“Yeah, I guess I do,” Nick said with a wry smile. “It seems to me though, that I’m going to have to learn another language if we’re going to work together much.
“I went over to flight ops for a weather check and it seems this pea soup is here to stay. At least for the next eight hours, so it does seem like we’re plumb locked in. Any idea what you want to do for the day?” Nick knew that down time like this could bore a man to death.
“What are my options?” asked Red.
“Well, since we can’t go outside in this weather, there really are only three options: writing home, playing poker, or playing pool,” Nick explained to his new friend.
“Maybe you could tell me a little about this place first while I consider the choices?”
“Fair enough,” Nick said as he considered the short life span of the airfield. “Ladd started in Fairbanks as a small cold-weather test station in ’39, mostly to test clothing and equipment under extreme elements.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well … let me think about it. You know how a plane is held together by rivets?”
“Yeah.”
“These guys would determine if all the rivets on a plane would pop out if it was brought into a warm hangar from a temperature of forty below. There was also a guy named Washburn who was contracted by the Quartermaster Corps to test new cold-weather footwear. Something developed by an outdoorsman named Leon Leonwood Bean.”
“That’s a handle a man won’t forget.”
“You’re right. Anyway, Washburn’s a mountain explorer—pretty good one. He spends a lot of time in Alaska.”
“It’s about time they develop some good equipment,” Red said. “Everybody knows the troops need better. Hell, we need better.” His comment demonstrated to Nick that Red had done his homework on cold weather war conditions. For all of time, armies had lost more men and battles to cold weather than to the enemy. The standard issue provided to the troops in this war wasn’t any better. Frostbite was a problem for everyone, including the pilots.
“Things changed around here in late ’41 with Pearl Harbor. Why don’t we head on over to the pool hall while we’re talking though, and I’ll fill you in on the way.” Just outside the officer’s club, they passed three Russian pilots outfitted in Russian beaver-trapper’s hats and sturdy wool shirts.
“Good morning,” Nick said and added a friendly gesture of the hand.
They responded enthusiastically in Russian.
“Everybody’s got the day off,” Nick offered in explanation after seeing the bewildered look on Red’s face.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about this, pard,” Red said while doing a 360-degree pirouette as they walked away and at the same time emphasizing with his hands the unexplainable existence of Russians on a U.S. military base, “but I’m not sure I can find the right question.”
“Do you know anything about the Lend-Lease Program?”
“Can’t say as I do.”
“Well, that’s what changed this place in ’41. Ladd is a critical link in the Alaska-Siberia Lend-Lease highway. It’s a program for Russians to pick up P-38s and B-25s purchased from Uncle Sam. They fly them to Siberia via Galena and Nome, where they will be eventually used to fight Hitler. We train their pilots in Billings, Montana, and they pick their planes up here.”
“I thought they were the bad guys,” Red said with genuine confusion in his voice.
Nick shrugged.
They arrived at the pool hall and were lucky to find one of the eight tables open, considering how the day was shaping up.
“You any good?” Nick asked.
“I can nab a fly off a cow’s butt with my hand faster than a chicken can jump a June Bug.” He paused and gave Nick a look of confidence as he waggled the pool cue indicating his readiness to play. “But only if I need to.”
Nick privately considered any circumstance requiring him to nab a fly off anything, let alone a cow’s butt. Maybe Red meant that his hands were fast and steady—a good quality in a pool player, but he wasn’t going to ask. Instead they just started playing—Nick racked and Red broke. Red talked almost nonstop while they played, revealing more of his background—a dead brother from the war, a father who had turned to alcohol, and a mother who just plain gave up from the hard living in the Oklahoma dust bowl.
“People are real poor where I come from. You ever been in a drought, Nick?”
“No. In Minnesota we got as much water as we need. But, I do understand poor.”
“Ain’t that always the way. Some have and some don’t, but everyone’s poor. That’s what got me into crop dusting in Kansas. I had to find a way to live.”
“Some have it worse than others, though. You see the young man at the table by the window writing postcards?” Nick motioned with a nod of his head over his shoulder in the direction of the table. “There’s a guy with a right to beef. You’ll meet him tomorrow on our flight. Name’s Robert Endo. He’s a nice enough guy I guess—a little moody at times. He’s a flight service PFC and an adopted son of Japanese-American parents, and lived in San Francisco when he enlisted.”
“What’s his nationality?”
“Formosan mother and American father, I think. In any case, eight months after enlisting, both parents were sent to the Japanese internment camp in Manzanar, just west of Death Valley in California. The best he understands is that they’re living in a tar paper barracks under confinement.”
“That’s downright crazy!” exclaimed Red. “How’s he supposed to keep his head into flying for the army?”
“You’re right. It’s good he isn’t flying ships. He’s very private about the matter, so it won’t do well to ask him about it. He’ll open up as he gets comfortable with you, but in the meantime, you need to know he’s not always 100 percent focused.”
After a few hours of trading money, Nick and Red called it quits and headed off toward the mess hall for lunch. Coincidentally, the three Russians they passed earlier were headed in the same direction. Nick knew the crew leader, Vladimir. “How was the movie?” he asked, knowing their path brought them from the theater.
