Farewell PFC POLK: The End of a Nightmare

FAREWELL PFC POLK

The End of a Nightmare

In The Valley of Hope - Book II

Richard Weirich

Copyright © 2016 Richard Weirich

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First Edition: February, 2016

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DEDICATION

FAREWELL PFC POLK is dedicated to my Uncle Buddy. His life ended in a tragic accident only two days before his 20th birthday. Although I was 7-years-old when he died, my family kept his memory alive and used his life as the standard to which I should aspire. This book is also dedicated to my grandparents, Mable and Charlie Polk, who suffered the unfathomable pain of losing a child. Their climb from the pit of despair taught me that life isn’t always fair and tragedies don’t always have happy endings. But where there is faith there is always hope.

CONTENTS

Chapter I – All in the Family

Chapter II – The Summer of ‘53

Chapter III – Mama’s Worst Fear

Chapter IV – Shipping Out

Chapter V – Shockwaves

Chapter VI – Never Say Goodbye

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Titles by Richard Weirich

Connect with Richard Weirich

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To my wife, Janet, who has always supported me in my many endeavors. You have always believed in me which means more than you could ever know.

Chapter I – All in the Family

Nightmare on Capon Street - May 28, 1945

There was that dream again. Buddy sat up in his bed and looked around the room for more pictures like those still fresh on his mind. Black and gray images depicting deep emotions of sorrow, pain, shock and desperation. People he knew: crying, moaning, screaming. There were strangers among them: motionless, speechless, sad. And the hundreds of black flowers on a bed of stars, stripes, and brass buttons made him feel trapped, isolated, helpless, and afraid.

Slowly he awoke to the real world where there were encouraging signs that his life remained unchanged. Bright sunlight beamed from a window in a hallway casting a brilliant glow through the open door to his room. Just beyond the foot of his bed was a dresser and above it hung a mirror where he could see his reflection. A quick scan of the room revealed that everything was still in its place, just as it was.

Time to rise and shine, called his mother from the bottom of the stairs. Don’t want to be late for your last day of school.

9-year-old Charles Polk, Jr., nicknamed Buddy, was so consumed by his recurring nightmare that he had forgotten that this was the day to bid farewell to the Fourth Grade. But as he dressed, he still couldn’t get the nightmare out of his mind. Who was the kid playing with a toy cowboy and horse on the front porch? Too young to be him. Whose photograph was his mother holding against her chest while weeping uncontrollably? And who was that strange girl clutching her hand?

It was impossible to quietly navigate the narrow wooden stairway. The aging house on Capon Street was built before the Civil War and, aside from a coat of white paint and a new tin roof, little had changed since it was constructed. Buddy’s dad often joked that a burglar would never stand a chance in that old house. The creaking and shaking floors were better than any alarm system. That’s why Mable always knew when Buddy was ready for breakfast.

You still haven’t told me what kind of cake you want for your birthday, said his mother as he pulled a red chair with metal legs from beneath the kitchen table.

Can I have German chocolate?

Of course.

Can Donnie come to my party?

Don’t see why not. Oh, and I baked cookies for you to take to your classmates today. And there’s a thank you card for your teacher. Be sure she gets it.

Buddy took his place at the kitchen table where he rapidly devoured a plate of eggs and sausage. His mother observed that he was deep in thought. Thought you would be excited this morning. Last day of school…your birthday on Wednesday.

Had that bad dream again.

His mother believed that nightmares were the result of what you ate the night before. Buddy wasn’t so sure. He hoped it wasn’t the meatloaf or the mashed potatoes. Maybe the Brussel sprouts. Those little green cabbages were gross, but she made him eat them anyway. She employed her often used logic, the kids in China are starving. He still couldn’t figure how eating things he didn’t like helped the kids in China, but his mother assured him that when he grew up, he would understand.

When it was clear that Buddy wasn’t buying her theory, his mother offered another possibility. Reverend Smith said that dreams are nothing more than a replay of what’s been on our minds. Maybe you had that bad dream because it’s VE Day. We were talkin’ about that last night at supper.

