Treasure in a Tin Box (Wall of Silence Book 1)

by Dorey Whittaker

  Ruth wanted to use this time well, caring for Clara. Tobias let his mind return to the past, but this time it was all about Ruth. His life has not been without its struggles, but Ruth has always been there for him. She had always been a bright light of hope and understanding—especially during times of darkness and fear. As a young man dealing with World War I, Ruth was a constant, steady rock for him…soon he was back in his youth.

  Most of 1917 and 1918 were consumed with thoughts of World War I. Every newspaper was filled with lists of the dead and stories of Army hospitals filled with wounded. Everyone dreaded seeing the Western Union bicycle coming through the neighborhood. Someone was being told that a son, a husband, or a father was not coming home.

  About twenty-five percent of America’s young boys were off fighting the war or returning home wounded. Tensions were at an all-time high; but on a personal level, life was moving along rather well. Sulley and Whippoorwill were settling back into life. Several of the women of the church had gathered up dishes, furniture, and knickknacks to replace what Neville had destroyed. Although expected, Sulley’s father and brother never came looking for trouble. Finally, word came around that Jethro had joined the Army, and their father had left town. Only then did Whippoorwill feel she could stay home alone while Sully was working.

  Just when we thought things were settling down, disaster hit again. In September of 1917, the headlines switched from the war in Europe to a gruesome murder of one of Atlanta’s own. No one talked of anything else. A year earlier a local white boy from a prominent family had been found tortured and murdered, and everyone wanted answers. For months the police had been out in force, looking for eyewitnesses. The mayor had been quoted as saying: “We will leave no stone unturned until we find who did this. Rest assured, this killer will be found.”

  The mayor intended for this issued statement to bring a sense of comfort to the citizens of Atlanta—at least to the white citizens. To the rest of us, his pronouncement brought terror. We all understood that, if the perpetrator could not be found, any black man would do. For most of 1916, the police combed the black neighborhood where the boy’s body had been found. The newspaper assumed his killer had been a black man and even hinted that the police had items left at the scene, but they refused to talk about them. For months the tensions grew, until finally, a young black girl came forward with information. She said that, several weeks after the murder, she had been at a party where a boy bragged to some other boys that he had killed that white boy. She did not know his name, but she gave the police a good description and provided the names of the boys who had attended the party. At first, the police did not believe her, thinking she was simply trying to get the reward the victim’s parents had offered for information leading to the arrest and conviction of their son’s killer.

  The police began rounding up the boys, and soon they had a name, but they could not find him anywhere in the city. His grandmother was shown some items of clothing, and she confirmed they belonged to her grandson. The police then had a photograph and a name, but for months, they could find no sign of him.

  We all worried this situation might ignite another riot. As long as this black boy was out wandering around, none of us were safe. To all of our relief, word got round that right after that party, he had hopped a bus and had headed north. The police had been told he had relatives in Chicago and hoped the police there might find him. Almost a year had passed before he was found and returned to Atlanta to stand trial. The year 1916 was not a good one to be black in the city of Atlanta. None of us dared to be alone when walking the streets. People wanted something to happen, and they really did not seem to care who it happened to. For many months, the newspapers remained filled with the gruesome details of the murder, and once the man was found in Chicago, we all hoped the police had the right man. Black or white, no one wanted a person who could do such awful things to another person to be walking our streets.

  Just as things finally began to settle down, I received a letter from Harlem. Excited to read news from home, I opened Momma’s letter—totally unprepared for what I was to read.

  May 1918

  My Dear Toby,

  In just a few months, you will be turning 21 years old. I do not know how to tell you this, so I will just say it. Last night your Grandpa Samuel passed away in his sleep. Toby, he was almost 73 and had been in that wheelchair for 16 years. He came down with a cold about a month ago and could not shake it. I am thankful he did not suffer.

