by Don DeNevi
And, Peter indeed saw it all, including what all civilian and officer passengers did when cold, wrapping themselves in blankets; when hungry, waiting for a seat in the diner; when in need to relieve themselves, taking turns in the passenger restrooms; when again hungry, enduring the taste of usually hamburgers and pop; when crowded, sitting among veterans on furloughs or quick visits home, or sitting with fully-equipped recruits who had no idea where they were going once they reached their port destinations; and, in the Pullmans, sleeping wherever assigned, frequently in Upper Berth 4, usually reserved for kid raw recruits.
He watched and waited as train #10 deposited and picked up mail. He watched and waited at hundreds of railroad sidings as troops disembarked or climbed aboard. He watched and waited as flatbeds and passenger coaches were interchanged, added or suspended, etc. etc.
It was always the same, Southern California, Southern Arizona, and the Rio Grande Valley, his mail train rolled east while troop trains sped west. If he saw the sign once, he saw it posted a thousand times in urban areas throughout the entire route to McGehee, Arkansas:
“Victory Rides on Wheels.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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Rohwer
As an avid reader of western historical fiction, Peter enjoyed the relatively smooth, rolling ride across the American Southwest. Gazing out the window of Train #10, his creative imagination recalled many a story by Zane Grey, Charles Alden Seltzer, and Steward Edward White who often wrote stirring stories about pioneers, Apaches, bandits, feuds, and, above all, romances in remote corners of where such classic authors claimed motorized tires never tread.
While many passengers in the coaches drew their shades, reclined in their seats, rested one leg upon the other and dozed, Peter reveled in the beauty and grandeur of vast sage seas, round barren hills, jagged mountaintops, flat glaring deserts, deep colorful canyons, and wild, and unpopulated mesas. Gliding along over worn, slick tracks, Peter was comfortable and slept easily in his lower berth. Of course, the 2,650-mile rail journey was hot, dusty, wearing, and toilsome. But, for a soldier, it wasn’t hard, especially when he reflected upon honorable men and women, courageous and brave pioneers who defied wild men in wild times in the wilderness. Someday, he vowed, as he gazed upon the incredible desert landscapes and mountain Rangers of southern Arizona, southern New Mexico, and central Texas, that he would return with his beloved Joan to kneel before the graves of the noble. He would consummate his unbounded love for her under the stars of a Southwest spring and its illimitable wild flower, especially as they began to bloom.
Yet, his spirited daydreaming didn’t dull his consciousness. No matter the resplendent natural setting, or the speed at which the train sped by, the same chill that engulfed him during the Ghoul murders returned to corrode his instinctive intellect and intuition. Vistas and views were no match for unresolved unconscious struggles.
“What in damnable hell did the murder-mad Chaplain mean when in that bitter life and death struggle he repeated in his slight lisping, ‘kill-me-with-your-gun, wonder-man’; ‘will-me-with-your-gun’, shadow-man’; ‘still-me-with-your-gun, hiding-man’; or, some such figure of stuttered speech. Intermittently, the undefined sense of calamity that was less than a few weeks old returned, triggering a brooding in Peter that lasted for hours.
“What really happened,” he wondered “prior to, during, and after those murky nights of murder? Was it only the Ghoul’s idea to launch a spree of killing his own trusting Marines? He probably murdered prior to enlistment, but where? And why wasn’t he caught? How did Ellen become involved with such a man? And, more importantly, why? Although motivation was near impossible to determine during a spree, clues as to who the killer was were rampant, if one knew how to find then decipher them. Above all, what could Pinoe have meant, despite the difficulty of his aroused, agitated lisp, when he seemed to be pleading, ‘Kill me with your gun’, or ‘Will you give me your gun, sighing man?’”
“Thank God, it’s over,” he grimaced in disgust. “The Man of God, appointed by the Men of God to assist in salvaging the weak, the ill, the emaciated of spirit and hope from sin was evil-personified.”
Such was Peter’s quandary within hours from being in the arms of the love of his life, yet burdened by questions he wasn’t even certain were apropos.
