Called to Arms Again: A Tribute to the Greatest Generation

by J. L. Salter

  Mitch was there to join Kelly later for an inexpensive fast food supper. It was still early, so they sat on her porch rockers.

  As Mitch watched several huge buzzards soar over Disappearing Creek, Kelly studied his face. While not classically handsome, Mitch was indeed good-looking: tall, broad-shouldered, with long strong arms, firm chest, and just enough belly to grab hold of… but not enough to be unsightly. A man at forty probably should be allowed a slight paunch. If not for the chronic pain in his hip — which sometimes affected his gait — he would be considered athletic-looking for his age, though a bit rumpled and a little beat up. Mitch had a full head of hair and, as their friend Ellie Graye had once said, “He has all his own teeth.” Ha.

  Several of his feature stories had appeared in other small regional magazines published by an electric utility co-op and a county Chamber of Commerce. Plus, a few of his more sporty pieces had also appeared in an official state publication concerned with fish and wildlife resources.

  Usually Mitch had about two interviews per day, which often included considerable travel time to distant portions of the lake; some were scheduled but several were just serendipitous drop-ins. Typically his interviews resulted in two or three actual submissions per week for publication.

  Kelly wondered how Mitch generated enough income to buy basic groceries; she only remembered a vague reference to his deceased wife’s insurance policy. Kelly couldn’t bring herself to inquire about his meager budget or his late wife. “It’s a wonder that neither of us has been locked up in the poor house.” She shook her head. “I’m supposed to have another big assignment from Search Magazine, but the editor keeps pushing it back. Latest word is maybe early next year.” Kelly stood. “But next year might never even get here.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Hunters shooting in my direction. Terrorists and homegrown crime. Natural disasters all over the world.”

  “You seem pretty glum again today.” Mitch probably wished he could shift the mood.

  “Yeah. I guess I’m in a fugue or something.

  Mitch hugged her briefly, but Kelly twisted away. Sometimes she needed to move — no confinement.

  ****

  Though burgers were available in dozens of Somerset establishments, Mitch believed the best were served at a place near the hospital.

  After ordering they waited at a booth for the food to be brought out.

  The local area depended heavily on direct and indirect revenue from the lake, so Mitch’s ongoing assignment, from an ad hoc coalition of area businesses, encouraged home owners, boaters, fishermen, other visitors, and general tourists to continue using the vast man-engineered Lake Cumberland despite extensive repairs to the Wolf Creek Dam.

  Still puzzled by Kelly’s dour mood, Mitch tried to distract her with the upcoming drill. “So you don’t subscribe to the pickle barrel gossip, this drill is about domestic riots or terrorist attacks?” Mitch fiddled with the napkin holder.

  “Terrorists? Around Lake Cumberland? What’s their target? Our water’s already drained down by forty-three feet, nearly half. Boating, fishing, and tourism are skewered for the next seven years. What would terrorists want with this area?”

  “Well, a couple of weeks ago was the anniversary of the big September Eleventh attacks.” Mitch remembered when he first heard that shocking news and hurried to a television in the faculty lounge at his community college in east Texas. “A well-placed bomb at Wolf Creek Dam could flood some sixty thousand acres and over twelve hundred miles of shoreline, in parts of four counties. And who knows how many homes and businesses.”

  “True, but that’s just a blip in the big picture for those fanatics. They want something with big symbolic value.” Kelly closed her eyes to think. “Now the Hoover Dam is a target they’d go for. It’s got to be very high profile and kill thousands, or they won’t feel they’ve made their perverted point.” Kelly yawned. “Look, enough already about the stinking drill. It’s over two weeks away.”

  She patted his hand, officially closing the topic, and then watched in the direction the employee would bring their meal. Kelly seemed focused on matters other than burgers, however.

  Mitch quietly watched her silent, lovely face.

  Their order arrived, but before eating, Mitch waited until Kelly’s thoughts returned from wherever they’d gone. Shortly, Kelly looked around like she’d just awakened from a five-minute catnap. She ate her burger slowly and it seemed like she didn’t even taste it.

