by Kirby Larson
“Let’s begin with the first question.” Their teacher clapped her hands for attention. “Do any of my young citizens know why we’re being asked to save cooking fats?”
Mitch’s hand flew up. “To make bombs to take out the Nazis!” he said. “Ka-pow!” He glared at Max.
“But how are they used in the bombs?” Mrs. Thornton pressed. “Can anyone be more specific?”
Hobie stared at her. Mom saved every bit of grease in a can on the back of the stove. When it was full, he would ride it over to the butcher’s. But now he realized he had no idea why.
From the corner of his eye, Hobie saw a hand inch up.
“Max?” Mrs. Thornton flashed her Ginger Rogers smile in his direction.
“The military extracts glycerin from the fats,” he said. “To make the explosives.”
“Very good!” Mrs. Thornton looked like she could turn a cartwheel for joy.
“Ka-pow,” said Catherine. She giggled.
“I knew that,” Mitch grumbled.
“Max, I can tell you are going to be a wonderful addition to our classroom.” Mrs. Thornton brushed the chalk from her hands. “And now, my young citizens, it’s time for recess.”
The cloakroom was a jumble of everyone getting into coats and jackets. Mitch jabbed his elbow into Max’s rib cage.
“I didn’t see you buy a stamp today,” he said.
Catherine edged over to the boys. “Leave him alone.”
“Are you on his side?” Mitch asked. “Maybe you both want Hitler to win the war.”
Hobie’s stomach knotted like wet rope. The kid hadn’t even been here one day and Mitch was starting in on him. He knew he should do something, but what? Hobie wished he’d inherited more than a name from his fisherman grandfather. Along with their tobacco juice, the old guys down at the docks spat out story after story of Hobart Hanson’s bravery. Grandfather Hanson hadn’t been afraid of anything: not hard, slippery work on his purse seiner, or the dark and icy sea, or the storms that chewed up boats steered by lesser captains.
But then Grandfather had never met Mitch Mitchell.
“I’m American,” Max said, his voice catching, just for a second.
Mitch scoffed. “With a name like Klein?”
Catherine grabbed a ball from the bin. “Come on, Max. Play wall ball with Hobie and me.” She tapped Hobie on the arm. As if to say they were a team.
Was Catherine crazy? Going against Mitch like this? Well, she could get away with it. She was a girl.
“Uh, I was thinking of going to the library —” Hobie started.
“Bluck, bluck, bluck.” Mitch flapped his arms at Hobie. Then he turned to Max. “Heil, Hitler.” He saluted before running outside.
Max blinked behind his glasses. “You don’t have to be nice to me,” he said to Catherine.
“Nice?” asked Catherine. “I’m not being nice.” The look she gave Hobie was sad. No, disappointed. “I’m going to clean your clock.”
Max snorted. “I’d like to see you try.”
They ran off, too, leaving Hobie alone in the cloakroom. Alone and wondering, once again, why he couldn’t have inherited more than a name from his grandfather.
June came running out of her classroom. “Look!” She waved her spelling test. “A gold star!” She twirled on tippy-toe. “I didn’t miss a word.” She spun around and around like the little ballerina in her music box.
“That’s great.” Hobie snagged her mid-twirl. “Don’t you want to hurry home and tell Mom?”
“Okay!” She started to prance like a pony, which was also embarrassing, but at least she was moving toward home, not spinning in one spot.
Hobie glanced over his shoulder. Catherine was running to her mother’s DeSoto. Other kids lined up for the bus. Hobie cocked his head a bit. He could almost hear Scooter, making that day’s rule for the walk home. “We step on every crack,” he might say. Or, “We’ve got to crow like roosters at the corners.” Scooter’s favorite game was “hit-o-heap.” If either boy spotted a real junker car rattling down the street, he popped the other on the arm. Scooter was loaded with ideas. And Hobie was great at going along with them.
He took one last look around, to make sure that Scooter wasn’t going to leap out from behind the building, howling like a hyena at the prank he’d played. But there was no Scooter. Hobie didn’t see Max anywhere, either. Or, thank goodness, Mitch.
“I wrote a letter in school today,” June announced.
“Which letter?” Hobie teased. “‘E’? ‘A’?”
June punched his arm. “A real letter,” she said. “To Scooter. Do you want to hear it?”