May 8, 1945, Victory in Europe Day, a day set aside in the United States to celebrate the Nazi’s surrender in WWII. It was definitely a top of mind subject and his dad, a news junkie, had been glued to the radio in recent days. Buddy didn’t like it one bit when Fibber McGee and Molly was preempted for yet another news bulletin. However, giving up things for the war effort was a way of life. Wonder how come Truman didn’t ration broccoli and okra?

Probably because they aren’t used to make fuel.

Why not? They cause gas. Buddy laughed at his joke, but his mother didn’t think it was funny and returned to her reasoning for his nightmare. VE Day. That’s all that nightmare was about. You need to forget about it.

Maybe his mother was onto something but it still didn’t explain why this was a recurring dream. Been going on since I started first grade. How do you explain that?

That’s just about when the war started, said Mable as she put the finishing touches on a baloney sandwich and closed the latch on his lunch pail. War is a terrible thing. It’s been hard for everybody.

Buddy was finally ready to discuss his birthday. Get my pocketknife yet? I’m a scout. I can handle it.

You’ll just have to wait to find out. Don’t want to ruin your surprise.

You didn’t get me a toy cowboy and a wind-up horse did you?

Why would you think that?

Just wanted to be sure. Don’t want it.

Still have to pick up a picture frame for your school picture, though.

Don’t need a frame, he said. "Looks just fine as it is.

Buddy’s nightmares did stop that day, but he never forgot them. His older sister, Helen, believed in something she called, premonitions. But whenever she brought it up, Mable quickly renounced her idea and said that such notions were of the devil. Nobody knows the future except the Lord, himself.

What Mama Don’t Know – Nov. 8, 1952 –7 Years Later

Ever since the opening of the Virginia Restaurant in the 1930s, teenagers have been standing on the corner in front of the building. What or who started the nightly ritual is unknown, but the practice is as much a part of the sleepy little town of Strasburg, Virginia as Highway 11 that runs along Main Street or the Shenandoah River that flows nearby. And those of driving age fortunate enough to have wheels, well, they add animation to the routine by patrolling the block, round and round, wishing and hoping that something eventful might happen, although it seldom does.

Most of the corner gang is composed of boys of questionable character, that is, according to Buddy Polk’s mother, who forbade him from joining their ranks. In fact, there were two places that she had declared off limits: the infamous corner hangout and Freddy’s Pool Hall just down the street. Even if he was tempted to disobey his mother, he knew that she would find out. Mable Polk had a sixth sense about such matters.

With the Strasburg Rams final football season concluded, the restaurant filled up quickly, except for the tables in the front by the jukebox. That’s where the football team gathers, a special place of honor for those who fight for the Purple and Gold. On this night, November 8, 1952, there will be little to celebrate, since Strasburg suffered an embarrassing loss to rival Central of Woodstock, 42 – 0. Nonetheless, the agony of defeat will be short-lived. The comradery and zeal of young friends will, as always, overshadow the importance of a football game. When you are young, there is always next year.

As seniors, Buddy Polk and Donnie Turner had just played their last high school football game. They joined the procession of other players, led by Coach Al Simpson, for the short walk from the high school on High Street to the popular teen gathering place on West King Street.

Can’t wait for Boot Camp, said Donnie while pulling a pack of gum from his pocket. Here, take a piece. This might be the night you kiss your first girl.

You kiss one girl and now you’re an authority, said Buddy annoyed at his friend’s teasing.

They’ll be lined up to kiss me when I’m in that uniform. Come on. Sign up with me.

From up ahead, the team’s quarterback, Bo Butler, called back to Buddy. Hey, Polk. Where was my blocking tonight?

You had plenty of blocking. You’re just too dadblamed slow, replied Donnie in defense of his friend.

You all shut up, yelled Coach Simpson in a muffled southern drawl. Tobacco juice squirted from the corners of his mouth as he exhorted his players to act like gentlemen. Everybody stunk tonight. Even your coach.

