for a while. The hogs are fine.” He turned to his son. “Charlie, will you clean the porch off again? I want to go out and check on Dolly in a couple of hours. We need to keep the door clear.”
“Yes, Papa.”
Garrett turned to Scooter. “Take Rusty back in the bedroom and be sure you shut the door.
As Charlie started away, Garrett turned to Benji and Mose. “
Thank you. Don’t know that I could have handled that by myself.”
Benji bobbed his head. “And thank you for letting us be in here instead of out there somewhere trying to cope with this storm.”
As Charlie approached the door, his mother called to him. “Be careful.”
“I will, Mom.” Bracing himself, he unlocked the door and opened it about a foot. “This shouldn’t take long. There’s not nearly as much as—”
A blast of wind ripped the door out of his hand, throwing it wide open. That seemed to suck the air out of the room. The bedroom door flew open. There was a joyous bark and a red blur shot past Charlie. Garrett saw it first and made a dive for the dog. “Rusty! No!”
SuAnn screamed as Rusty disappeared. There was another cry from behind her. She whirled. Garrett turned too. So did Mose and Benji. None of them were quick enough. Scooter shot past them. “Rusty! Rusty!” And in an instant, she disappeared as well.
10:52 a.m.
As Garrett, Mose, and Benji came back into the house, brushing at the dust that covered them, Garrett turned to his wife and shook his head.
“Noooo!” SuAnn’s knees buckled and Garrett had to jump forward to catch her before she fell to the floor.
He pulled her close. “We’re going to find her, SuAnn. She can’t be that far. But we need fresh masks.”
She pulled herself together. “Yes, yes. Charlie, get the face masks. And the Vaseline. Hurry! Hurry!”
As he raced for the kitchen, SuAnn turned back to her husband. “What else? Oh, Garrett! What have we done?”
A moment later Charlie was back with the masks.
“I’m coming too,” SuAnn sobbed.
Garrett shook his head gently. “No, hon. You have to stay here, in case she finds her way back.” SuAnn pulled free, but Garrett gripped her shoulders. “Promise me! She needs you here, SuAnn. We can’t have you getting lost too.”
Her body was shaking violently, but she finally nodded.
As they hurriedly replaced their masks, Garrett spoke with great urgency. “I’ll take the rope that goes out to the windmill. Benji and Mose, you go around the house. Always keep one hand on the wall. It only takes a second to lose your way. Shout as loud as you can. Go in opposite directions. We’ll meet at the back porch again in five minutes. No more!” And he was gone.
10:57 a.m.
Mose moved slowly, his right hand running lightly along the roughness of the house. Four steps. Then he stopped and cupped his hand to his mouth. “Scooter! Scooter! It’s Mose. Rusty! Here boy!” Then he cocked his head first to one side and then the other, listening intently, trying desperately to block out the howling of the wind and the rattle of sand and pebbles against the house.
Nothing. Four steps more. Repeat. Listen. Move on.
It took him seven or eight minutes to reach the front of the house. He stopped on the front porch and called again. His heart jumped as he thought he heard a voice, but a moment later, his hopes were dashed as Benji came around the corner of the house and stopped just a few feet away from him. Not seeing Mose yet, Benji cupped his hands and screamed into the wind. “Scooter!”
“I’m here, BJ,” Mose called. Benji jumped a little and quickly came over to join him. He didn’t have to ask. Nor did Mose. The fact that they were here said it all. They had found nothing.
“Do you want to go back the way you came, or keep on going around?” Mose asked, turning his back to the wind.
Benji shrugged. “Let’s each of us go all the way around. You never know.”
Mose nodded. They touched fists briefly and moved forward, like two ghosts passing each other in a night filled with horror.
As he rounded the corner and started working his way toward the back of the house, Mose realized that he was on the east side of the house and that the wind was not as strong here if he stayed right up against the wall. And it wasn’t as noisy. With a little spurt of hope, he moved on, one hand maintaining contact with the house, the other cupped to his mouth, shouting himself hoarse as he moved slowly on. “Scooter! Rusty! Hey, boy!”
Once he thought he heard someone shouting and froze in place for almost half a minute, listening intently. Nothing. It was probably Benji’s voice whipped to him up and over the house by the wind. His face felt like it had been flayed. His throat was raw. And with his mask taking on more and more dirt, he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. He also realized that pushing against the force of the wind was draining his strength.