It was near midnight when the Southern Pacific pulled into the small McGehee Railroad Station. As untiring as Peter was, he was nonetheless very tired. He knew his days of travel from the Russell Islands and long hours of reflection were over, and that if he was ever intimate with the wild, endless Southwest again, it would be with Joan. Less than three miles away, in the Rohwer Relocation Center, Unit, she was asleep by now, unaware she was in for one of the grandest surprises of her life.
That night, he hadn’t retired to his berth after a late supper, because he learned from the conductor he would be the only passenger to disembark in McGehee. Peter remained in his comfortable padded seat, dozing until awakened by a porter.
Now, peering into the dim light of the railroad station as he stepped off the mail train, he could tell by the size of the nearby water tower after that the two-minute stopover McGehee was a larger community than he was led to believe by the conductor. Peter had never been this far, East and knew very little about the histories of its states. Neither had he heard of McGehee, Arkansas, nor how the small American city received its Irish name.
Now, at midnight, in late August of 1944, all that greeted the single-passenger holding two duffle bags was silence in near darkness. Focusing his vision, he noticed the vague shape of a large depot behind the station. Obviously, it was an Army warehouse storing military supplies. A large five-word sign had been painted in red on the windowless side of the wooden structure, “More teeth, less flat feet,” a phrase from the Bud Abbott and Lou Costello feature film, “Buck Privates,” produced in 1941 by Universal Studious.
Then, as the air-brakes of the mail train hissed, and Peter watched the locomotive pull its passenger and flatbed cars away, he heard footsteps approaching him across the wooden planks of the arrival-departure platform.
“Lieutenant Toscanini, please follow me. We received a telegram from Honolulu in the Hawaiian Islands in the North Pacific, no less, that you’d be arriving tonight on the 11:57pm stopover. You, sir, are now in my care until you leave the station premise after sunup for Rohwer. Follow me, please.”
Peter, grabbing his bags, anxiously heeded the command. The small, dingy frame station was painted a chocolate-brown color and appeared as an ancient-appearing oddity, adjacent two parallel shiny, reflecting ribbons, that somehow distinguished the community and its surroundings. A small American flag was in every single window of an ordinary American town.
Entering the arched doorway of the flat-roofed one-story wooden building, the night station master introduced himself as “Timmy” Timms.
“Been looking at rails and beckoning locomotives for nigh a half a century. Almost live here. Enjoy watching people and families come and go, assisting them when I can. Lot better than sitting with the dawg in the backyard, or yacking in saloons and betting parlors.”
Peter, appreciating he was being taken in tow, considered “Timmy” the epitome of a railroad station supervisor. A tall, thin, lanky fellow of more than 60 years, a balding man wearing day and night an aged sun visor, forest-green with projecting orange brim, fading black suspenders holding up well-worn trousers that only extended to the top of equally well-worn socks, Peter was instantly drawn to this man who, although oozing gentleness and kindness, was not a fan of brevity.
“Our three hotels close at 10:00pm. If you show up at 10:01, you wind up sleeping on the park bench. Besides, the hotels change the bed sheets once a decade. So, that being said, you have two choices: sit up in the waiting room the rest of the night or lay down on my office cot. The blankets are fresh and the sheets are clean. In the morning, whenever you’re ready, I’ll drive you to the Japanese camp down the road thataway. I don
’t know if anyone among the Rohwer Relocation Administrative staff knows you’re coming. Anyway, if he’s in his office, I’ll turn you over to Ray Johnston, the Project Director of the Rohwer Red Cross Unit. They’ll call me when to come and get you because you can’t sleep there at night. Now, you get settled in my office. The washroom, and, believe it or not, a real life-size shower next to it, are waiting to meet you, I’m sure. While you’re showering, I’ll cook you up bacon and eggs sunny-side up, plus a pot of coffee. Are you hungry?”
“ . . . and so sleepy. But right now, I’d rather eat than lay down.”
“Give me your rumpled khakis to wash and iron - -I’ll have them ready and fresh for your visit in the morning. Get along now; it’s well past midnight. By the time you’ve finished, your late dinner will be waiting on the table. Throw your clothes, including underwear, in the basket outside the shower stall.”