  Toby Boy, no grandpa ever loved his boy as much as Daddy loved you. He was so proud of you and was always talking about you to anyone who would listen. I am so sorry we were never able to afford to come down to Atlanta to visit you, but with Daddy in the wheelchair, the doctor always said it was not safe.

  Your grandpa was such a special man, and I know you have lots of good memories to hold onto.

  Be well, my boy.

  Love,

  Momma Ruby

  For the next three months, I walked around lost. The idea that my grandpa was gone shook me to the core. The last year had been so hard, watching every step for fear of drawing attention to myself, and now this. As much as I loved the sisters, I desperately felt the need to get away for a while. I had finished up all my correspondence courses, and no jobs were available.

  On Saturday, July 28, 1918, I turned twenty-one, and Ms. Pearl finally agreed to let me enlist. Ruth was already doing her part. She had volunteered as an aide at the downtown hospital. She worked with the black soldiers who were not yet ready to go home, encouraging them, handing out Gideon Bibles, and singing to the men. I was desperate to do my part.

  That Monday I walked into the downtown recruiting office and enlisted. After completing basic training two months later, I was on a ship in Savannah Harbor, waiting to set sail on September 30, for Halifax, Nova Scotia. There, to ensure our safety against U-boat attacks, we joined a large convoy of ships heading to France.

  When we left Halifax Harbor on October 20 for France, I had difficulty adjusting. Experienced sailors encouraged me, “The first few days are the hardest. You will get your sea-legs, but until you do, make sure you are never too far from deck.”

  Being a private in the United States Army, I was not too concerned that I was having trouble adapting to the ship’s motion. We were now five days out at sea, and I still felt squeamish below deck. The mess hall was the worst. All of the various smells overwhelmed my senses, causing my stomach to start churning. The heaving of the ship made my keeping anything down nearly impossible—unless I got involved in a conversation that would take my mind off how I was feeling.

  One night I was scheduled for watch duty at 2200 hours. I actually looked forward to watch duty because the brisk salt air helped calm my stomach. As I was heading aft, Corporal Sanderson came out of nowhere, shoved me against the wall, and warned, “Private Bascom, you are causing more than a little talk on this ship. Mind you, I really don’t care who you eat with, but Sergeant Williams has ordered me to warn you to mind your manners and stick with your own kind.”

  “Excuse me, Corporal,” I answered back rather cheeky, “but I am sticking with my own kind. Karl Carter is a private in the U.S. Army, and so am I.”

  “Boy, don’t you get funny with me. You know good and well what I mean. The sergeant is going to control your every move out on the battlefield. You really don’t want to get on his bad side. You just consider yourself warned, and watch your back.”

  I made my way up on deck and began my watch. Everyone took his turn on deck, searching for any signs of U-boats. During my watch, I realized that no one on deck cared what color I was. We had a common enemy, and as long as I did my job, I thought I was just another soldier. That was not to say that everyone believed this, but most did.

  The private about whom I was being warned was a fellow soldier from Atlanta. We hit it off right away, enjoying talking about home, boot camp and our mutual fear of what was ahead for us. I’m not really sure why, but you meet some peo
ple and automatically say to yourself, “I could really like this guy.” That was the way I felt about Karl Carter. What I really liked about him was the very thing that was causing the problem; Karl treated me like an equal. In his mind, we were both simply privates, who were facing the same enemy. Our camaraderie did not go over well with others, but Karl didn’t seem to care what his fellow white soldiers thought about his breaking bread with the likes of me.

  This did not surprise me. I fully expected we would get rousted by the white soldiers. What I did not expect was being harassed by my fellow black soldiers. One or two of them warned me, “You think those white guys are going to watch your back out on the battlefield? They’d as soon shoot you themselves, boy. You best keep with your own. You keep hanging out with that white boy, and you will find yourself all alone. You think any of us will lift a finger to come to the aid of a white-lover?”

