by Tom Blair
At the far end of Dachau were fields of dead people. Looked like skeletons with a sheet of skin wrapped tight around their bones. But it wasn’t just the starved dead that made you heartbroke. Emory and me went into this building, bigger than most. Inside a mountain, a brown mountain of shoes and boots. The Krauts kept everything. More boots than shoes, most worn and tattered. But like a wildflower pushing through cold earth in the spring, I saw something white in the mountain of brown leather. A small pair of white satin shoes, each with a strap and a little brass buckle. One strap was looped around the other and then buckled, so the two would stay matched, waiting together for the little girl who wore them.
After Dachau, if I saw a dead bloated Kraut with blowflies going in and out of his nose and mouth, I just thought of the white satin shoes. Let ’em burn in hell. But the truth is that the little girl shoes didn’t change just how I thought about Krauts. No, the satin shoes turned some of my thinking upside-down. Not right away, almost twenty years later the shoes changed my thinking. Changed my thinking about the man I respected the most, my pa.
It was at the Amper River, a few days after Dachau. We’d just finished putting the last section of bridge across the pontoons, turned to walk back to my four-by-four, then somebody hit me across my back, real hard, with a shovel or something I’m thinking. Fell face forward, into the dirt, wondering what had hit me. Felt warmth in my jacket, then the taste of blood. I was shot. I didn’t feel scared but sorta okay. I was going to die or I was going to an aid station. Either way, I am outta here.
I was wrong. Laid where I fell, no one by me. Laid still, worried like if I made a move some part of me was going to fall off. Shooting and footsteps, but no one stopped. I was starting to feel real cold, so I pushed up with one arm and rolled over. Earth dark red where I’d been laying. On my back I could move my one arm, so I waved. Quick-like a medic was over me. Then nothing. I’m not sure how long I drifted in and out before I found myself on a litter strapped to the back of a jeep.
That night I woke up in an evac hospital. Turns out it really wasn’t that bad. One of the asshole snipers from the Hitler Youth nailed me in the back of my shoulder. Bullet angled off a collarbone, then out the front. Problem was, one of my lungs got nicked. They cut me open and patched me up. Two days later I was on a train to Paris, a day after that on a plane to England. I was strapped to a litter on my first plane ever. Couldn’t see out, couldn’t move around.
Everybody seemed real happy on the plane. Wasn’t sure why. Then I heard, the war was over. The Nazis had surrendered. Good news, but bad luck for me. If the Krauts had thrown in the towel a week earlier, I’d’ve been sitting somewhere with a hangover, not laying on a litter feeling like a Kraut tank was on my chest. But I got my head screwed back on real quick. One of the guys on a litter next to me didn’t make it—just stopped breathing. An army nurse pulled a blanket over his face and moved on. Thought about how many guys hadn’t made it since last June. I was lucky, damn lucky.
So guess where we landed? At an airfield right outside the 160th General Hospital. A top-drawer hospital. But the best part was that it was ten miles from Cheltenham.
In a few days I was walking around, well, walking hunched over in pain. A lot of guys weren’t walking at all. Some of them weren’t ever going to walk again. A couple real good things, though. Food, hot food, and a lot of it. Took me a while to feel okay eating something that wasn’t in a can. And the gals, a lot of them. Most all were American, army nurses. Weren’t all lookers, but boy, they all had nice smiles and happy voices.
After a week or so I was able to move around without too much pain, so I figured I’d get over to Cheltenham. Wasn’t hard to do, the hospital had buses back and forth to a bunch of nearby towns. Hazel and her family didn’t have a phone, so I couldn’t tell her I was coming. Anyway, the army bus pulled into Cheltenham and it looked just the same. At a real slow pace—I was still wincing a little—I walked through the town square, past the Queen’s Hotel, then down Swindon Road and right on Mercey. Still remembered the number, Number 14 Mercey Road, where Tom, Hazel, me, and the other folks had shared a bottle of wine after Tom’s wedding.
Out front was Nano, Hazel’s ma. When she saw me, her eyes got real big. Then a smile. They hadn’t known whether I was alive or dead.
