Farewell PFC Polk: The End of a Nightmare (In the Valley of Hope Book 2)

by Richard Weirich

  Woody grabbed Helen’s hand. “You ready for this?”

  “Not really.”

  “You can handle it,” he said, even though he wasn’t sure that she could.

  Helen pushed open the front door and braced herself for what she might find inside. Charlie was sitting in his recliner by the entrance.

  “Hey, daddy,” said Helen, forcing back tears.

  Uncharacteristically, her father didn’t speak. He just took her hand and squeezed it.

  Mable looked up from her place on the sofa. A box of Buddy’s old photos was sitting in her lap and the morning newspaper by her side. “He was such a beautiful child,” she said holding up one of the pictures. “He would have turned 20 today.”

  Helen hugged her mom. “I hope he got the gifts we sent him.”

  Woody and Dickie stood just inside the door, both at a loss as to what to do next. This was the first time that Dickie had ever entered that house without a greeting from his grandparents. He had never seen them so sad.

  “We’ve come to stay,” said Helen. “Woody, you and Dickie go get our things.”

  While father and son tended to their chore, Helen sat down next to her mother. “Doctor gave me something and it helped. Been a wreck since Annie called. Doc Whitfield said for you to call him if you need anything.”

  “I’m bad enough,” said Mable. “Don’t need no dope.”

  “Now, Mama. It’s just medicine to help ease the pain. Nothing wrong with it.”

  Helen picked up the newspaper and began to read the front page article about her brother. “How did they get his picture?”

  “Annie. She carried it to them. It’s so sad.”

  When Woody and Dickie returned, Helen ordered them to take the luggage to the upstairs guest bedroom. It was killing Dickie that his grandparents weren’t paying attention to him. Gone were the tickling, hugs, and laughter that he loved. He had never known anything but happiness in this home. Now, it all seemed so dark, depressing, and frightening.

  Upstairs they passed Buddy’s bedroom. Instead of a door, there were only curtains over the entrance from the hallway. Helen had already declared that room “off-limits.” Not that he believed in ghosts, but Dickie had an eerie feeling when he walked by. This was his first experience with the death of a family member.

  The larger of the two upstairs rooms was the guest bedroom. Fortunately, there were two beds, a double and a single. On the floor sat a slop jar, a throwback to the days before indoor plumbing and a for-real bathroom. Woody joked that Dickie would only be allowed to use the chamber pot. At least, somebody still had a sense of humor, thought the youngster as he unpacked his suitcase and an all-important box of toys.

  With June just 2 days away, the bedroom was already uncomfortably hot. Woody opened all the upstairs windows except the one in Buddy’s room. A train rumbled by on the nearby tracks, not thirty yards from the house. The Polks had lived there for so long that they didn’t even notice the loud disturbance or how the house shook when the train passed. Nothing Woody could do about the noise but he could do something about the heat. “Come on, Dickie. We’re going to the hardware store to buy a fan. Can’t take this.”

  The trip to the Western Auto in downtown Strasburg gave Woody an opportunity to talk to his son about death. “Do you understand what’s going on, why people are so sad?”

  “Uncle Buddy was killed.”

  “It’s hard to lose the people you love.”

  “That’s why Mama cries all the time and Mammaw and Drendaddy didn’t talk to me.”

  “Right.”

  “Where is Buddy now?”

  “Heaven.”

  “With my brother Gary?”

  “Yes, they’re probably together right now.”

  “And Inky?”

  “Well, never thought about dogs going to heaven. Maybe.”

  “So, why’s everybody crying? Shouldn’t they be happy?”

  “Anytime you lose somebody that means a lot to you…you miss them. And nobody meant more to your mom and your grandparents than Buddy. It hurts them to know that they’ll never see him again.”

  “How long will they be sad?”

  “Probably a very long time.”

  “I don’t like it. Makes me want to be somewhere else.”

  “But they need you.”