Wondered what that smell was, said Bo. Thought it was Donnie’s jock strap. When was the last time you washed that thing, Donnie?

I’ll loan it to you sometime. You can wear it as a Roman nose guard.

Both of you get an extra 20 laps at practice on Monday, declared the coach.

Season’s over, Coach, said Donnie and they all laughed.

When the entourage neared the Hotel Strasburg on Holiday Street, the joking and frivolity turned to silence. The old hotel was once a hospital that dated back to 1902 and locals believed that the old place was haunted. The founder, Dr. Mackall Bruin was rumored to have run off with one of the three original nurses and it was her ghost that was still roaming, searching for her lover. Others theorized that the old doc had something going with more than one nurse and that the jilted loser in the triangle was on a perpetual mission to get even. As the students passed by they looked across the dimly lit street for some sign of something to verify the myth but, as usual, there was nothing.

Boo, yelled Coach Simpson, which resulted in a scream from his quarterback and in an instant the laughter and cutting up resumed all the way to their final destination at the Virginia Restaurant.

Hank Williams version of Jambalaya was playing on the jukebox as they filed through the front door. As usual, the seating arrangement was insufficient for all the members of the team so some of them were forced to fend for themselves. Donnie suggested to Buddy that this was the perfect opportunity to get a booth where there would be plenty of room for the two beautiful women who would be joining them for the evening.

What beautiful women? asked Buddy.

Don’t know yet. With your good looks and my phenomenal charm they’ll be here any minute.

You are sick, said Buddy laughing as they sat on opposite sides of the wooden booth.

Saturday nights were always busy and noisy, even more so after ballgames. Well-meaning waitresses gave their all for the cause, but mischievous teens were hard to handle. It was not uncommon to see a member of the wait staff angrily walk off the job. But the owner, Shuggie Jones, always took them back. He understood the pressure they were under. The kids were equally cruel to him.

Lula Mae Whitfield finally made her way to Buddy’s table. At age 27, Lula Mae looked all of 40. Her husband, Tommy, was killed in the Korean conflict leaving her to raise two children on a waitress’s salary. She put up with a lot for the meager tips left by teenagers. What’ll you have?

I’ll have fries and a large Coke, said Donnie. And my friend here wants a kiss.

I get off at eleven, joked Lula Mae while Buddy’s face turned beet red.

Gonna kill you, Donnie, said Buddy giving his friend the evil eye. Mam, please pardon his manners…and I’ll have what he’s having.

Donnie had all he could take of the same song playing over and over again on the jukebox. He was convinced that somebody was blowing their life savings, a nickel at a time, on Tell Me Why, by the Four Aces. It’s time to get some real music playing on that machine. Buddy, give me a nickel.

Use your own nickel.

Got just enough for my order.

Seconds later Donnie dialed up B-42, Kitty Wells singing, It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels. And when it started to play applause, laughter, and cheers followed as just about everybody sang along.

You hate that song, yelled Buddy over the noise while Donnie stood in the aisle waving his arms like a musical conductor.

With the song concluded, Donnie returned to his seat and pointed excitedly toward the front door. Babes at 12 o’clock high. They found us.

A group of Strasburg High School cheerleaders were coming through the front door and again the teen crowd responded with cheers and applause. Donnie climbed onto the booth table top and waved his arms wildly to get the girls’ attention and then slipped two fingers into his mouth and let out a shrill whistle. Charlie ducked his head, embarrassed at his friend’s all too familiar antics.

You won’t get away with that in the Corps, said Charlie shaking his head in disapproval.

With no seats left in front, the girls scattered looking for a place to sit down. Soon, two of them, Trudy Miller and Bobbie Jean Beeler spotted Buddy and Donnie, and more importantly, two available seats.

Good evening, ladies, said Donnie looking like he had just hit the jackpot. This is your lucky day.

Is that right? said Trudy. How do you figure?

You get to sit by me.

