American Heroes

                       

Peter Houser used a scoop shovel to finish cleaning the barn gutter. Peter, better known as Pete by people who knew him, had been doing most of the cow chores on the Houser farm since finishing the eighth grade in the one room school half a mile down the road in 1944. Now nineteen, he had become a well muscled strapping six foot tall young man. He pushed the wheelbarrow with the sloppy mess out the barn door into the cold South Dakota February air and dumped the load on the winter’s accumulation of frozen manure. He idly observed the thirty Holstein cows out for their daily outing, lining up to drink water from the insulated tank kept from freezing by an electric heater. He then went back into the barn and spread fresh straw on the concrete pad where the cows spent most of their day while kept in place by steel stanchens’. When he finished he contemplated the cleaned barn with satisfaction. He liked the looks and smell of a clean barn.

            Pete’s father, Emil came into the barn through a side door. Emil had a short sturdy build, a square German face perpetually tanned from spending long day’s out-of-doors. “I’m going to take a pickup load of them sows into the sale today,” he said.

            From late fall to early spring the Milbank sales barn had a sale every Saturday afternoon. Farmers from around the area would go there to buy or sell livestock. Sometimes professional buyers would show up to see if there were any bargains.

            Emil added “You can help me load the pickup, and then maybe open up one of those alfalfa stacks. The mow is getting pretty empty.”

            Emil had just laid out Pete’s work plan for the day. Since finishing the eighth grade Pete had been what amounted to a full time hired man; except that he didn’t think of himself as a hired man. For one thing, he didn’t get paid regularly and for another thing he felt he had a vested interest in the farm. It had always been his expectation that someday he would somehow be running the farm. Armed, his sixteen year brother might be assuming the same thing, but he was going to high school so would have more possibilities.

            During the past year or so Pete had been questioning his future. His dad had just turned fifty and for sure he would be running the show as long as he was around. His dad, a tough durable man, had been hardened and scared by the depression. He had lost the once family farm that lay halfway between Milbank and Wilmot and had only recently bought it back from the insurance company that had never wanted it in the first place. To his dad, every penny counted, every possession was precious.

            Pete needed to ask his dad about the car tonight. He and two friends; Chris Engelson, a neighbor, and a cousin, Lyle Houser took turns driving for their weekly Saturday night outing. Since his dad bought the new Studebaker last fall, Pete dreaded going through the asking permission ritual. The Studebaker had been the first new car his family had ever owned and his dad treated it like a crown jewel ever since he brought it home last fall.

            ”It’s my turn to drive again.” Pete said hesitantly.

            “Seems like you just drove,” Emil answered, “Be sure you bring it back as clean as you found it.”

            That afternoon Pete took the John Deere and a hay rack out to the north forty where three alfalfa hay stacks sat with piled up snow drifts on their south sides. Pete opened up one of the stacks and wrestled a rack load of hay out of it. He took the load back to the barn and used a haymow fork and pulley system to lift the hay into the hayloft. It took four haymow fork loads to get all the hay into the barn. It worked best when two people worked together to unload a rack of hay into the loft. One person could do it but it took a lot of running back and forth so he hurried to get done and get the cows milked for the second time that day.  He would pick up Chris Engelson at eight.

            A few minutes before eight Pete backed the Studebaker out of the garage and headed for the Engelson farm a mile away. The car, kept immaculately clean by Emil, still had a faint new car smell. Pete could hear the car tires squeak as they moved through the snow. Must be below zero he thought. 

            Chris and Pete had been in the same grades in the one room school house for eight years so knew each other pretty well. The yard light came on and Chris came out the door of the white two story frame house when Pete pulled into the Engelson driveway.   

            Chris, a tall young man ambled out to the car in a way that everything didn’t seem fully connected. Chris, at nineteen had never had a girlfriend as far as Pete knew and he wasn’t surprised. Besides being awkward he had unruly red hair on top of a long face with big ears. Of course Pete had never had a girl friend either, but he didn’t blame it on his looks. The reflection he saw in a mirror looked at least average, maybe a little better than average. His face wasn’t as square as his dad’s or as round as his mom’s and was topped off with thick dark blond hair cut short and normal sized ears. It wasn’t that Pete didn’t like women. He spent a large part of his time thinking about them, but not knowing how to act around women was a problem for him and for Chris too. Neither of them had gone to high school and neither of them had any sisters. Women were exotic creatures Pete didn’t know much about.

            Chris got into the car and they headed for Milbank to pick up Lyle. 

            “What’s the plan for tonight?” Chris asked.

            “Probably shoot some pool at Volk’s” Pete answered, and then he asked, “What you been doing this week?”

            Chris replied, “I joined the marines.”

            The normal expected answer had been, “Not much.”