“Sure,” he said. Though he wasn’t so sure.
June fished a piece of paper from her book bag. “‘Dear Scooter,’” she read. “‘I wish your father wasn’t so good at building boats. Then you wouldn’t have to move. I wish you were here even if you do pull on my pigtails. Love, June.’” June cocked her head. “Is that a good letter?”
“Yeah.” Hobie cleared his throat. “Yeah. That’s a real good letter.”
She didn’t mean to, but June made him feel even worse about the day. It wasn’t just Mitch calling him chicken. What about that look Catherine had given him? She probably wouldn’t choose him for her dodgeball team in PE anymore.
He picked up the pace. He wanted to get home. To Duke. At least he still had Duke.
And there he was, at the front door, barking and licking, the minute Hobie stepped through. Hobie gave him a big hug. “Hey, buddy. How are you?”
He changed into his dungarees and devoured a couple of Mom’s special oatmeal cookies, warm from the oven. Duke got a couple of bites, too.
“Going out, Mom!” Hobie called.
Duke bounded after him, determination radiating to the very tips of his coat. He’d been left behind that morning. He was not going to be left behind again.
Hobie hopped on his Schwinn, and off they went. Duke grinned as he loped along, keeping pace while Hobie rode to the playfield.
“Watch this!” Hobie pushed back on the pedals to engage the coaster brakes. “I’m going in for a landing, just like Hop.” The bike careened this way and that as Hobie executed his maneuvers.
“CX-4 calling the tower, CX-4 calling the tower!” That’s what Hop Harrigan said at the start of each radio program. Hop was an ace pilot, like Dad, except he flew the experimental CX-4, and Dad flew a B-24 he’d named Lily Bess, Too.
Hobie’s legs slowed as he thought of Dad. Every spring, since before Hobie was born, Dad and Uncle Tryg went up to Alaska to fish. For months at a time, it’d be just Hobie, June, and Mom. Like it was now.
What was different about now was that Dad was in a war. He had said piloting was piloting, whether you were steering a boat or a plane. But there weren’t any Germans shooting at him when he was out on the Lily Bess. Lately, a day didn’t go by without an article in the paper about a pilot having to bail out somewhere over Europe. Even aces like Dad. That worry wore away at Hobie like salt water on a wooden hull.
A sharp bark cut through Hobie’s thoughts. Duke’s squirrel bark. He charged around Hobie, zooming off across the playfield, intent on one thing. Catching a squirrel.
“Duke!” Hobie dropped his bike and ran after him, even though he knew it was hopeless. That dog could not resist squirrels. “Come!”
Hobie followed the barking to the woods at the edge of the field. “Duke! Here!” His only answer was a rat-a-tat of barks.
Duke would come back. When he was tired. Hobie decided he’d best go retrieve his bike.
It was gone. Hobie looked around. A man in an overcoat and fedora was walking a Doberman pinscher.
“Did you see a bike lying here?” Hobie asked.
The man gestured behind Hobie. There, rolling down the sidewalk, was Mitch Mitchell.
“Get off,” Hobie hollered. “That’s mine.”
“Finders keepers.” Mitch pedaled faster. Hobie picked up his pace. He snagged part of Mitch’s jacket.
The bike wobbled. Mitch shook him off.
“Give it back!” Hobie ran harder.
“When I feel like it,” Mitch called over his shoulder. He bumped the bike over a tree root. “Ya-hoo!”
“Young man!” the Doberman’s master called. “That’s enough. You’ve had your fun.”
“Yeah. Come back here,” Hobie yelled.
“Come back?” Mitch repeated. “Okay.” He wrenched the bike around sharply, legs pumping like pistons, and headed straight at Hobie.
Hobie jumped aside at the last minute, grabbing for the handlebars. He missed. As Mitch whizzed past, he kicked at Hobie’s knee. Pain shot through Hobie’s leg. He crumpled in a heap.
Then there was a blur of fur and Mitch was hollering, “Call him off! Call him off!”
The man with the Doberman came running.
Duke gripped Mitch’s pant leg in his teeth. “Duke!” Hobie had never seen him do anything like this before. “No!”
A deep growl rumbled in Duke’s chest. His ears perked to alert. As if he knew Hobie was in danger.
