The California Immigrant

by Barbara Anne King

  Martin was impressed. Frankie had been right. Hector was a leader—not only of people but process. He was taking a real liking to Hector who was a self-made man like himself. Some people just have it in them to be successful even without an education, although that certainly helps.

  When they got to the office, Hector laid out his list…in Spanish. Although he spoke English, he did not read or write it well.

  “This is Greek to me,” said Martin.

  “What? It’s Spanish. But I will translate.” Hector detailed the supplies they would need right away as well as parts to repair machinery.” Then he said, “I have to go.” Go where? Martin wondered. What could be so important he had to hurry off? Hector always seemed to have other pressing matters. Martin would have liked to ask what they were but would wait to find out. His mind could only contain so many questions at once.

  With the war on, food prices had gone up and shortages had occurred. He had to constantly rework his menu in the restaurant to ensure supplies and a profit, no matter how small. He knew Americans were called on to sacrifice, although FDR preferred to call it a privilege, but he still had to make a living for his family and pay wages to his employees. While the Victory Gardens helped individual families, it hurt his business at the grocery store. People were able to grow most of the fruits and vegetables for their needs. Although in Watsonville, it wasn’t as crucial since produce was readily at hand. Even so, once families realized the benefit of growing their own, it helped them stretch what little funds they had for rationed goods such as sugar, butter, milk, cheese, eggs, coffee, and canned goods.

  When Martin got home that evening he found Lena busy in the kitchen. “I’m canning,” she said. “Take a look at my new pressure cooker. It’s the thing to have to do it right. After I clean the asparagus, I will put it in the pot to cook it quickly.”

  “Is that asparagus from my garden?”

  “Yes, I thought it would be better than store bought.”

  Martin took pride in his little garden which he had long before Victory Gardens became fashionable. He preferred his vegetables fresh not canned, so he was not happy Lena had taken some of his prized asparagus for her latest domestic venture. “Next time, just come by the store and I’ll give you some. Since it doesn’t have to travel, it’s almost as good.” But not quite.

  Martin was in the bedroom changing out of his work clothes when he heard a loud hiss followed by a boom. And then Lena screamed. He ran as quickly as he could back to the kitchen. By the time he arrived, Lean was in tears, pointing at the ceiling. Apparently, the pressure cooker had exploded and shot its contents upward. The white ceiling was littered with particles of green asparagus, some still nearly whole, clinging with one end while the other dangled, threatening to drop. “I’ll go get a ladder. You get out the mop and pail. If we don’t clean this mess up right away, we’ll have green specks peering down at us forever.”

  After the long day he had had, this was the last thing Martin wanted to do when he got home. Once they started cleaning, they discovered that the pressure cooker had spread it contents all over the kitchen—cupboards, counters, floor. It took forever to clean and finally when they had finished, they both fell into bed exhausted.

  Chapter 56

  Marty had just crossed the Atlantic on the USS Nevada, which was serving as a convoy for shipments to Northern Ireland. He was expecting the usual break before heading back to Norfolk, Virginia where they’d meet another freighter to convoy back again. That had pretty much been his life the past few weeks and he expected it to continue on that course the rest of the war. But the ship’s engines were not turned off nor was it tied up to the dock. Instead, it started to head out to sea again. This was not normal and as he looked around at the other deck hands he could tell that they, too, were wondering what was up.

  It wasn’t long before the captain announced that they would be heading for the coast of England. “Our orders have changed,” he said. “This battleship is going to war.” At that word, everyone let out a gasp. Marty still did not know what all this meant. But he had heard rumors that a cross-channel attack plan had been in the works.

  When they arrived in Portsmouth, an armada of battleships, cruisers, and destroyers was assembled—most flying the US or British flags. As far as the eye could see, camps were set up along the shoreline and military men were milling around. This must be the staging area for the big battle, Marty thought. I wonder what our role will be. As he was pondering all this, the captain’s voice boomed from the microphone. “Tenders are being readied. All ashore that’s going ashore. Curfew is two hundred hours.”