  ****

  Though they’d only been back at Kelly’s cabin for a few minutes, Mitch had already gotten settled on slightly more than half of the loveseat.

  Kelly gasped suddenly, looked at her watch, and then slapped Mitch’s knee lightly. “I’m out of here. Got to be at Pop’s house about ten minutes ago.”

  Mitch groaned loudly.

  “Sorry, I’d forgotten. Pop’s expecting me and my rent. I’ve got some other things to ask him about my assignment, but don’t think I’ll be too long. If you want to wait here, I should be back in about an hour and a half.”

  She didn’t linger to see how Mitch responded: whether he’d remain in her cabin or just go back to his own.

  “Okay… bye.” Mitch was still considering whether to wait alone for ninety minutes when Kelly suddenly drove away.

  “Well, Perra, guess I better get back to Fishing Creek.” He sighed heavily and smoothed the short black hair on the little dog’s head. “I know exactly how you feel, mutt. I don’t like being left behind either.” The terrier extended her huge, batwing ears and cocked her head. Wonder what she hears in my voice besides commiseration?

  Mitch watched out the cabin’s front windows until he saw Kelly’s small four-wheel drive make the turn from Macon Circle.

  Before Mitch left Kelly’s cabin, he bent forward and peered toward the east. Beautiful view. He stood in the middle of the dining/living/kitchen space and looked around. No, couldn’t live here. Too small and too crowded. Still, Mitch wished he could live with Kelly somewhere. He’d already moved from East Texas to Somerset about nine months before.

  That was a huge adjustment, a big sacrifice. He’d thought Kelly would meet him halfway, as she had when he drove back after his six week absence. No. Kelly wouldn’t budge. Wanted her space, her privacy, her whatever.

  He watched the little black dog romp down in the dry creek bed meadow with the neighbor pet. Perra was easily distracted — an enormous cat to pester, a slow-witted neighbor dog to tussle with, mice and moles to dig up, and even deer to chase. But Mitch didn’t have those distractions. When Kelly zipped away, it left him alone with his thoughts.

  Thoughts were a burden that little Perra did not have to carry.

  Chapter Three

  Thursday — a few minutes later

  On that otherwise pleasant early evening it had become breezy and slightly cooler, so Kelly was glad she’d remembered her light jacket.

  When she arrived at her landlord’s place on Heath Street, Chet “Pop” Walter was telling Ellie Graye about a newspaper article that she’d obviously already read.

  Kelly’s landlord and Ellie were a lot more than friends, but not married. However, they spent most of their time together and everybody considered them a couple. Even though her congregation viewed divorce status dimly, Ellie was not thought of badly, because everybody knew her ex-husband was a drunken bum… and a beater. Ellie had put up with just so much of it before she went after him with her baseball bat.

  At about sixty, Ellie had a soft, pretty face: smooth skin with very few wrinkles, except right around the eyes and at the corners of her mouth. She never wore makeup. Trim and athletic, she also had modest curves. Her limbs were strong, as she’d often demonstrated, though completely without pride. Ellie’s other distinctive feature was her denominational long hair, usually worn up.

  Although Kelly occasionally visited Chet at other times, she came this evening to drop off her slightly late monthly rent. Whi
le doing so, she needed to check with him about a few names of surviving veterans.

  “I don’t want to call one of the men in those military service booklets and find out they’ve just died and I’m talking to the grieving widow.”

  Chet looked perturbed. Likely some of those deceased were his friends.

  Possum Knoll, just outside Somerset, was Chet’s birthplace and where his heart had always been. Even while living in other states for over forty years, Chet had always returned home at least once annually. He’d moved back some twenty years before and become a widower about ten years later. Chet was in his mid-eighties and more active than most men that age, but his hearing was terrible despite devices in both ears. He had a long, jagged scar on his back from pleurisy and double pneumonia, which in 1930 involved major surgery. Chet had part of a rib removed so they could tap his lungs.