“That dog just about bit me!” Mitch tried to get off the bike. A difficult feat with his dungarees caught in a German shepherd vise. “You saw it, didn’t you?” He turned to the man.
“Drop!” Hobie scrambled to his feet. “Duke. Drop!”
Duke let go of Mitch’s pant leg. Mitch scrambled away.
“Down.” Hobie gave the hand signal along with the command.
Duke obeyed. He went down. But his brown eyes stayed locked on his target. It was clear he intended to protect Hobie from Mitch, no matter what.
The man picked up Hobie’s bike. “It takes a special person to be able to train a strong animal like that.” He wheeled the bike over to Hobie. “He’s your dog, I assume?”
“Mutt is more like it,” Mitch grumbled, brushing off his pants.
Hobie nodded, taking his bike from the man.
“My name’s Rasmussen.”
The man stuck out his hand and Hobie reached over the handlebars to shake, saying, “Hobie Hanson.”
Mr. Rasmussen’s Doberman sat quietly by his side. If you didn’t know dogs, you’d think he was asleep with his eyes open. But the muscle twitching in his left shoulder signaled that the Dobie was ready for whatever command Mr. Rasmussen might give next.
“This is my dog, Ludwig.” The dog’s head cocked slightly at his name. “Well, he’s my dog for a little while longer. He’s shipping out soon. Going to work for Uncle Sam for the duration.” Mr. Rasmussen fingered Ludwig’s pointed ears. “I’m going to miss this big galoot.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and passed it over his eyes. “But I could hardly keep him back, not when he could save some brave soldier’s life.” He re-pocketed his handkerchief.
“My brother’s in the Marines.” Mitch took a hesitant step toward Ludwig. “They have a couple of messenger dogs in their unit.”
“Go ahead, you can pet him. But let him smell you first.” Mr. Rasmussen showed Mitch what to do. “Dogs are doing lots of important jobs for the war effort,” he said. “Though most stay right here, guarding the coastline or plants like Boeing.”
Mitch scratched under Ludwig’s chin.
Hobie rolled his bike forward and back a few times. “I better get home,” he said.
But Mr. Rasmussen kept talking, and it would be rude to leave. “In fact, I’ve become such a believer, I signed on to recruit other dogs.” He tilted his hat back. “I don’t suppose you’d consider lending your dog, there.”
Hobie looked at Duke. “Well, I —”
Mitch scoffed. “Him? Do anything like that?” He tucked his hands in his armpits and flapped his arms.
Hobie wished Mitch would beat it.
“This is no easy decision,” Mr. Rasmussen said. “Trust me, I know.” He paused. “I thought long and hard about sending Ludwig.”
Hobie’s shoulders loosened a bit.
“But a dog like that” — Mr. Rasmussen inclined his head toward Duke — “already so well trained — well, he’d be like the prize in the Cracker Jack box for the Army.”
The whole time Mr. Rasmussen had been talking, he’d been stroking Ludwig’s head. You’d have to be blind not to see how much he cared about that dog. Almost as much as Hobie cared about Duke. It couldn’t have been easy for him. Not one bit.
“I don’t know,” Hobie said. He did want to help. He did!
“Tell you what.” Mr. Rasmussen pulled a business card from his pocket. “Think it over. This is my number. If you decide to donate Duke, give me a call. There’s a train going out this weekend, and he and Ludwig could both be on it.”
Hobie glanced at the card: OLIN RASMUSSEN, ASST. REGIONAL DIRECTOR, DOGS FOR DEFENSE, TELEPHONE: MELROSE 2-0585. He put the card in his jacket pocket.
“Bye, now, boys.” Mr. Rasmussen walked on, Ludwig trotting smartly at his heels.
“He should have saved his breath,” said Mitch. “You don’t have what it takes. Not a baby like you.”
Hobie threw his leg over his bike.
“Running home to get your teddy bear?” Mitch threw the words like a punch.
“No. Just getting out of here so Duke doesn’t catch your fleas!” Hobie stomped on the pedals and began to ride.
“Bluck, bluck, bluck!” Mitch called after him.
Hobie and Duke sped for home together, as they’d done hundreds of times before. But something was different for Hobie.
Like a record with a scratch in it, Mr. Rasmussen’s story played over and over in his head.
And in his heart.
His are-you-doing-everything-you-can heart.