Mose raised both hands to his mouth and called out again, but a particularly powerful gust of wind whipped his voice away in an instant. He sighed and reached out for the house again. His blood froze. He was groping in midair. He stepped to his left, stretching out his hand farther. Nothing. A cold chill shot through his body. Don’t panic! Don’t panic! He hadn’t moved away from the house. Had he? Turning again in a very slow circle, both hands outstretched, he gasped in relief when his fingertips touched the glass of a window. His knees went weak and he realized that his heart was pounding in his chest.
Then, just as he started forward again, a thought came to him. If you were a terrified little girl lost in a blizzard of sand and dust, what would you do?
That was easy. I would try to retrace my steps. But he shook that off as soon as it came. That’s what you would do. This is a seven-year-old kid. A kid who was raised here. She knows what these storms mean. Which means she would stay up close against the house.
He shook that one off too. Not so. Not if she had heard Rusty and gone after him. Mose shook his head in disgust. This was getting him nowhere. Then more words popped into his head. Farther out. Move farther out. He froze. That thought sent a chill through him. That was a sure way to get himself lost. The image of a farmer half buried in the dust, half a mile from his homestead, flashed into his mind. But the words came again, more powerfully than before.
Mose backed up quickly until he came to the front corner of the house, and then he started a new pattern. He pressed his hand against the house to get his bearings, and then, careful to make sure that he was moving out at exactly a right angle to the house, he took five steps to the right. Stop. Call out. Listen. Five steps back. Touch the house. Four steps forward. Repeat.
In five more minutes, he reached the window again. He paused to rest and then moved five steps to his right. This time, before he could shout her name again, his head jerked up. Directly in front of him, he had heard something. Not a voice. He wasn’t sure what it was. He cupped his hands to his ears and leaned forward, listening all the more intently.
Mose stiffened as he heard it again and recognized the sound. It was the whine of a dog. “Rusty!” He moved forward three more steps. “Rusty! Here boy!”
There was a muffled bark in front of him. Careful to keep his feet pointed exactly straight, so he didn’t lose his bearings, Mose moved forward very slowly. Another bark turned him slightly to the left, and then he saw it, a splash of color in the soft sand. He dropped to his knees and scooped the girl up as a sob was torn from his throat. He gently brushed her hair back and wiped the mud from around her nose and mouth. There was no face mask. She had obviously lost it in the wind.
Mose leaned in, touching her cheek with his fingertip. “Scooter. It’s me. It’s Mose. I’ve got you, kiddo. O thank you, Lord.”
Scooter’s eyes flickered open and she briefly looked confused before her eyes fell closed again.
Another whine drew Mose’s eyes downward. And there was Rusty, barely visible in the dim light, half buried in the sand. He tried to lift his head, but it fell back again. His tail thumped weakly a couple of times and he closed his eyes. As Mose stared down at the dog, he saw a hollow area between its four legs and realized that Scooter had curled up there against his body.
With tears streaming down his cheeks, Mose bent down and rubbed Rusty’s ear. “Stay, boy. I’ll be back for you as soon as I ca
n.” He leaned in close. “And thank you. Thank you for saving your best friend.”
May 24, 1934, 9:37 a.m.—Martin Homestead
After almost forty-eight hours of sustained winds topping sixty and seventy miles an hour, the massive storm that had swept out of New Mexico and Colorado across the Southern Great Plains finally blew itself out. It was not only the first major storm of the 1934 season, but, of the more than fifty storms the land had seen since the drought had begun two years before, this was the largest, the strongest, and the longest-lasting.
Now, as the massive cleanup and recovery began, the news reported that the storm had spread across a front that was a staggering 1,800 miles across, though the brunt of it targeted the Southern Great Plains. Smashing early estimates, it towered to a height of fifteen thousand feet. Hundreds of aircraft were diverted or turned back. Numerous major highways were closed and would remain closed until they could bring out the winter snowplows and clear thousands upon thousands of deep sand drifts. Numerous railroads were forced to close their lines while they sent out track gangs to clear the rails.
What shocked the nation were the reports coming from the east coast. High-velocity winds in the upper atmosphere had siphoned up an estimated three hundred and fifty million tons of topsoil—three tons for every living American!—and deposited it across the eastern seaboard. New York City turned on their streetlights at noon as the black cloud blotted out the sun. From Boston to North Carolina, residents got a taste—literally—of what the midwesterners had come to think of as a way of life. Even ships three hundred miles out to sea reported that they were sweeping an inch or two of fine silt from off their decks.
But as Benji Westland sat beside the bed of Scooter Martin, none of that was on his mind. They had worked hard since the storm had finally let up, filling the wheelbarrow dozens of times as they cleaned out the house. The sheets were down from the doors and windows. They had been washed and were now hanging on the clotheslines.
Fire and Steel, Volume 6 Page 10