  Karl and I decided it was best to keep our conversations limited to our time on deck. Neither of us wanted to paint a target on our backs; but that did not mean we were willing to end our friendship. How dare anyone think they had the right to tell us who we could call a friend? Karl and I had both been willing to go to war to protect the rights of people we did not know. We enlisted in order to stand up to those who wanted to use their power to deny these people the right to govern their own lives. Yet here we were, receiving death threats if we did not submit to the authority of those who considered themselves our superior. I thought the uniform would make us equals. I was wrong.

  That night I stood at the rail, staring out into the pitch black, wondering why I was on that ship heading for France to fight the Germans. Yes, they were the big world bullies, but they were not the only bullies in this world. In frustration, I looked up into the dark sky, and in a rage that had been boiling for weeks, I said, “God, I’m tired of having to watch my back. When will it be their turn to watch their backs? Why do I have to mind my manners and quietly surrender my pride because they say so? I am tired of being treated like an insignificant little grasshopper.”

  As soon as those words came out of my mouth, my thoughts went to Ms. Ruby. I knew exactly what she would have said—had she been standing on that deck beside me. “Tobias, my boy, you are giving those people too much power. No one can make you feel like an insignificant little grasshopper. Yes, they can disrespect you and mistreat you. But Toby, they cannot control how you think about yourself. Remember, self-control and self-determination are within your hands. Who you are is determined by how you act—not what others think.”

  I did not want to submit to this truth. I wanted to be angry, and I wanted to lash out at someone. I remembered Pastor Johnson’s sermon and thought about all of the giants in this world. I thought about Master Stewart’s lording his power over my family. I thought about the three boys back in Harlem who had lorded their power over my momma, and their fathers who had bullied my grandpa. I thought about Sulley’s daddy and brothers who had disrespected his rights and hated him for bettering himself. I thought about the people back home who rode around under white sheets taking the lives of black men simply because they could get away with it. I thought about all the courtrooms that had turned a blind-eye to those hateful little giants, effectively giving them permission to take away the rights of others. There are all sorts of giants in this world.

  Part of me wanted to take a gun and fight these giants instead of the Germans. I wanted to go find that sergeant, who was now sound asleep in his berth and pound some sense into him, but I had no more than thought this than Ms. Ruby’s words began to ring in my ears, “Oh, no, you won’t, my beloved boy. You might be a grasshopper, Toby, but you will never be insignificant as long as you conduct yourself with honor. I would rather you be an honorable grasshopper that walks with God than the greatest giant this world has ever known. Toby, there will always be giants. When you slay one, another will take its place, but always remember, a grasshopper plus God is always greater than giants. You focus on your character, Toby, and let God deal with the giants.”

  I would like to say that I settled that issue that very night, but I would be lying. I had that same argument every night for several nights before I was able to surrender my pride to God. On the fourth night, I was yelling at the sky, “God, I am their equal; this isn’t fair. Why must I surrender my pride to them?”

  In my heart I heard, “No, you are not insignificant, Tobias. You are never going to be their equal. You are My child—a child of the King of kings and the Lord of lords. I have not called you to surrender your pride to men; I have called you to surrender your pride to Me. If you will do that, I will handle the giants in your life. Yes, you are a grasshopper, but you are My beloved grasshopper—not theirs. Tobias, will you let Me fight your giants?”

  That night, while standing on that deck and leaning against the rail, I surrendered my pride and gladly accepted the honorable title of “God’s Little Grasshopper.”

  We arrived in France on November 1, 1918. Every young man on that ship fully expected to engage the enemy and prove his mettle. As we were standing at attention on deck, Sergeant Williams, right in front of the entire troop, walked up to me and handed me a clipboard, “Private Bascom, I’ve assigned you to motor pool duty.” As a young man of twenty-one, my embarrassment and disappointment was huge; I knew the sergeant had done this just to show me he could. In my youthful thinking, I wanted to prove my mettle and earn my comrades’ respect, but I quickly got over it.