Buddy had enough of his friend’s shenanigans. Donnie, get over here beside of me so the girls will have a place to sit…together.

Thanks, Buddy, said Bobbie Jean. At least one boy at this table is a gentleman.

As soon as the girls sat down, Lula Mae Whitfield arrived with the boys’ food orders.

That’s what I was going to get, said Trudy.

Me, too, replied Bobbie Jean. Smells so good.

Buddy pushed Donnie’s plate in front of the girls and told them to dig in.

Hey, said Donnie.

Ever hear of sharing? said Buddy. Mrs. Whitfield, we’ll need two more fries and two more Cokes.

Trudy Miller was an honor student, runner up for Homecoming Queen, and President of the senior class. Her best friend, Bobbie Jean Beeler held the title of Miss Strasburg, which she won at the 1952 Strasburg High School Beauty Pageant. These weren’t just ordinary girls. Nobody was more aware of that than Donnie, who couldn’t stop staring at them.

So, what have you boys been talking about? asked Trudy.

This was Donnie’s night to humiliate Buddy. We’ve been talking about the fact that Buddy has never been kissed by a girl, said Donnie laughing at what he thought was funny…but no one else was amused.

Ignoring Donnie’s attempts at getting attention, Bobbie Jean quickly changed the subject. What are you going to do after graduation, Buddy?

Don’t really know just yet? Might sign up for the Air Force. Would love to be a pilot. How about you?

They dined on fries soaked in the Virginia Restaurant’s homemade ketchup and talked mainly about the future. Trudy was the only one with designs on college. More than likely Madison College in Harrisonburg, she declared.

Bobbie Jean had her heart set on nursing school, but both girls were sure that marriage and a house full of kids was in their future. As for Donnie, he was convinced that he would become a USMC lifer. Of course, when asked why he was so set on the Marines he responded with his stock answer. Best way to get girls. But since neither girl seemed impressed by his logic he eventually confessed that he loved America and wanted to fight for his country.

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by Wendy Williams, definitely not a member of the in-crowd, but nonetheless, a sophomore with a crush on Donnie and the source of his one and only kiss. On this night, she was sporting a very tight knit sweater which was, at least, two sizes too small for her extra-large figure and sufficient perfume to have shared with all the girls in the restaurant. More noticeable was the sizeable and perfectly round hickey on her neck, causing Buddy to wonder if Donnie was the source of her trophy. Apparently, other SHS students witnessed the sign of Wendy’s passion which eventually resulted in the offensive nickname, Electrolux.

Hi, Donnie, said Wendy.

Hey, Wendy, replied Donnie as he wished that there was an escape hatch under his seat.

For those who didn’t know Buddy, they would likely think that this was payback time, a chance to get even with Donnie for his never been kissed jabs. But when Buddy asked Wendy to join them, his motive was purely an act of kindness. Make room for Wendy, he said while motioning for Donnie to move over.

Bobbie Jean offered yet another plan. Me and Trudy can sit next to Buddy. Donnie, come on over here and sit by your friend.

Wendy could not have sat any closer to Donnie and when Buddy saw the strained look on his friend’s face, he nearly laughed out loud.

Are you guys a couple? asked Trudy.

Simultaneously Wendy said yes and Donnie said no resulting in chuckles from Buddy and the girls…and a feeble attempt at an explanation of their relationship by Donnie.

We’ve known each other for a long time. I was invited to her birthday party…

12th birthday, interrupted Wendy.

Right. 12th birthday. Anyway, we were playing Spin the Bottle and I lost and then they made me kiss her.

You mean, you won, said Wendy, none too happy about Donnie’s perception of the event. The winner gets to kiss the girl and boy did he ever let me have it. Wet and loud.

Show us, Donnie, said Trudy while laughing. Was it like this?" which she followed by making a loud smacking sound with her mouth.

Seem to recall it was louder than that, said Wendy while snuggling up even closer to Donnie.

This was not the version of the story that Buddy had been told previously. Donnie’s alternate saga maintained that Wendy cornered him in a passionate embrace behind the cafeteria at the Homecoming Dance.