            Pete exclaimed, “You what!”

            “I joined the marines.”

            “You’re shitting me. How come?”

            “I got kicked out.”

            “Kicked out of what?”

            “Home. Maybe not kicked out. They let me know in a round-about way that I should be looking for a way to make my own way. Guess I should have figured it out for myself. I got three younger brothers. We aren’t all going to be farmers. I guess I sorta knew that but didn’t know what to do about it. I haven’t been doing a lot of work around the farm. Especially this winter. They don’t need me, they don’t need me around.”

            “Why the marines?”       

            “Monday I took the Milwaukee to Minneapolis. I heard factories were hiring. I wasn’t too excited about a factory job but hafta do something.”

            Pete interrupted, “You took off, didn’t say anything to anyone?”

            “My folks knew.”

            “You might not have been there when I went to pick you up?”

            “Guess so.”

            “That’s a dumb thing to do.”

            “Guess so.”

            “Is that all you can say?”

            “I’ve been kind of screwed up.”

            “You didn’t finish telling me how come the marines.”

            “Well I was walking down Washington Avenue, near the train depot. Not a good street, night or day. There was a sign in a bar window— ‘Be a man, join the army.’ That sign got me to thinking.”

            They were coming into Milbank. A bright moon made Lake Farley visible on the right side of the road as they entered the town. Lyle lived on lake side of the tracks in an old two story that backed up to the Whetstone creek. They could see Lyle looking out the window when they pulled up.

            Of the threesome, Lyle filled the odd one out role. He had lived in town all his life, was on a different wave length than Pete and Chris. He claimed to know all about women but Pete hadn’t seen much evidence for that claim. Compared to Pete and Chris he was short, less than six feet by quite a bit. He had brown mouse colored hair, a round face with freckles over the bridge of his nose. Like a lot of short people he compensated by being boisterous to the point of being rowdy; kind of a counterbalance to the sober and steady Pete and Chris.

            Lyle came trotting out of the house. “Hey what’s the plan?” He said loudly as he got into the back seat.

            “Maybe some pool at Volk’s” Chris replied.

            “That sounds exciting.” Lyle replied sarcastically.

            “Drink a couple of beers,” Chris added.

            The Studebaker idled while the evening’s plans were being discussed.

            “Maybe we should do something special,” Pete said, “With Chris going into the marines …..”

            “What to hell are you saying Pete? Chris is going where?

            “Marines.”

            “Why don’t I know what’s going on?” Lyle asked.

            Chris explained, “I didn’t know I was going into the marines last week.”

            “That don’t make a lot of sense,” Lyle replied.

            Pete prodded Chris, “You still haven’t told why you ended up in the marines.”

            “Like I was telling you, I saw this join the army sign in the window. I thought, maybe that would be a better deal than working in a factory. I asked a couple of bums sitting on the curb if they knew if there was a army recruiting office around there. Colder than hell, and they were sitting on the curb drinking out of something in a brown paper sack. They asked if I could spare a dollar. I gave them a quarter. They didn’t have any idea where the recruiting office was but said try Hennepin Avenue. “You could find most anything there.”

            Lyle faked a yawn. “I got a feeling this is going to be a real long story.”

            Chris went on, “Well, I’m walking down Hennepin, and those bums were right, you could find just about anything there. Then I spotted this sign on the sidewalk, showed a marine in dress uniform, holding up a sword in front of him and I could see myself walking down the main street of Milbank in one of those uniforms and the girls twisting their necks off looking. So I joined the marines.”

            “I’ll be damned,” Lyle said. “When are you leaving? 

            “Two weeks, middle of March. Go to Minneapolis and then boot camp in San Diego.”

            “I guess we’ll have to do something special. There’s a dance at Chautauqua, maybe we can get you screwed. Don’t want to go into the marines a virgin.”

            “Nothing happening until ten at least,” Pete said. “We can go to Big Stone after we play a couple games of rotation.”

            Lyle seconded the idea.

            After a couple of beers and two games of rotation they drove the ten miles on HW12 to the town of Big Stone and the mile up the Lake Road where Chautauqua Park sat on the shore of Big Stone Lake. Things were jumping when they arrived at Chautauqua and they had to park a good distance from the dance hall along the Lake Road. 

            “Damn, it’s colder than a witche’s tit,” Lyle exclaimed as they walked from the Studebaker to the dance hall. As they approached the dance they could hear an old time German band pounding away. They bought their tickets and somebody stamped the back of their hands with an ink marker.

            The dance hall occupied a long rectangular space with a serving bar along the west side and long tables with benches that could seat eight-ten people filling three quarters of the space in the building. The band played on a raised platform at the far end of the hall. Only three-two beer and mixes for byob people were served.