  At that announcement, men began to scurry, Marty among them. After several days at sea fighting the storms and swells, he was ready for a respite on terra firma. He hustled down to the bowels of the ship where he would be able to board one of the small boats. This time he was in luck, being near the head of the crowd. He grabbed a place on one of the plank seats right before they shoved off. As the oarsmen rowed through the ships anchored bow to stern, Marty was awestruck by the immense show of naval power. Even his imagination could never have conjured up such a scene that overwhelmed him with pure awe.

  Once on shore, Marty and his buddies fought their way through the throng of sailors and soldiers; not surprisingly most of them were American or British, but occasionally an Australian, Canadian, Norwegian, Greek, or other nationality was among them. “Gentleman,” Marty said, “while you may know Portsmouth as the home of the British Navy in earlier times, it was known as the best naval port in the world, at least according to my father. And not to mention it was the birthplace of Charles Dickens. I only hope his home was not among the many that got bombed by the Nazis.”

  Nobody seemed to pay much attention to what Marty had to say as they were on the hunt for a pub but could not avoid the devastation that the blitz had left behind—homes demolished, leaving families without a roof over their heads. This was Marty’s first glimpse of the effects of war, and it made an impression. He now realized he was in the midst of a holocaust that was about to explode, leaving even more devastation in its wake. He should have been afraid. But instead of fear, he felt a rising current of courage from somewhere deep inside him. He had fighting in his blood and he was ready. Bring it on.

  At last the group came upon a pub that looked like there might be room for them. Marty led the way, holding the door for the men to enter the Golden Hind. Right away he spotted a board advertising pub grub—shepherd’s pie, fish and chips, bangers and mash, and something strange called toad-in-the-hole. The fish and chips featuring fresh cod appealed to his seafood-loving senses. After they had all ordered a round of drinks and found a table large enough to hold them, a waitress appeared ready to take food orders.

  “First, I have to ask a question,” said Marty. “What in the world is toad-in-the-hole? It sounds disgusting.” The waitress, a middle-aged matron with a red face and round, robust body, let out a laugh, which allowed the rest of the group to follow suit without being offensive.

  “I grant you, it is a silly name but sausages baked in batter is a mighty tasty dish and very satisfying as well.” That mystery settled, they all began to put in their orders with Marty’s fish and chips the first request. The waitress wasted no time getting their food to the table. But there had not been one taker brave enough to try toad-in-the-hole. It didn’t take long for the men to consume their meals. The waitress, noting it was time to clear the plates, appeared again. “I’d like to recommend our Knickerbocker Glory for dessert,” she said. By the look of their faces she could tell they had no idea what that was so she volunteered. “It’s an ice cream parfait interspersed with fruit, topped with meringue and a wafer. I’ll even splash a bit of Drambuie on it, if that will suit you.”

  Marty took a survey of the faces. “We’ll have that Knickerbocker treat all around with that liqueur you mentioned.” Once they all had the tall parfait glasses in front of them, they dug their spoons into the ice cream dessert. B
ut it was the Drambuie that tantalized their taste buds. Marty just had to ask what it was. “It’s made with scotch whiskey, honey, herbs and spices and hails from the Isle of Skye. That’s in Scotland, in case you don’t know your geography. The story goes that it was Prince Charles who gave the recipe to Captain John MacKinnon in gratitude for sanctuary after the Battle of Culloden in 1746.”

  Marty took another spoonful of the Drambuie-laced ice cream and smiled. “I’d like a shot of Drambuie straight up.”

  As he was sipping the liqueur, Marty inventoried the room filled with sailors and soldiers. When his eyes fell on a corner table, he did a double take. The soldier sitting there looked familiar, but he would have to get a closer look to see if it was whom he thought it might be. He rose from his seat and made his way around the tables through the crowded room. When he got to the corner table, he and the soldier locked eyes and then moments later they were embracing. It was Frankie—the last person he expected to run into. He thought Frankie would be kept closer to home and maybe end up in the Pacific. But here he was among the infantry, preparing for D-Day.