  As a motor pool driver, I was to arrive at the harbor, fill my truck with medical supplies, deliver them to the hospital, then move my truck around to the patient loading dock, where I would help load the wounded who were lucky enough to be sailing back home. I would make two or three trips a day. The hospital had the soldiers in wheelchairs already lined up along the hallway. Each man had an envelope of his medical records sitting on his lap, waiting for me.

  I found it interesting that these same soldiers, who would not consider sitting at a dinner table with me, were now exceedingly glad to see me show up with the truck that was delivering them to the safety of a homebound ship.

  One by one, I wheeled these soldiers down the ramp of the hospital and up the ramp of my truck, buckled them securely in place, and then headed back to get the next patient until my truck was filled. I would drive these boys down to the harbor and wheel them up the gangway to the waiting hands of the ship’s medical team. Almost every boy grabbed hold of my hand and thanked me. I could see in their eyes that they had seen things I could never imagine. Most of these boys were missing one, if not both, of their legs. I truly did not care what color they were. They were hurting and scared, and I was there to help them. I doubt that my being black even registered with them. I thought about Ruth back home, trying to comfort soldiers and share God’s love with them and how I had wanted to do the same. It dawned on me that God had done just that for me. He had placed me there to share His love with these hurting men of every color. I smiled as I climbed up into the truck because I realized that my sergeant had not made me a grasshopper; God had done so because He had a job for me to do. I realized that as long as I humbly shared the love of God with people, I would never be insignificant. I might never be great in the world’s eyes, but I would always be important.

  That afternoon I had a two-hour break. I made my way to the Salvation Army tent that stood at the opening of the harbor entrance. Sharing that tent was a team of Gideons, men who were dedicated to the task of giving Bibles to the soldiers. I was given three boxes of New Testaments, and for the remainder of the war, every soldier I loaded onto my truck got a Bible and heard the message that God loved him.

  Only after several of these trips did the thought occur to me that God had indeed rescued me from the threats of one of my giants. Although I had been disappointed in being assigned to the motor pool, I never had to worry about one of my giants not watching my back on the field of battle.

  Seventeen days later, on November 18, 1918, the Armistice was signed; the w
ar was officially over. I am profoundly thankful that I was never called upon to shoot a gun or take a life nor did I ever have a gun pointed at me or have my life threatened. I know that I was one of the lucky ones, and I would never again complain about being one of God’s little grasshoppers.

  CHAPTER 29

  Surprised by A Visitor

  AT THE END of the war, privates who had not been wounded were immediately mustered out of the military and issued an honorable discharge upon landing on American soil. My ship reached Savannah Harbor on the morning of January 10, 1919, and I caught the first bus heading for Atlanta. I could not wait to see Ruth and tell her how much I had missed her. I knew it would be a long time before I could act on my feelings for her. In the best of times, being black would make it hard to find work, but now that the city would be flooded with returning soldiers looking for work, I knew it would be a long time before I could take a bride and support her.

  Just as I had suspected, every job for which I applied had five white boys who had also submitted applications. I thought about how hard it had been for Grandpa Samuel after the Civil War. Every time I was tempted to feel sorry for myself, I remembered that he had been willing to do anything to keep a roof over the sisters’ heads and food in their bellies. Unlike most blacks who were applying for jobs, I was well-educated and well-read, but my abilities did not impress anyone but me. I still had most of my muster pay, but I knew it would not last long. I needed to find work—any work.

  Adding to the general unrest of so many men looking for work, Atlanta was also embroiled in a messy murder trial. In September of 1917, the city had been dragged through the ringer when the police had been searching for the killer of one of Atlanta’s prominent sons. It had taken eight months to find him and almost twenty months to bring him to trial. The newspapers were again filled with every detail of the grisly murder and, even though the killer’s picture was plastered on the front page, no black man felt safe walking the streets of Atlanta. I knew it would be nearly impossible for me to find a good job with all of this unrest.