June stepped up on the bench to check the mailbox next to the front door. “A letter from Daddy!” She tippity-tapped in her red galoshes.
“Careful!” Hobie grabbed her arm so she wouldn’t fall. Even though the letter was addressed to both of them, June tore it open.
“Oh, it’s in cursive.” She jumped down, holding the letter out to Hobie. “Read it to me!”
“Can we at least go inside where it’s dry?” Hobie opened the door, grabbing Duke — with his favorite old tennis ball in his mouth — before he could run out.
“Come on, boy.” Hobie tugged at Duke’s collar. “We’ll play later.” Duke didn’t care about the weather. In his doggy brain, rainy days were as good as sunny ones for a game of fetch.
Mom was volunteering at the hospital, so Hobie had to make sure June hung up her wet coat and put her galoshes in the closet, and get her an after-school snack.
“Read the letter!” she repeated.
“Want some Ovaltine with it?” he asked. He was as eager as his sister to hear what Dad had to say, but sometimes things were better when you waited for them.
“Are there cookies?” June asked, clanking a saucepan out of the cupboard.
Hobie checked the pig cookie jar. Empty. “Graham crackers?” he suggested.
June sighed. “Oh, all right.”
Hobie heated the milk and stirred in the Ovaltine powder. He ladled the warm drink into the mugs and set out a plate of graham crackers. “Ready?” he asked, picking up the letter.
“Wait! Wait!” June jumped up. “Kitty wants to hear, too.”
She grabbed the doll from her bedroom and propped it up on the table. “Okay, we’re ready.”
Hobie unfolded the V-mail letter carefully so it wouldn’t tear.
Dear Hobie and Junebug,
I was so proud to hear about those good report cards, my buttons nearly popped right off my uniform. Keep up the good work, but don’t get too much smarter than your old dad, please.
Speaking of good work, I know you are both being troopers, pitching in at home and all. I’m going to have to ask you to be good soldiers awhile longer. Our favorite uncle has added a few more dances to my dance card. Don’t you worry, the Lily Bess, Too is one tough bird. It can be 30 or 130. She’ll do the job.
Someday, when you’re older, I’d like to bring you here. They drink hot tea and ea
t cold toast, but they’re good folks. They don’t rattle easy, and that’s something I admire.
This one’s a groaner, but it’s the best I’ve got for you this time: What do you do when your dog gets lost in the woods? Put your ear to a tree and listen for the bark.
Aim, fly, fight!
Love,
Dad
“What did Daddy mean?” June asked, nibbling the edge of a cracker. “About dancing?”
Hobie shoved his Ovaltine aside. “It means more missions.” He wanted to crumple up the letter, throw it in the garbage. Dad was supposed to fly twenty-five missions. Twenty-five. And then he could come home. It wasn’t fair!
June fussed with Kitty’s hair. “How many more?” she asked.
“Who knows?” Hobie took another look at the letter. “Somewhere between thirty and a hundred and thirty.” He couldn’t breathe. Had to get out of there. He shoved his chair back. “Come on, Duke.”
A volcano of mad erupted inside him, and the driving rain did nothing to cool it off. Hobie threw the ball, over and over again, as hard as he could. Whump. He hated those Nazis. Whump. He hated those Zeros. This darn war was all their fault. Whump. He even hated the Army, for making Dad fly more missions.
Duke dropped the ball at Hobie’s feet. Water ran off his head as he bent over to pick it up. He hurled it again. Whump. He hated himself. For not doing everything he could. That was the strongest hate of all.
Mom pulled up to the curb and slid out of the car. “Hobie! You’re soaked.” She hustled him inside. “What were you thinking? This coat will never dry out in time for school tomorrow.” She wrung it out over the sink, then hung it by the oil heater in the kitchen.
“Kitty’s sad,” June announced.
“About what?” Mom hung up her own coat and unpinned her hat.
“Daddy’s letter.”
Mom pivoted on her brown high heels. “You heard from Dad today?”
Hobie got the letter and handed it to Mom. She read it quickly, chewing all the lipstick off her lower lip.
“Well,” she said, folding it back up. “We certainly need to send Dad a joke book. That was one of his worst.” She put the letter in the basket with all the others. Then she tied on an apron and bustled around the kitchen, opening cupboards and banging pots and pans.