Half an hour later, the strong fragrance of fried bacon and sizzling eggs floated throughout the entire small empty station. For Peter, who had showered and was sitting on the edge of the cot, searching his duffle bag for a pair of clean underwear, the odor served as a lighting-like aphrodisiac. He was already soundly asleep before his back hit the blankets. “Timmy” Timms, with a plate of bacon and eggs held in one hand, pulled a blanket over Peter with the other. Gazing down on the young Lieutenant who appeared in a dreamlike state, “Timmy” smiled, thinking to himself he was “taking a liking” to the young officer. After consuming the hot meal, he began the tedious task of hand washing, drying, and ironing his new friend’s disheveled clothing. Ethics, a deep sense for loyalty, respect and the ability to engage in careful thinking were personality and character traits important to the station master, and Timmy intuited Peter had them in abundance. Toscanini would be his friend.
Even before dawn, and with less than five hours of sleep, Peter rolled out from under his blankets and was delighted to find his uniform carefully washed, pressed, and hanging from the back of a chair a few feet from the cot. Putting on his shoes, which somehow had been polished, he began the day with a zest.
“No time for breakfast, Timmy. Much too excited. Since I’m certain the camp’s main gate won’t be open for several hours, let’s drive around on a short tour, and have a quick cup of coffee at one of numerous diners along the highway. Then, we can approach the gate and wait for it to open.”
“We’ll have to wait for my relief manager to arrive at 7:00am before we can leave the station. But, meanwhile let’s scramble some eggs. Coffee is all ready.
An hour later, with Timmy driving, and Peter seated on the passenger side, the train station’s small flatbed truck, more a dilapidated jalopy, jerkily thrust forward on a “tour” of eight square blocks of McGehee, Arkansas. For more than an hour, Peter remained anxiously silent, nodding only as Timmy related the history and culture of the Mississippi community. The cool, efflorescent river mist had long since dissipated and, by 8:00am, the rising sun was at work broiling eastern Arkansas.
Meanwhile, he enjoyed watching the mostly male citizens leaving their homes for work, and their children with dogs at their sides heading for school. Wives and mothers with soiled aprons covering their worn housedresses watched from their front porches, waving white handkerchiefs and towels. It was an image of every small town in the western hemisphere, if not the world.
Timmy waved a hand at McGehee, “My people, our town, last century, this century, next century. Let the Japs and Germans try to take it away from us. Our only sadness, as a unified people in a fighting town, is whether we’ve done enough, and continue to do, to help our boys, fellow Americans, who are as gentle, kind, and loving, and, I might add, brave and courageous, as all those in our proud history have been.”
Peter grinned, glanced at Timmy who appeared to have a tear in his eye, then back at the downtown area of McGehee. He said softly,
“Looks almost exactly like my own hometown, Stockton, California, for other than the surrounding woods and fields. Business fronts and houses are exact replicas. And, every face that glances at us, smiles, including the local police there at the corner. Like Stockton, every business is opening up early. No business is closed or boarded up. Yes, I see a few tent houses mixed between some noble-designed homes with flanking small garages. Then, there are empty lots, none of which are strewn with any garbage. The streets and the few parks are spic and span. And, now that we’re emerging form the town, I look back and I see no building over four stories high. I see faded billboards, strong telephone and utility poles, here and there gas stations some either closed because of gas rationing, or outright abandoned. Way over there is an old roundhouse for locomotives which apparently hasn’t been in operation for a half a century, other than it’s heavy repair shops, My God, if this part of town isn’t south Stockton where I grew up, Center Street and Charter Way, the industrial section and poor house surrounding it.”
For a long moment, there was silence. Then, Timmy Timms said, softly,
“You’re a good man, lieutenant, a very good man.”
Again, a silence at the end of which he continued,
“We’re now on our way to the camp. It’s at the end of these pine trees, carpets of cotton greens, level as a table. All agriculture sections, then, four miles away, camp, and who you want to see. Here, I’ve written the station phone number down. I’ll be there at all times of day. When you’re ready, call me. I’ll fetch you back here to catch your Southern Pacific ‘Daylight’ back to California.”