Hazel and little Tommy were inside. Tom had a son. He was born on June 23, just two weeks after his pa and I were in the Higgins boat heading to the beach. Almost eleven months old. Cute kid, seemed to smile a lot. I kept looking at him but couldn’t see Tom. Didn’t stay too long, felt guilty. Shouldn’t have, just did.
It was close to the end of my time at the hospital that I got another V-mail from Big Sam. Worst letter I ever got. He wrote that Western Union had delivered him a telegram that was for Pa.
Billy was dead. Killed in the Pacific. Big Sam printed out in real neat letters just the same as what was on the telegram. One sentence: REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON WILLIAM BUTCHER WAS KILLED IN ACTION.
I’d never seen “William” printed out before. His name was Billy.
I looked down at my Benrus watch. I’d had it on every day for pretty much three years. Thought about it. Only bad luck for whoever I was saving it for. I gave it to a young redheaded British orderly who emptied out bedpans. Never wore a watch again.
The evening I found out about Billy, went to a market right outside the hospital gates. Bought two tomatoes. Then back to the hospital mess. Got some bread and sugar and made tomato bread sandwiches. Sandwiches just like Billy and me shared after a day in the fields. Ate them slowly. Ate them while thinking of Billy. When they were gone, walked a far way behind the hospital and sat under a tree. Waited till dark. Then I cried. First time I cried since I left Renfroe. Cried for Billy. Cried for Pa. Cried for Ma. Just sat there and cried for a good long spell.
Big subject with us GIs in the hospital was how soon we’d all get home. The generals got together and came up with this points idea. Every guy got points based on how many months he’d been in Europe, whether he’d seen combat, that sorta stuff. Enough points, you got to go home. Depending on which way you leaned, I had enough points. But it didn’t really matter. The army figured I was damaged and they were sending me home.
Spent more than a week at the hospital waiting for my transportation home, then it was all downhill. After a couple of trains and a bus, I was back in Liverpool, then on a troopship. Coming over everybody’d had wide eyes. No matter what we said, we were scared. Going back everybody had wide grins. Sailing west the ship was jammed just as tight as the Williams, but this time nobody cared. No calisthenics, no boat drills, no cleaning equipment. Time, plenty of time to think of my future. Really hadn’t thought much about it since I’d left Belvoir. Seemed like a waste. Only thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to be in a cage, spinning a wheel. A lot of guys said they was going to college, the GI Bill of Rights pretty much paid for it. I figured I wasn’t the dullest Joe around, so I might handle college. Just wasn’t sure what I wanted to learn.
A few days out from Liverpool I was on deck, leaning against a rail, having a smoke. My brain was coasting, not thinking of anything, then a hearty laugh from one of GIs on the deck below. Sort of a dumbass donkey hee-haw that I’d heard before. You’re not going to believe it, but Emory was on the troopship with me. With a thousand other guys jammed in we hadn’t crossed paths till that day. It was great to see him. I’d hoped he hadn’t gotten his ass shot off after they’d pulled me off the line. He hadn’t, but his right hand was bandaged up like a big white football. The day after the Krauts had thrown in the towel Emory was sitting on the back of a truck bed and some steel mats shifted when the truck swerved. Emory lost most of four fingers on his right hand. Told me his new best friend was his left hand.
Emory had some real bad news. He’d heard from his ma that Robert had been killed. Didn’t know where, but our Robert Lee wasn’t going home. That night Emory found me in my bunk and took me topside with a bottle of scotc
h he had hid in his jacket. Sat under a lifeboat and talked about good times with Robert. Got shitfaced drunk we did.
It was right after daybreak on a Saturday summer morning when our ship pulled into the New York docks. I stayed belowdecks for a spell. Most every GI had some family waiting for them. Waiting to hug them and hustle them home. Figured it wouldn’t hurt as much, my missing Billy, Pa, and Ma, if I didn’t see all the smiling happy families. After sneaking off the troopship I hopped a train from New York down to Philadelphia. The cars were jammed tight—happy jammed, not scared jammed, like when I was going the other direction in ’43. Sat in a bar in the Philadelphia station sipping beers for lunch, then I caught a train to Harrisburg, then another up to Altoona. Heading into Altoona we went around the Horseshoe Curve. Tom had told me about it, a curve so tight that if a train was long enough, the front cars were going in the opposite direction from the back cars, so you sorta passed yourself going in the other direction.