  Chet retained most of his hair, which was solid white and usually combed like he still used tonic on it. Maybe he did. He had chronic throat congestion from decades of pipe-smoking and chewing tobacco, which he swore he’d given up, and he frequently cleared his throat — harshly enough to scare small children. Some people said his throat-clearing created a noise like a car wreck… loud and just as sudden. Others swore it sounded more like slamming a heavy metal door with rusty, broken hinges. Whichever — it always got everyone’s attention.

  His forearms were patchy with small scabs and errant bruises — prevalent in the dozen years since his bypass surgery. His back always hurt and he hobbled on a bad foot, but Chet seldom complained directly. Anyone could see the pain in him, but he didn’t verbalize it.

  The television was on, considerably louder than anyone else liked it and nearly at the painful stage for Kelly. She turned to Ellie. “Would it be okay if I turn that down a bit, while we’re talking?”

  “Let him hear the rest of his news first.”

  As was her habit, Kelly looked around Chet’s large den. A Japanese bayonet and scabbard hung from the bricks above the non-working fireplace. On a homemade stand atop the mantel was a World War II G.I. M-1 steel pot helmet… presumably Chet’s.

  The Lexington TV news, what little Kelly watched of it, was always either boring or troubling. Either way, she had little use for it. A stern-looking female announcer was talking about a rash of break-ins, including several rapes.

  “…one was an entire subdivision which a police spokesperson said was ‘wiped out’ in broad daylight, when many residents were not at home.”

  Kelly examined Chet’s book cases. There were volumes about Kentucky, Pulaski County, and even some about Somerset. Plus two Bibles, a Bible commentary, and several titles on WW II.

  “…Homeland Security is the principal agency staging a massive drill in the Louisville area for response to disasters of several types, including biochemical contamination. One spokesperson said this will be the first significant test of the 9-1-1 infrastructure to respond to multiple incidents on a large scale in this countywide area. Although limited tests have been conducted for several years, none have included this many different entities. FEMA officials have stepped up their emphasis on testing as a result of gaps and lapses identified in recent incidents all over the U.S. Almost all Jefferson County and Louisville officials, including law enforcement, fire department, medical personnel, evacuation specialists, and other special response teams, are expected to be involved in the drill, set for…”

  Kelly tuned out the television again. A crawler across the screen’s bottom listed a few other cities and towns which would be involved in smaller scale drills scheduled over the next several weeks.

  When Ellie turned the volume way down, Chet looked annoyed until he remembered Kelly was waiting to speak with him.

  Kelly put her rent check facedown on the end table and sat on the couch close to Chet’s rocker. “Pop, how come so many Pulaski citizens have joined the military over the years?” She looked at a page from her folder of notes. “Going back as far as the Spanish-American War. It seems disproportionately high for a small county.”

  Chet cleared his throat loudly and looked toward his mantel before he spoke. “This area’s always been poor… people scraping ta make a living. Economy was poor and jobs scarce even before the Great Depression. But after the Crash, it was terrible. Folks did whatever they could ta stay alive. It was hard raising families back then. If ya got old enough ta get away and wasn’t needed ta work the family farm — which, in lotsa cases there wasn’t no family farm by then — then ya probably had ta go ta big cities ta find work.” He went silent for a long moment.

  Kelly could sense he was reliving some of the painful memories of that awful period.

  But Chet suddenly resumed his explanation. “Besides the poverty, education was pretty poor in lots of places. Here close ta Somerset it was all right, I guess, but out in the county, it was catchy. So when jobs was available, most folks did labor work.” He held up his wrinkled hands. “These old things bruise so easy now, but they did lots of chopping, sawing, digging, hauling, and fighting. Back when I was a young buck.”

  Kelly recalled that one of Chet’s temporary jobs had been to relocate the graves of old Burnside to higher ground before the TVA flooded that area to generate electricity with the Wolf Creek Dam. Over the entire flooded area, more than a hundred cemeteries of various sizes had to be relocated.