Vladimir’s translation to the other men generated broad grins. “Lana Turner,” Vladimir said. “Movie named Slightly Dangerous.”
Red interjected with a low cat whistle. His hands accompanied the sound by outlining the legendary breasts of the star on his own body. All of them shared boisterous comments in Russian and English—which a person of any language could interpret—followed by a hearty laugh.
“How long will your men be here, Vladimir?” Nick asked.
“Tonight only. Back to motherland tomorrow for these two. P-38 pilots,” he responded in choppy English.
“Give ’em hell when you get to the front line,” Red said, punctuating his comment by punching his fist into the air.
“German pricks,” one of the men uttered in a heavy Russian accent. “We kick butt,” he continued in broken English.
The men parted once in the mess hall, seating themselves at separate tables. A few minutes into their lunch, Nick noticed that Robert Endo had joined the Russian men and seemed to be having a passable discussion with them.
Red and Nick parted company after lunch for some down time and to write home.
Fairbanks, Alaska
October 9, 1943
My Dear Martha,
How many number 18 stamps do you have? Don’t let them waste as I may need one in case we can’t get a special issue for my bowling shoes out here. That boiled ham and cabbage dinner sure sounded good. No, I don’t know “Paper Doll” and haven’t heard Sinatra. However, his publicity doesn’t give me any desire to. Going down to the mess hall soon for my normal hamburger dinner.
Yours,
Nick
Not wanting to share personal feelings or specific flight instructions in advance through postcards became standard protocol when Nick wrote Martha. It seemed pointless to even try since he knew every communication was scrutinized by securit
y personnel. At times like tonight, he tired of the trivia their communication was reduced to. He couldn’t say that his duty in Edmonton for more captain training would keep him there awhile, hence the bowling shoe request. Every now and then he would slip and Martha would receive a postcard with a sentence clinically cut out of the physical card itself. Unfortunately, this kept his emotions bottled up.
At dinner he ran into Anne Walsh. They ate together and afterwards, rousted out Red to take in the movie. Maybe later he’d write another letter to Martha if he had time, Nick thought.
CHAPTER 9
It was hard for Martha to stay motivated at home and, at the same time, share the excitement of the baby with Nick. This had been a long stretch with him being gone for more than two months. Their limited communication heightened her feeling of isolation. They wouldn’t be together again until Thanksgiving. She wanted to move back in with her mom, but Nick would not hear of it. “See her as much as you like while I’m gone, but when I’m home I want it to be just you and me, in our own place,” he had said. Her morning sickness had become increasingly acute, as well, and seemed more severe than most of her women friends had experienced by a wide margin. She felt guilty complaining, though. The war was hard on everyone. In reality, she was lucky to have her part-time sales clerk job for the little money it brought in and for the small amount of social stimulation it provided.
“Thanks for meeting me to do a little shopping for the baby,” said Martha. Alice was a friend of hers from church who was also pregnant. She offered to meet Martha for lunch and to do a little shopping with her before she had to go to work at Sears.
“Have you decided on a name yet?” asked Alice.
“It would help to know the sex, of course, but maybe George if it’s a boy and Constance or Molly if it’s a girl.”
“When’s the due date?”
“The doctor thinks April 16.”
“That’s great. Mine’s in June. Our kids will be friends, won’t they?”
“Maybe for life.”
“Are you planning to convert that small bedroom to the nursery? I mean, if you are, we could look at some of the things that aren’t boy or girl specific.”
“Good idea. I haven’t been to see what Penney’s has. Maybe we should go there first.” Martha liked the diversion that being with Alice provided. Alice’s husband was in the navy, and she understood the loneliness that letters never really eliminated. However, Martha thought that Nick could be a little more forthcoming in his writing and resented his limited communication in postcards. “It’s not like our marriage and my being pregnant requires top-secret clearance by the army,” she had written in one of her recent letters. She just wanted him to be a little more loving and little less exacting. That’s all.
“Do you really think we need a baby crib and a bassinet?” Martha asked as they approached the baby department. “If Nick were home, I’ll bet he could make a bassinet and save the money.”
“Good luck! If I know Nick, your baby will be in the first grade before that will happen.”
They both laughed enthusiastically. It felt good to Martha to stop ruminating on things she couldn’t control. And, Alice was right. While Nick could do anything he set his mind to, it wasn’t likely that a bassinet would be one of those things. They enjoyed their hour together—new mothers visualizing and preparing for what was to come. Their conversation while shopping and anticipation of a life neither fully understood was a nice retreat from the anxiety they both felt about the future.
Martha only worked until five o’clock that day and returned home while it was still light. The fall day was unusually pleasant, and reading the card she found in the mailbox from Nick made for an enjoyable moment. “How many 18-cent stamps to ship his bowling shoes and his hamburger dinner” however, wasn’t what she necessarily wanted to hear. Nonetheless, just to hear from him was good. She knew he had been training in Edmonton for the last several weeks, which kept him in one place for awhile. It sounded more like a resort assignment to her, with all the hiking, fishing, and related outdoor activities. She knew he loved training under Captain Smith and, in reality, this duty would be one of Nick’s few with relative stability during his service. Now that he was a captain, his seniority among other captains was at the bottom, which meant his schedule would incorporate lousy destinations and flight plans, which would once again fling their cards and letters out of synch for some time.