Before leaving Harrisburg I’d called Tom’s sister Dorothy and told her when I’d be coming in. She and her husband were in from the Midwest, visiting her ma, Tom’s ma. Dorothy said that she would pick me up at the station in Altoona. ’Course, I recognized her from the pictures that Tom had showed me. There she stood on the train platform, smiling with tears running down her cheeks. Out to a car we walked, Dorothy’s husband started the engine before we opened the door. Thought maybe he wanted to get this day behind him.
The drive to Tyrone was maybe ten, fifteen miles, a lot of conversation, nothing bad, stuff that nobody really cared about. Drove right by Tyrone High School, yellow brick, just like Tom had told me. Another block and we turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, maybe seven or eight blocks long. A bank building, a lot of stores, a restaurant, a movie theater—all just like Tom had described ’em back in Ashchurch.
Dorothy’s husband parked his Chevy in front of a small apartment building on Pennsylvania Avenue, right across from the post office. I knew Tom’s ma lived on the second floor of the apartment. To the right was Hap’s Meat Store. Tom had had a job there after school. Once in the apartment building up a long, dark staircase. I slowed down toward the top. Dorothy stepped in front of me as we went through the door to the apartment to meet her ma, Tom’s ma. On the far side of the parlor was Tom’s ma, sitting on a sofa, her hands folded together like she wanted to pray.
For more than an hour we spoke. I knew they would ask, but it still just froze me when they did. They asked how Tom had died. I told them quickly. I lied. I told them that his last words were about his family. I lied again.
’Course we had some pleasant talk, mostly about Hazel and how pretty she was. And you should have seen their faces light up when I started talking about little Tommy and how much he looked like his father. Tom was right when he’d married Hazel in Cheltenham in ’43. Little Tommy didn’t help Tom, but he was doing a lot to help Tom’s family.
By late afternoon I was on a train back to Philadelphia, then riding through the night to Atlanta. Three hours in the station in Atlanta sitting on a bench close to where me and Emory had plopped ourselves down in ’42. Then I took an early-morning train west to Birmingham. It wasn’t wartime crowded, but pretty much every seat was taken.
An older chap sat next to me, chap being one of those words I’d picked up in England. He was dressed in his Sunday best, a suit and tie. There he sat, holding a hat in his lap. We didn’t speak for fifteen minutes or so, then he asked if I’d been overseas. Gave him a short yes, and then our conversation just broke open. He wanted to know where I’d been and what I’d done and what I’d seen. I told him where I’d been but didn’t say anything about the bad stuff. Glad I didn’t. Turned out he had a son, an only son, who was in the army. He was killed in Italy, Monte Cassino. Told me his son was buried in Italy at an army cemetery, but he was hoping to get him back to Alabama.
This fella’s name was Combs, Mr. Richard Combs. He was a retired sergeant—not in the army, but in the Birmingham Police Department. He had been up to Atlanta to visit a sickly sister. He kept asking me about army life, I sorta think he pretended that he was chatting with his son.
After a spell Mr. Combs asked me if I thought I’d get sent over to the Pacific, and what I was planning on doing after the war. Told him I didn’t know about the Pacific, but was hoping not. Said I didn’t know what I wanted to do, just knew what I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to break my back working somebody else’s land. The two of us probably talked a good hour. He kept staring at me. For sure he was wishing I was his son.
When the train was slowing down coming through Irondale to Birmingham, he took out a pen and wrote down his name and phone number on a piece of torn-off newspaper. Told me I should think about being a police officer. Pretty good pay after a few years, and you got respect from folks. I folded this piece of paper and put it in my wallet, more to be polite than from any real interest. Said I was much obliged and might call him.