Handing Peter a slip of paper with the station number on it, which he pulled from his pocket with one hand while the other was on the steering wheel. After a pause, he added,
“Let me give you a brief background on what you’re to visit. We’re not happy of having the infamous incarceration camp down the road, but would be proud to have all 9,000 of the Japanese Americans living among us as neighbors.”
Although there was a ton of gladness in Peter’s heart that at last he had put almost 10,000 miles from Pavuvu behind him, perspiration began to appear on his forehead. For no reason at all, he was suddenly apprehensive. Although it was unlike the “Ghoul business” that vaguely disquieted him from time to time, an unsettling emotion seemed to flow in his veins. It troubled him, making him conscious of a reality other than his dreamy thoughts of Joan.
“Nervous?” asked Timmy Timms.
“I don’t think so. I’m really tranquil and happy. Soon, I believe, my Joan will be in my arms. No, something else is at play in my mind and I don’t know what it is. But I so want to see her.”
“Well, you can barely see the water tower in the morning haze. There are 10 relocation project sites in the U.S., two of them in Arkansas, the other in Jerome, same everything, also 10,000 residents on 10,000 acres. We’re on Mississippi River Delta country and cotton is mainly what we grow. We’re also known for our woods and swamps. Work started in July of ’42 and cost the government almost $5,000,000. They have good water, all they need, sewage disposal, electric power and lighting, telephone facilities, and, from what we hear, pretty decent military police watching over them. It’s the evacuee housing that’s not right, that’s not fair, that we McGeheeans resent. Those are Americans behind barbed wire who did nothing, nothing and that housing isn’t fair, I say.”
“Joan, in all her letters never once, not once, complained about how they lived.”
“Well, hear this then. I’m sure they won’t allow you to roam with her at will throughout the camp. No visitor has so far been allowed to do so.”
“What’s their living like? I’m sure they’ll allow us to be together in a visiting area. And, there is so much to talk over about our marriage that I won’t ask her about the living and sleeping quarters.”
“Well, lieutenant, as you can already see from this position on the road, barbed wire encloses 51 blocks of barracks. There’s a patrol road all around the camp and eight guard towers. Twelve barracks are in each block, and each block includes a women latrine, a men’s latrine
, mess hall, laundry room, heater room, and recreation hall. And, remember, there are 51 blocks per camp. In the 10,000-resident camp, there are designated areas for military police, hospital, administration, future schools and community activities, and two large play areas, combining children with adults.”
“How many people per barracks?”
“It depends. Out in the McGehee community, we guess a typical barracks is about 20’ x 100’ divided into five 20’ by 20’ rooms or apartments. Each camp administrator can change the sizes of the apartments to accommodate family sizes. One family per one room, or ‘apartment’. Know how changes in ‘apartment’ sizes are engineered?”
“Not a clue.”
“With a blanket over a thin rope which can be easily hooked to the interior walls of the barracks.”
“So, beds are crammed into small spaces called ‘apartments’, each ‘apartment’ separated from the other by a blanket hung over a piece of rope, about 6 to 8 feet high!”
“And, toilet and bathing facilities? How’s that done?”
“One barracks devoted to them in the middle of the 51 blocks.”
“What?”
“Yup! That’s how it is. You can see it all as we approach the main entrance. Look to your right. The unique feature of the Rohwer camp is its cemetery over there. And, notice how it faces the internment camp. It holds internee burial spots marked by headstones with two large monuments, one dedicated to those who died in the camp, and the other to the Nisei men of the 100 Battalion, and 442nd Regimental Combat Team. For the civilian internees of the Rohwer dead, the monument off to the right there reads something to the effect, ‘May the people of Arkansas keep in beauty and reverence the dead who died on this soil . . . Let us never forget them who lay asleep in our earth’, something like that. This is where I turn into the camp off Arkansas State Highway 1. The large sign to my left announces, ‘Rohwer Relocation Center, Vicksburg Engineer District, Corps of Engineer, U.S. Army speed limit, 20 M.P.H., Report to Military Police, 1st Building at Camp Entrance.’”