She also opened a letter from Helen. Her description of Bud’s excitement in finally having a job related to flying made Martha smile. They missed everyone and couldn’t wait for Thanksgiving, although it meant a lot of driving to and from Akron. “Ohio is very different from Minnesota,” Helen related. “Much more industrial, but still pretty with more defined hills and the gorgeous fall color in the landscape.” The big news exploded on page two with large block letters in burgundy and yellow crayons exclaiming, “I’m finally pregnant!” Martha and Helen were more like sisters than sisters-in-law. They shared everything, albeit via letters. As Martha folded the letter and put it back into the envelope so she could save it for Nick, she thought how nice it would be to have someone to whom she could talk and confide in person. Even though the front page constantly proclaimed Hitler’s blitzkriegs and the escalation or the war in Europe, Martha felt somewhat secure in her little corner of the universe. She was content knowing her baby was healthy, her husband was relatively safe with his Alaska assignment, and there were people with whom to share her life.
CHAPTER 10
Robert Endo had always gone by Robert rather than the Americanized Bob, because his adoptive mother felt it generated a sense of formality and respect. Discrimination was a normal experience growing up in San Francisco with Japanese-American parents, even though his adoptive father had a steady job with the Southern Pacific Railroad. Using “Robert” was a small antidote. He learned to appreciate the culture given him by his parents, but also knew that his America was not the same America afforded his Caucasian high school classmates. He carried most of his mother’s physical characteristics; small build, jet black hair, and dark almond eyes, so it wasn’t uncommon for people to assume he was Japanese. This was an additional source of frustration, since, if anything, he should have been confused with being Chinese from his biological mother’s Formosan descent.
His biological father was an American from Seattle, who died in 1918 during the WWI battle of the Argonne Forest, just after Robert was born. His mother worked twelve-hour days in a laundry to sustain their lives. The manual work left her as lifeless at the end of each day as the clothes she washed. In spite of the many financial and living hardships they endured, she was a good mother to Robert. Almost two years to the day of his father’s death, however, she died from pneumonia. Her sickness was provoked by the hot and sweaty laundry conditions coupled with a rundown physical plant unequipped to ward off an unusually damp and cold San Francisco winter. Robert’s soon-to-be adoptive parents, Hikaru and Joy Endo, adopted him from a shelter much the way you might pick out a pet dog. Adoption of mixed-race babies received little oversight. Joy had been the one who cared for him during the time his mother worked at the laundry. In respect for his stepfather, Robert always referred to him as Endo-san in traditional Japanese style. Growing up, Robert accepted the reality that his adoptive parents were the single reason for his existence. They provided everything within their means while raising him, and while they tried their best to help him be a part of the American way of life, he remained somewhat invisible. His introversion as a teenager and lack of social skills limited his ability to make friends. He never really fit in.
The U.S. Government’s judgment to intern all Japanese adults at the beginning of the war with Japan crushed Robert’s patriotism. Hikaru and Joy Endo were shipped off to Manzanar in March 1942, four months after Pearl Harbor. Poor timing under any circumstances, but the situation was emotionally complicated by the fact that he had just enlisted and been accepted in the army’s air force (USAAF
), and he was furious at what his government had done to his parents.
It had been a year and a half since their internment. During this time it had been impossible for Robert to conduct any direct communication with his parents at the Death Valley camp other than official status updates. And these communications were meager, coming only from a liaison officer who filtered the words in every postcard sentence like a reduction sauce—to its barest of comments, such as “Hi,” “How are you?” and “I’m fine.”
Robert and Vladimir lingered over lunch after the other two Russians had left. “You are in separate place, not here,” Vladimir commented in his vastly improving English. Vladimir’s native tongue was Chaplino, the written language base for the Asian Eskimo dialect spoken throughout the arctic regions. Vladimir grew up until age ten on the Chukotka Peninsula in the easternmost part of Russia. His seemingly natural talent for language was discovered after his family moved to the Vladivostok Russian military base, headquarters to the Russian Pacific Fleet, directly across the Sea of Japan from Hokkaido, the north island of Japan. His father, an officer, had access to the best education available for his family on base, and he pressed Vladimir to develop his talent early. By seventeen Vladimir could speak functional English and Japanese and several Russian dialects.
“Forgive me. My situation sometimes gets the better of me,” Robert replied, acknowledging his lack of attention to Vladimir with a slight shrug of the shoulders. He took a pack of Lucky’s from his shirt pocket, struck the pack on the table to settle the tobacco, removed a cigarette, and lit it. The deep inhale had its anticipated calming effect. The smoke from the exhale trailed from his nostrils and lips simultaneously as he talked.
“Some days are more better than others? You agree?”
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