  “Why? They don’t even talk to me.”

  “Best thing you can do at times like this is…just be there for them. Someday the joy and laughter will return but not for a long time.”

  “Didn’t God love Buddy? Why did he let him be killed?”

  Nothing in life causes more unanswerable questions than death, especially when it involves the accidental loss of a loved one in the prime of life. Woody responded as best he could. “Everybody will die someday. We don’t know why any more than we know when. We just know that death is inevitable, so we need to be ready.

  “How do we do that?

  “Trust in Jesus.”

  Woody was right to discuss such a delicate topic with his son. Since Saturday, he had devoted all of his attention to Helen. She was the squeaky wheel in the family. But she wasn’t the only one affected by the crisis. The adult foundation of Dickie’s world was crumbling. It helped, knowing that his dad was still there for him.

  Since they were already downtown, Woody added several stops to their itinerary. Getting away from all that sadness was just what the doctor ordered. First up was a stop at People’s Drug Store where he and Dickie indulged on double decker chocolate ice cream cones while waiting for Helen’s prescription to be filled. Then they traveled just a few doors down to the Western Auto Store. Finally, after purchasing the only electric fan in stock, the father and son duo completed their shopping at the Strasburg Newsstand, where Woody picked up some extra copies of the Northern Virginia Daily.

  “Terrible what happened to that Polk boy,” said the clerk, pointing to the front page story. “Used to come in here all the time. Always so polite.”

  “He’s my nephew,” said Woody.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Please give my sympathy to the family.”

  Spilled Milk – May 31, 1955

  West Point, Virginia

  Sally Duffy was a bundle of nerves. Monday, May 30th, was Buddy’s birthday and he had promised to call her. The gold watch that she had sent him should have arrived by now and she couldn’t wait to hear his reaction. She took the day off from her summer job at the West Point Hotel Restaurant. And she had given strict orders. Nobody in the house was allowed to use the telephone. If someone called, they were to call back the next day. She paced back and forth, sat by the phone, picked up the receiver a few times to make sure there was a dial tone, watched and waited. Nothing. That greatly anticipated call from the man she loved didn’t happen.

  Buddy never broke a promise, just wasn’t his style. Something was wrong. She just knew it.

  At 1:00 a.m., her mother got out of bed to check on Sally and found her on the sofa with the phone by her side. “Honey, go to sleep. He’ll call when he can.”

  “He’s in trouble,” said Sally.

  “Why would you say something like that?”

  “I just feel it. He would have called.”

  “Maybe there’s a problem with the phone in Japan or maybe he had to work extra hours. He’ll call. Now, please go to bed.”

  Sally followed her mother’s instruction, retired to her bedroom, but she couldn’t sleep. When she heard the annoying ringing of her dad’s alarm clock, she went to the kitchen.

  Howard Duffy was a bear in the morning. A sign attached to the refrigerator declared, “Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my coffee,” a Christmas gift from Sally. But she needed to talk to him in the worst kind of way, even if it meant making a pot of coffee, all by herself. Personally, she couldn’t stand the caffeine-laced liquid, especially the way her daddy drank it, strong and black. Nasty stuff, she thought, while sitting the percolator on the stove.

  Then came a sight she could
have done without. Howard Duffy entered the kitchen in a sleeveless t-shirt and boxer underwear. The little patch of hair still remaining on his head was in desperate need of combing. She often wondered why God put so much hair on her dad’s body and so little on his head.

  He ignored his daughter, who was sitting at the kitchen table until he heard the familiar popping and gurgling sound of the percolator. “For me?” he said.

  Sally gave an affirmative nod and then dropped two slices of bread in the toaster.

  “You must want something,” he grumbled.

  The percolator stopped singing, Sally removed it from the stove burner and poured her Daddy a cup of coffee. Then she pulled butter and grape jelly from the refrigerator and prepared his toast.