            Lyle spotted space at a table near the dance floor and quickly claimed and held it while Pete and Chris made their way to the table. Already seated at the table were three young women and two young men. Lyle signaled a waitress to bring them a pitcher of beer.

            Lyle filled their glasses and proposed a toast. “To Chris, the only and best damn marine from Wilmot. After they had emptied their classes Lyle started refilling them.

            “No more  for me,” Pete said, “I’m driving.”

            “Hell,” Chris said, “You can’t get drunk on three-two—you piss it away faster than you can drink it.

            Pete wasn’t sure Chris’s theory held water. None of the three were seasoned beer drinkers.

            Chris, as though to prove his point, chug-a-lugged his beer and poured another one and then held up the pitcher for a refill.

            They began noting their surroundings. The three women scrunched between them and two young men at the other end of the table didn’t seem to be attached to anyone in particular. The band returned from taking a break and started playing a slow waltz to get people on the floor. One of the women was asked to dance and left the table.

            Then the two men who had been sitting at the other end of the table got up and started dancing with the other two women.

            “What’re waiting for?” Pete asked Lyle.

            “I wouldn’t call them the pick of the crop; what’re you two waiting for?”

            “Hell, I can’t dance,” Pete replied. “And if I could I don’t know if I would. I’m not sure I’d want arm wrestle any of them.

            Chris had just poured himself another beer. He agreed with Pete, “They’re built like work horses.

             “Nothing wrong with that,” Lyle argued, “They can pitch hay all day and dance all night without working up a sweat.”

            They continued drinking beer and observing the dancing and for a while.  Chris spoke up, “Hell, I could do that,” referring to people dancing. His voice had a slight slur to it.

            The band had switched to a shottische and most of the amateurs had left the dance floor, except for Chris, who had persuaded one of the husky women at their table to dance.

            Pete and Lyle knew this would be bad. Besides being awkward and uncoordinated and having never danced before, Chris was three sheets to the wind. The schottische dance had a set pattern of circle and forward moving steps. Chris wasn’t doing much of either and the woman walked away and left Chris standing in the middle of the dance floor flat footed.

            “Did I do good?” Chris asked when he got back to the table.

            “You asshole, that pretty much messed up our chances with those women,” Lyle replied.  

           Chris replied with a hiccup. He hiccupped again, “I know how to cure that.” He said. He filled his glass and drank it down without taking a breath

            Pete suggested that Chris take it easy.

            Chris looked puzzled “Hell, I thought we were goin to celebrate somethin tanight.

            “We’re celebrating Chris going into the marines.” Pete replied.

             “Chris going to the marines? Chris looked surprised, “Ta poor bastard.”

            For Pete, who remained stone sober, things were visibly deteriorating at Chautauqua. A couple of fights had broken out at the back of the room. A couple at a table across from them were looking like they were about to make out. Then he noticed that Chris had disappeared. “Where’s Chris?” Pete asked Lyle.

            Lyle looked around, “Hell, he slide under the table.”

            “We have to get him out of here.” Pete said, “I’ll get the car and park it by the door.”

            After Pete got the car, he and Lyle half dragged and half carried Chris out to the car and dumped him in the back seat.”

            As they drove away from Chautauqua Pete wondered out loud. “Now what? We can’t take him home looking like this.”

            “We could sit him in a snow bank,” Lyle suggested, “That would sober him up pretty fast. What time is it?”

            “Little past midnight.”

            “The Bright Spot is the only place open in Milbank this time of the day. We can get some coffee into him.”

            They headed for Milbank. About half way there, Chris heaved all over the back seat.

            “Jesus Christ!” Pete said, “My dad will kill me, really kill me.” He stopped the car and they dragged Chris out of the back seat, but Chris had finished doing whatever he was going to do.

            Pete removed the floor coverings, wiped them clean with snow but the worst of the mess was stuck in the fake mohair seat fabric.

            They crammed Chris between them in the front seat and continued towards Milbank. They were approaching Milbank when Chris suddenly wrapped himself around Pete, pinning his arms and completely blocking his view. Peter found he couldn’t move his right leg to step on the brake.

             Pete tried to push him off, “Get off me you big oph!” He shouted.

            Pete felt the car going off the road, then tipping slowly, finally turning over completely. The sound of grinding metal preceded a complete stop. They were sitting on the roof of the car. Pete couldn’t open his door. Lyle managed to get his open and crawled out. Pete crawled over Chris and then the two of them drug Chris out. Pete could see that the beautiful Studebaker had rolled over on top of a rock pile. The front and back windows were broken out. Pete didn’t investigate further; he knew it was the end, as bad as it could get. 

            Pete asked Chris, “Can you walk?”

            “Why are we walking?” Chris answered, “Damn cold out here.”