Do you guys need anything over here? asked Lula Mae, the waitress. After handing them separate checks, she turned her attention to Buddy. We still meeting for that kiss when I get off?

Don’t expect so, replied Buddy. If I were to get my first kiss tonight it would spoil all of Donnie’s fun.

Break my heart, why don’t you? she said still laughing as she walked away.

Do you think she was serious? inquired Donnie while inspecting his check.

Of course not, replied Buddy. She was just playing along with your stupid joke.

Time to put that baby to bed, Donnie. I for one am tired of hearing about it, said Trudy, who then kissed Buddy on the right cheek while Bobbie Jean followed suit kissing him on the left.

The friends were so wrapped up in their good time that they didn’t see the police officer standing beside them. Looks like you kids are having fun. Don’t believe that was one of your qualifications for making Eagle Scout, was it, Buddy?

Buddy feared that they were about to be called down for being too rowdy. No, sir. Never got that merit badge.

Officer Tommy Clem, Strasburg’s one and only policeman, was also the Boy Scout Leader for Troop 57 and at the top of Buddy’s most-admired list. Need to talk to you for a minute, Buddy. And don’t you all worry. He ain’t done nothing wrong. Just need his help with a little problem. But he will need to tell you ‘good night.’ Meet me outside.

Before Buddy left his friends, Bobbie Jean retrieved a pencil and a piece of paper from her purse. Call me, she said while writing her name and number.

Might just do that, said Buddy before pulling some change from his pocket and leaving a tip for Lula Mae. You all leave her a little something if you can.

His given name was Charles Fletcher Polk, Jr., but everybody knew him as Buddy. He was the kind of boy that every mother wanted: polite, compliant, friendly, well-mannered, and popular with young and old alike. Buddy Polk seemingly had it all together. Few people knew about the heavy burden that he carried.

When Buddy walked out of the restaurant Officer Clem was standing across the street in front of the First National Bank. Follow me, called the policeman.

That’s twice this week, said Buddy.

You need to get him help before he hurts himself…or somebody. He’s already in the car sleeping it off, said the officer as he handed the car keys to Buddy.

Sunday Dinner – November 9, 1952

Aging does more to a married couple than just alter physical appearance. Beyond the visible wrinkles…bulging waistlines, graying hair, and sagging skin are internal changes evidenced by altered personalities, irascible dispositions, and negative attitudes. Romantic closeness and intimacy are replaced by enmity, strife, and distance.

So it was with Mable and Charlie Polk. The early years were filled with joy and happiness but gradually, after the untimely death of two children, the devastating effects of the Great Depression which resulted in the end of Charlie’s prestigious farming career at Strathmore, and Mable’s heart attack, the love that brought them together eroded into pitiful nonexistence. The only common ground was their love for family.

On this chilly November morning, Mable was up early preparing for the weekly Sunday-after-church meal. There was much to do before her departure for the 8:30 Matins at St. Paul’s Lutheran Church. Buddy’s regular Sunday morning chore was to knead the yeast rolls while his mother prepared a variety of side dishes, desserts, sweet tea, and no less than two kinds of meat. A pork roast was already in the oven leaving only fried chicken to be prepared when she returned at 9:30.

As they worked, she gave Buddy the third degree on what transpired on the previous evening. Charlie Polk’s drinking problem had escalated and she feared that he was becoming just like his father, Bill. I didn’t listen to God and this is what I get. Should never have married that man.

Frequently, when Charlie did something wrong, Mable repeated the story of how she asked God for a sign to determine whether she should accept his marriage proposal. If it rained on the designated day, then she was to tell him no. It rained cats and dogs, but she married him anyway.

You don’t mean that, Mama, said Buddy while wiping his hands with a towel.

Yes, I do. It’s been hell on earth.

Mable was as close to moral perfection as humanly possible. Her only fault was that she was an excessive worrier which caused her to agonize over the direction of Buddy’s moral compass. She questioned him incessantly about his daily activity. Where were you? Where did you go? Who were you with? How much did you spend? What did you spend it on?