  “Black toast. Black coffee,” she said, placing his breakfast in front of him and then she walked to the living room, opened the front door, and retrieved the morning paper.

  When Sally returned, Howard was ready to talk. “I take it that he didn’t call.”

  “I’m worried sick,” she said.

  “It’s going to be OK. Something just came up,” said Howard while opening the newspaper to the front page.

  “My women’s intuition is real strong today.”

  Howard rolled his eyes. His wife, Mary, had taught Sally that nonsense about women and their sixth sense.

  “I’m telling you. Something awful has happened.”

  “Since you want to wait on me this morning, how about a glass of milk.”

  Sally stood up, walked across the room, and opened the door to the Frigidaire. As soon as she took hold of the glass milk bottle, it slipped from her hand and crashed to the floor. For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the mess on the floor.

  “Aren’t you going to clean it up?” said Howard, unhappy at the instant depletion of his milk supply. “You need to…” And then he stopped himself. Sally was crying. “Now, there’s no point in crying over spilled milk.”

  “That’s not why I’m upset.”

  Howard arose, walked to his daughter, and hugged her. “It’s going to be alright. Is there any way to call him?”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you go over to Grandma Duffy’s today? Spend some time with her. She always knows how to cheer you up.”

  “OK,” said Sally managing a smile while tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

  Home of Lulabelle Duffy – 9:00 a.m.

  Grandma Duffy was busily folding clothes for one of her customers when Sally arrived.

  “Look what the cat drug in,” said Lulabelle, who dropped what she was doing to give her granddaughter a hug. “To what do I owe this honor?” And then she saw the sadness in Sally’s eyes. “You’ve been crying. What’s the matter?”

  “Charles didn’t call yesterday.”

  Lulabelle was more aware than anybody in the family about Sally’s affection for Buddy. She also knew about the birthday phone call. Had even envisioned a wedding proposal in the near future. From the first time that she laid eyes on the boy from Strasburg, she knew that he was the one. “Now, honey. Sit yourself down, I’ll make us some pancakes, and we’ll just put our heads together. Two smart cookies like you and me are bound to come up with something good.”

  Sally’s daddy was right. Grandma knew how to cheer her up. She was the best.

  “Drown them pancakes in syrup, girl,” said Lulabelle. “Nothing cures the blues better than sugar.”

  Mrs. Duffy began to think about all the possible ways to get in touch with Buddy, but she didn’t come up with anything that Sally hadn’t already considered.

  “Just worried that he’s been hurt or something,” said Sally, who was eating her pancakes so fast that her grandmother ordered her to slow down.

  “Now, I don’t believe that for a minute, but I do know a way that you could check to see if there’s been any news about him.”

  “How so?

  “Library. They keep newspapers from all over the state. Why don’t you run on over there and see if Hattie Williams can dig you up some news from Strasburg?”

  Sally objected. “He’s not in Strasburg.”

  “No. But you said you were worried that something bad had happened. That’s what newspapers print. If it ain’t bad…it ain’t news. Won’t hurt to try. I’m sure you won’t find nothing…and it will make you feel better just knowin’ there wasn’t nothin’ to report. Now, get up off your tail and get on over there.”

  West Point Library – 10:15 a.m.

  One of the benefits of small town living is that almost everything you need is within walking distance. The library wasn’t quite a mile from Lulabelle’s house. Sally reasoned that the exercise would help relieve some stress.

  When she arrived, her first observation was that nobody was there. The door was open, the lights were on, but there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Either West Point didn’t have many people interested in reading or everybody was busy. After all, it was Tuesday, a workday.

  Just as Sally began to search for the newspaper section, Hattie Williams entered the room through a side entrance. You couldn’t miss Hattie. Silver hair, tightly wound bun, and a sharp nose that strongly resembled the beak of a cockatoo. Kids unmercifully made fun of the elderly librarian for as long as Sally could remember.

  “Well, good morning, Sally. Glad somebody finally came to visit. How’s Lulabelle?”