I found Emory. He had a little apartment near Kelly Ingram Park. Only problem was the heat. His one-bedroom was on the third floor of a three-floor building, so on a 95-degree Birmingham summer day the heat from three floors of living collected on the top floor. We stayed cool as best we could by opening the windows hoping for a breeze. His apartment came with a kitchen and a sofa that I stole as my bed. Emory said I could stay as long as I wanted. Missing the better part of four fingers, the army had discharged him. He figured he could get himself into Birmingham’s Howard College on the GI Bill. Told me I should try. I looked at the application and their brochure, halfway expecting to see a section on VD and fraternization.
Checked in with the army and they didn’t seem to be in a rush to get me redeployed. ’Course they made me take a physical, and sure enough some army doc didn’t like that I couldn’t raise my left arm all the way up. Told him unless I was putting my hands up to surrender to the Japs, I didn’t think it would matter much. I finally got orders to get my ass out to Fort Ord in California by September 1. That gave me six weeks of nothing to do. That’s when I decided to head down to our old farm.
The bus pulled into Renfroe just about noon, stopped right in front of Drury’s Feed Store, the same place where I’d gotten on the bus with Emory and Robert three years before. Took me about an hour to walk to our old house. Nothing much had changed. Out back was Ma’s marker. Couldn’t hardly read what Billy and I’d burnt in. There was no marker for Pa. Only thing that showed was a long mound of dirt next to Ma’s marker, so they were laying together.
When I went to leave the family living in our old house came out to say hello, sharecroppers, three kids and a pa and a ma. Told them I used to live in their house, told them that was Ma and Pa buried behind the chicken coop. The wife said if she found wildflowers she always put a few on Ma’s grave. Gave her a thanks. Kept looking at them, I did. Only the pa had shoes. One of the kids wasn’t wearing nothing. Couldn’t believe how poor they looked. Looked just like we musta.
Walked to Big Sam’s place, nothing much had changed. His daughter was married and living at home, had one kid on her knee and maybe another one in the oven. I didn’t ask.
Big Sam was complaining about the bugs and the cost of feed. Nothing much good to say about anything. Left for a minute and then came back with a small wood crate, told me Pa’s stuff was in it. There was no top to the crate, and Pa’s things didn’t even come halfway up. Then Big Sam gave me an envelope and said it was real important and not to lose it. The sharecropper family who’d moved into our house found it and figured it belonged to Pa’s family, so he’d been holding it for me.
After thanking Big Sam, took a slow walk back to Renfroe. The bus was late, so I drifted into Drury’s. First time I’d ever been there with money in my pocket. Drury didn’t recognize me. Don’t know why, but I just didn’t want to talk, so I didn’t say anything. Bought a Coke, turned around to leave, looked up and right over near the door, where it always was, the Progressive Farmer calendar. The picture was a wagon being pulle
d at sunset. Month of July. Thought of Ma.
Back in Birmingham that night I looked through the crate. A pair of boots, same boots Pa was wearing the day I left. A gas lamp with cracked glass. Ma’s fancy blue hair clip and a picture she’d had of her ma and pa. Some papers squeezed together with a piece of twine, one saying Billy had done good in school, another one showing Pa’s share of the crops after the money he owed and a certificate signed by a judge swearing he married Ma and Pa. Not much else. Stuck down in the corner of the crate was a yellow piece of folded paper. A Western Union Telegram from the War Department saying Billy was dead. In the envelope the sharecroppers gave Big Sam was a stack of money orders. Pa had every money order I had ever sent him. He’d never used any of them.
I thought back on the poor folks I’d seen in our old house in Renfroe. They was hurting, hurting bad, but they’d given Pa’s money orders to Big Sam. They didn’t keep them. Didn’t try to pretend they were Pa and cash them. Poor like Pa, honest like him.
Since I had a month to waste before reporting out to California, I spent a fair number of nights drinking, a fair number of mornings sleeping. Plus, if you use your imagination, you can figure out what I was doing between the drinking and the sleeping. Sorta catching up. ’Course I felt guilty. Not sure Pa ever slept past sunup in his life. But I figured there was more than a good chance I’d never be back to Alabama. The Japs weren’t caving in. When you went to the movies to get some air-conditioned relief, you’d see a Movietone newsreel. Japs had these pilots who would strap on a sword, get in a plane, and fly right into one of our ships. If they were doing that to the navy, they weren’t gonna be treating us army guys any better when we were crawling up their beaches.