She was also particularly concerned about hussies. Watch out for them, Buddy? They’ll ruin your life. When watching her favorite daytime soap opera, The Guiding Light, she was quick to identify the women of ill repute. You hussy, she would say emphatically. You old slut.

The years had not been kind to Mable’s figure or her health. Two years previous she suffered a heart attack which was linked to obesity. That brush with death scared her into a radical low-calorie diet on which she lost nearly 100 pounds. Despite the diet, she still continued to cook for family and friends.

Donnie wants to come over tonight to watch Red Skeleton, said Buddy in an attempt to stop the steady stream of questions.

Not a problem if your daddy’s wrestling’s not on, but I’m not about to be cooking for that boy.

Whenever somebody came through the front door; family, friend, or stranger…Mable was persuaded that they expected her to cook them a meal. They never asked. She just did it. Then, after they left, she complained about the rude guests who came expecting her to cook for them. Charlie told her to stop cooking and maybe they’ll stop coming. She never took his advice.

You coming with me or going to the 11 o’clock service? asked Mable retrieving her purse from a kitchen cabinet.

Eleven, replied Buddy.

You had a bath yesterday morning. Don’t go wasting water, she said while dutifully stuffing two dollars into a church envelope. Then Mable grabbed her winter coat, checked the stove to make sure that it had been turned off, and headed out the front door to begin the two block walk to the church.

Buddy hated the bathing rule that had been in force since he came into the world. Saturday was bath day and only one was permitted per week. The mandate was a carryover from a time when bathing was conducted in the kitchen. Water was pumped or carried from a well, heated on the stove and then poured into a metal tub. Family members took turns using the same water which was then carried outside and dumped in the yard. And now, even though they had running hot water and a bathroom with a bathtub, the practice continued. It appalled Charlie and Mable to think that they should have to pay for water. They believed that water, like air, should be free like it was back on the farm.

By the time Mable returned from St. Paul’s, Charlie was resting in his red vinyl recliner watching one of his favorite Sunday news programs.

Missed you at church, said Mable to which Charlie responded by humming a few notes from an unrecognizable song. It was the way he always answered when he was annoyed or displeased. In fact, the two of them seldom ever said anything to each other. She was afraid of him and he wanted little to do with her. She quickly retreated to her safe haven, the kitchen, which had become more than just a place for meal preparation. There she cold think and absorb herself in work she loved.

Shortly after 12:30, Buddy returned from church. Hey, dad. What you watchin’?

Meet the Press, said Charlie smiling with no mention of the drunken incident the previous evening.

Who’s the guest?

A congressman from up north. John Kennedy.

Never heard of him.

Seems pretty smart but he talks funny.

Man, that fried chicken smells good, said Buddy, who then headed for the kitchen as a car pulled in the driveway. Hey, Mom. Helen and her bunch just showed up.

Everything’s ready, said Mable while Buddy made short order of a fried chicken leg.

From the living room came the sound of excited voices as Charlie greeted his daughter’s family. Although he had little to say to Mable, Charlie was a gracious host. Visitors brought the best out of him. His 4-year-old grandson, Dickie sat on his lap. You’ve got a birthday coming up, said Charlie. How old you gonna be?

Dickie held up five fingers. Five, he said which was followed by several minutes of rib-tickling from his grandfather.

Meanwhile, Helen headed for the kitchen to talk to her mother while her husband, Woody Weirich, spoke to Charlie about his favorite topic, other than livestock, politics. Ike, made it. Sure glad about that. Stevenson scared me.

Couldn’t have been much worse than Woodrow Wilson.

You’re right about that.

Woody, real name Elwood, was from Reliance, a small community in Warren County, about 15 minutes from Strasburg. He worked at the American Viscose Corporation factory in Front Royal, along with Charlie and his father, Ray Weirich. When Helen first brought Woody home to meet her parents, Charlie was unimpressed with her