  “Ta help the country out of Depression, Roosevelt did do some good — putting people ta work. The New Deal had so many new programs ya couldn’t shake a stick without hitting some, and most had three initials. Ones I recall best was National Recovery Act and Civilian Conservation Corps. The CCC ran things almost like a military outfit with commanders in Army uniforms. Before the war there was a good many Pulaskians had their first paying job in CCC.”

  “Pop, I understand there was lots of unrest about governmental regulatory activity, having to do with prices and supplies. I saw a History Channel clip of men pouring hundreds of gallons of fresh milk in the streets, protesting the government’s milk price regulations.” Kelly shook her head. “That blew me away — people starving right in that city and they’re pouring milk out on the streets.”

  Chet cleared his throat, rather softly. “One of Roosevelt’s programs was cutting down beef cattle production. I still don’t understand why or how this was supposed ta help. But Roosevelt said we couldn’t keep our cows. Wouldn’t let us sell them and we couldn’t even salvage the meat, since meat production was what they was trying ta control.” He shook his white head sadly. “It’s hard for a twelve-year-old boy ta understand why men with badges come ta his family farm and make his daddy shoot his own cows. We was hungry, but we had ta bury them back in that big sinkhole.” Chet pointed as though he were sitting in his old farm house in 1937 rather than his present day living room on Heath Street.

  That story made Kelly want to cry, but she recorded her notes as clinically as possible and tried to shift the focus back to her primary topic. “Disproportionate numbers of Pulaski citizens joined the military over the past hundred-plus years because this was primarily an agricultural area in poor economic conditions, plus unemployment was high and the few available paying jobs were mostly labor, partly because of limited educational opportunities. And right before World War II was a time of very austere financial hardship.” Kelly looked up from her notes. “All that makes it sound like military service was just about the only way out.”

  Chet paused so long before replying that Kelly feared she’d hurt his feelings. Then he spoke. “For some folks, maybe a uniform was the only way out, or up.” He nodded. “And those was some of the reasons lots of folks served. The other reason didn’t come up much ‘til the Germans sunk the Lusitania in 1915 and folks realized our country’d been attacked. But even that was nothing compared ta how folks felt after Japan attacked us in December ‘41. Before Pearl Harbor, there was about as many hoping our country’d stay out of the war, as wanted ta go fight in Europe. But Japan changed everything and we was suddenly at war wi
th both them and Germany.” He paused to let her notes catch up.

  “I’m not trying to put words in your mouth, Pop, but are you saying that patriotism was a big reason so many Pulaskians joined the military?”

  “Folks fought each other around here all the time, sometimes for no good reason. But when our country was sneak attacked with no war declared, we had a real good reason ta go over yonder and fight them. Ya don’t do that ta America and just walk away. Ya whipped up a hornet nest, so run as far away as ya can. Because we’re coming ta get ya.”

  Kelly flipped a few pages in her notebook. “That Japanese admiral who planned the Pearl Harbor attack said he feared he’d awakened a sleeping giant.”

  As Chet nodded silently, he gazed again at the Ariska bayonet hanging above his mantel.

  Someday, Kelly wanted to learn the story behind that bayonet, but it would have to be later. She put away her notebook and then shifted to a recent development. “You remember me mentioning that hunter with his dogs — shooting at rabbits last fall sometime?”

  “I guess.” Chet used that reply even when he had no doubt whatsoever.

  “Well they were out there again Tuesday.”

  “What did ya do?” Chet leaned closer so he could hear better.

  “Well, Perra was making a fuss. Then I heard the pack of beagles. They were clear over behind my cabin.”

  Chet cleared his throat raggedly.

  “Then I saw a big buck deer run into the woods, heading north. He zipped on a bit, then broke out onto the hill and doubled back through the hayfield. Then he jumped back into the woods and disappeared. The dogs were real close behind. A couple of minutes later I heard another shot. Naturally, I was afraid he’d shot the deer. But my main concern was him shooting in the direction of my cabin.”