  “Doing just fine.”

  “How can I help you?”

  “Grandma said you keep newspapers from around the state.”

  “Sure do. Anything, in particular, you’re looking for?”

  “I’m trying to find news from the town of Strasburg.”

  Hattie pulled out a state map and opened it. “That’s what I thought. Strasburg is in the Shenandoah Valley. Why are you interested in Strasburg? Not much there.”

  “My friend is from there.”

  “A boy, no doubt.”

  “Yes, mam.

  “Well, let’s see. I expect you might find something in the Northern Virginia Daily. It would be over on that rack. Don’t have today’s edition yet…but yesterday’s paper should be there.”

  Sally wasted no time launching her search. “Found it,” she called out to the librarian. And upon seeing the front page, it was as if she had just been struck by a lightning bolt. On the front page was Buddy’s photograph, identical to the picture she had carried in her purse since the summer of ’53.

  Oh, please don’t let it be him, she thought while quickly taking a seat at the nearest table. Her heart sank, her pulse raced, and her body trembled as she struggled to make it through the painful details.

  “A popular, young Strasburg Marine, PFC Charles F. Polk, Jr., was accidentally killed while on duty in Japan, according to an Army Department telegram to his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Charles F. Polk, Capon Street, Saturday.”

  It was unmistakable. This was her Charles. She could barely see the small print for the tears in her eyes.

  “Although the official details were lacking, the telegram said that a bullet wound in the head proved fatal to the young Marine. The telegram stated that he was killed May 28.”

  He’s been dead since Saturday? Shot in the head. One painful thought after another raced through her mind.

  “The young Military Policeman would have celebrated his 20th birthday on May 30. Before entering the service, he was employed by the Virginia Highway Department. The body will be returned to Strasburg for burial.”

  Sally’s weeping caught the attention of Mrs. Williams. “Honey, are you alright?” Hattie picked up the phone and called her friend, Lulabelle. “You need to get over here right away. Something’s wrong with your granddaughter. She’s crying something awful.”

  The sobbing had not ceased when Grandma Duffy arrived and the reason for Sally’s agony was prominently displayed on the table beside her. Lulabelle felt awful that she had sent her granddaughter to the library. Never in a million years would she have expected her to be confronted with such
dreadful news. “I am so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  Sally didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her soulmate was gone.

  Farewell to the Land of the Rising Sun – June 1, 1955

  Since May 28, Eddie remained incarcerated in the Iwakuni Brig. Marine Corps brass had not yet decided his fate. The base commander, Captain Victor Crews, ordered a thorough investigation. Of greatest concern was how Eddie would be charged. Was the discharge of his weapon accidental, a matter of negligence, or was it intentional? Captain Crews appointed Buddy’s former platoon leader, Sgt. Davis, as the chief investigator.

  Sgt. Davis wasn’t so sure that he was the best man for the job. After all, the fatal shooting incident happened on his watch. If he had his way, the Uniform Code of Military Justice would be thrown out the window and Eddie Johnson would be left in the Brig to rot. Such incompetence by a Marine, especially one charged with the security and safety of others, was unacceptable.

  On Wednesday, June 1, the Sergeant conducted his final Brig interrogation of the prisoner. To avoid saying or doing anything that would compromise the case, he was accompanied by two Marines who stood guard in the room while he asked questions.

  Eddie looked pale, weak, and fatigued. His voice was hoarse and his speech was slurred.

  “On the night of May 28,” began Sgt. Davis, “you said that you and Private Polk were best friends.”

  “That’s right.” Eddie cleared his throat and spoke louder. “Right.”

  “When did that friendship begin?” asked the Sergeant while one of the men took notes.

  Eddie paused, folded his arms, and leaned back in his chair. “About two years ago.”

  “Two years ago?” said the Sergeant in disbelief. “Polk had only been here a couple of months.”

  “Yeah. No more than two.”