  Frankie, too, was surprised to see Marty under the circumstances. “What is your assignment here?” he asked.

  “I serve on the battleship Nevada but we haven’t been told our assignment yet. What about you?”

  “Well, the Fourth Infantry I’m part of is going to have to take the beaches. And then there is a hill to climb before we can get onto the road and start making our way to Cherbourg. We’re practicing near Devon, a place called Slapton Sands, that’s supposed to have terrain similar to the one on the other side of the channel.”

  “That sounds as if it is going to be a bit of a difficult task.”

  “Well, tomorrow will be my first chance to tell if I’m up to it. We’ll be doing a training session there in the morning.”

  They could have talked the rest of the night, trying to catch up on where they left off, not knowing if they’d ever see each other again. But it was getting close to time for departure so Marty knew he had to get going. “Let’s meet here again in a couple of days. I’d like to hear how you do at climbing practice.”

  “I’ll try to make it. I’ve got to walk a couple of miles to get here, at least. We army guys are spread nearly ten miles down the beach.”

  As Marty road back across the harbor, he noticed the moon shining its light on the sea, reflecting every ship anchored there, waiting for orders. Waiting and wondering—that was all he or any of them could do right now. But soon enough they would all know and go and do their duty.

  Chapter 57

  On the morning of April 28, Frankie set out with thousands of other soldiers aboard tank landing ships for Slapton Sands at Devon. A small war ship led convoy with a destroyer picking up the rear. As the convoy neared their destination, German e-boats spotted them and opened fire, sinking two and setting others on fire. The men were not prepared for this. And one of the ships that was supposed to protect them had turned back to Portsmouth for repairs. Frankie had been able to scramble into a life raft but many of the men had not been so lucky and were left to chance in the frigid waters, not knowing how to use their life vests or having their heads held down by their backpacks until they drowned.

  From the safety of the raft, Frankie tried to pull as many of the men onto it as he could. But the swells worked against him and before he was able to rescue even a few, hypothermia had turned their bodies to flotsam and jetsam. Frankie’s raft finally made it to shore where the crew debarked until they could be picked up and returned to camp.

  No one seemed to understand how the e-boats had avoided Allied patrol lines and why the escort ships had not been able to protect them. Frankie had never seen such a gruesome scene. All he remembered now were the bodies...bodies floating all around him…bodies of American soldiers…bodies of men just like him. If this was what practice was like, could war be any worse?

  As bad as the incident had been—over seven hundred killed—what was far worse was the command from superiors to keep it to themselves. They were ordered not to talk about it. But what he had seen and experienced was eating Frankie alive. He had to get it out somehow if he were to be effective going forward. He thought about going to the gothic, red brick Catholic church he had spotted in Portsmouth that reminded him of St. Patrick’s back home. But any priest he would find to talk to at the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist would probably be tied in with community leaders and he would be outed for having disobeyed a direct order. No…he couldn’t go there to talk with a priest.

  So, instead, Frankie went for a walk along the beach. In nature he always found solace and answers as well. Before long, he found he had a walking companion—a shaggy mutt with big, oversized pointed ears—the better to listen to you, he thought. Frankie made his way to the beach and sat down, gazing out to sea. The mutt sat down, too, nuzzling up next to him.

  As Frankie petted him, he felt some of his stress disappearing. And then just like his patron St. Francis, he began to let out his heart to this animal friend who could not betray him. “What I have witnessed no man should ever have to witness. But I fear the war has worse scenes to show me. I am not a warrior. I do not want to take life…any life. But the evil that is taking over the earth has to be eradicated if life is to flourish as God has meant it to.”

  Frankie looked at his friend and wondered why animals were able to live as nature intended untouched by evil. They had no duplicity in them. But man was a different story. He who was capable of such goodness also had seeds of evil in him that could sprout under the right conditions. The world can be a complicated mess. Frankie had already seen enough of it and just wanted to get back home to the simple life he had left behind. Although deep down he knew that that simple life could be swept away if freedom did not prevail. This cause was a just cause even though at times its methods were flawed.

  When Frankie left the beach to walk back to camp, his animal friend was still at his side. But the next time he turned to look down at him, he was gone. Frankie had not heard him run off so it was a mystery. He was gone almost as quickly as he had appeared. And when he thought more about it, the mutt had not been like an average dog. He didn’t bark and sniff and scratch himself. Maybe he was just an apparition or could he have been an animal spirit come to his aid. He guessed he would never really know the truth. But the one thing he did know for sure was that the outpouring of his grief had freed his tormented soul from the claws of Operation Tiger.

  A couple of days later, Frankie went back to town to meet up with Marty at the Golden Hind. As soon as he walked in, he spotted him at the bar surrounded by his mates. “Let’s grab a table so we can talk,” said Frankie as he gave Marty a brotherly hug.

  “Go find one and I’ll join you after chugging this down.”

  Frankie had secured a corner table again which made it easier to talk. When Marty sat down the first thing he said was, “We got our orders. The captain called us all on the deck this morning to tell us that we’ll be providing support for our forces at Utah beach. We’re going to be a flagship for Rear Admiral Morton Deyo.”

  “Then I’m glad to know you’ll have my back. My regiment, the eighth, will be landing on Utah beach.”

  “That’s right. I’ll have you’re back and much, much more while you’re scrambling to climb those hills. So, how did climbing practice go?”

  Frankie shrugged his shoulders. He did not want to lie and could not tell the truth.

  “Is that all you have to say about it? I’d like to know how long it’s going to take to get up over those hills.”

  “We didn’t get a chance to climb.”

  “Why not? The weather looked perfect for it.”

  “We just didn’t that’s all.”

  Marty just stared at Frankie’s face, but he couldn’t make out what the hidden message was. “All right then. When do you try to go for it again?”

  “Later this week. A new date has not yet been set. Now why don’t we order somethin
g to eat. Let’s get the waitress over here. I might even be brave enough to try toad-in-the-hole.”

  Chapter 58

  Although Marty and Frankie had planned to meet up again they never did. Each assumed the other had training exercises for D-Day which had been set for June 5, the first of three possible days that week when both tides and moonlight would be right. But when the Allied Commanders received a bad weather forecast for June 5, they moved D-Day to June 6.

  Operation Overlord began in the wee hours of June 6 with an aerial landing of soldiers. The armada of ships had moved into position with the first Allied troops, Regiment 8 of the 4th Infantry, landing first on Utah beach. Frankie swam to shore, weighed down by heavy packs but adrenaline gave him the power to overcome them. Once on the beach, surrounded by soldiers, he took a few breaths while a battleship bombarded German positions. He assumed it was Marty’s ship, the Nevada, and that thought helped bolster him just knowing his brother had his back.

  Frankie’s next challenge was to crawl across the beach until he reached the cliffs. A couple of shots from above flew over his head but must have struck one of his troops since he could hear someone crying like a banshee. And then he heard another one. And then he spotted a bullet blow a fellow soldier’s brains out just ahead of him. He tried not to look as he went by but it was difficult to avoid seeing the carnage; even worse was the smell…the smell of death, odiferous and overwhelming.

  Once he reached the cliffs, he took a break to rebuild his energy for the greatest challenge—a climb over one hundred feet high. Nothing this day was going to be easy or ever forgotten. Frankie was already spent, but he knew he had to move on. Some men were already halfway up the cliff. That was reassuring and meant that if they could do it, he could do it, too. So he started out…gaining a handhold and foothold and moving one step at a time, hand then foot. He remembered his father saying that’s how to accomplish a task…one step at a time. Just keep moving forward and you’ll get there. So slowly, carefully, he inched his way up, trying to find secure holds along the way. Someone down the line grabbed a hold that broke away, hurling his body back down to the beach. Frankie wondered if he survived and, if he did, were any bones broken. There were so many obstacles to overcome it was a wonder that any men were left to accomplish the mission. But they had had a near perfect landing on the beach, encountering little opposition. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Frankie made it to the top and scrambled for cover.