            “That’s a good sign,” Lyle said. “He knows it’s cold.”

            “Common, lets walk,” Pete said, “Its less than half a mile.”

            “Can somebody tell me why we are walking?” Chris asked.

            Lyle answered, “Cause you puked all over Pete’s new car and then wrecked it.”

            “Oh,” Chris answered.

            When the nearly frozen young men arrived at the Bright Spot they were greeted by a friend of Lyles. “You guys look half frozen, your car heater out?” He asked.

            “Worse,” Lyle replied, “Wrecked the car a ways out of town.”

            “Jeez, anybody hurt? Sheriff know about this?”

            Pete preferred that nobody would ever know about what had happened. It had been a bad dream that he would wake up from any minute. Unfortunately, he knew he was wide awake and still shaking from the below zero temperature that they had been walking through. He dialed the county sheriff’s number. A sleepy deputy David Larson answered Pete’s call.

            “Where did it happen?” Deputy Larson asked. “OK, I’ll drive by, take a look at it. I’ll meet you at the Bright Spot, write up the report.”

            The young men took over a booth and had gone through a pot of coffee before Deputy Larson showed up. Chris had fallen asleep sitting in a corner of the booth.

            “Looks like you did a pretty good job on the Studebaker,” Deputy Larson said when he arrived. “Good for scrape and parts.” He looked at Pete. “Want to have it towed in?”

            The question surprised Pete. He didn’t own the car. Maybe it didn’t matter at this point. It had become a piece of junk littering a HW12 ditch. Pete reasoned that it would be easier tell his dad that the car was at the Standard Station than lying on its roof in a rock pile. “Sure, tow it in,” Pete answered.

            “I’ll have the Standard Station bring it in if that’s ok?

             “Pete gave an affirmative nod with his head. Like there was a choice. All the wrecks were towed into the Standard Station.

            Deputy Larson filled out the accident report.  Much of Larson’s imposing muscular body had converted to fat since leaving a farm to become a deputy sheriff five years previously, and as a result he had bulked up into an even larger presence. The forms he filled out with a stubby pencil held in his large fat hand seemed miniaturized by the comparison. Pete guessed that filling out accident reports had to be one of Larson’s least favorite chores and the results showed. There were cross outs, and inserted words and the final result was a general mess. Larson pointed to where Pete needed to sign the report.

            Pete felt strange signing the form. He had never signed anything important in his life and signing an accident report that described totaling his dad’s car didn’t seem like a good way to start.

          Deputy Larson dropped the three young men off at their homes after finishing filling out the accident report and leaving a message for the Standard Station to tow the wreck in.

            It had been almost 3:00 AM when Pete crept up the stairs to his bedroom as quietly as possible. He got up a six as usual to feed and milk the cows. Pete had just about finished milking when Emil came in the side door of the barn.

            “Where’s the car?” He asked.

            The moment had arrived: “The car is at the Van Dorn Standard Station.” Pete replied. “I wrecked the car last night. Totaled it. Before you say anything, I want you to know that I will be leaving. Chris and I are joining the marines.”

            “Emil, whose face had turned red and looked like it could explode when he heard about the car being wrecked, began to lose its color when Pete mentioned joining the marines. Pete watched as the angry look on his dad’s face faded.

            When Pete had finally gotten to bed earlier that morning, he had lain awake worrying about what had happened and what would happen. He couldn’t imagine any good scenarios that would get him out of the mess he was in. Then a solution suddenly occurred to him. He would join the marines, like Chris had done. It would mitigate the current car wreck crises by merging it with another attention getting situation and at the same time get him out of the going nowhere rut he had become concerned about. After resolving the matter in his mind he fell into a deep sleep until the alarm went off a short time later.

            After a long pause, Emil finally responded to Pete’s revelations. “How are you going to pay for it? He asked.

            Pete had not thought about that part of the problem. His mind had focused on the punishment part. There would be no way for him to pay for the cost of a new Studebaker. His dad knew that.

            “What’s it going to cost?” Pete asked.

            “There’s the two hundred dollar deductible and then the new license, probably some things I don’t know about.”

            That seemed more doable. Pete didn’t really have an income. He got spending money when he needed it. He got a litter of pigs to call his own and the money for the sale of the pigs when they went to market. As a result he had about two hundred dollars in a savings account.

             “There’s about that much in my savings account,” Pete replied, “You can have whatever’s in there.”

            “When are you leaving?” Emil asked. 

            Pete didn’t know anything about what would be involved in joining the marines, but he knew Chris would be leaving in about two weeks.

            “About two weeks,” Pete replied.

                                                                        ****

 

            In May of 1950, Chris and Pete completed marine boot camp in San Diego. In June of 1950 North Korean forces invaded South Korea.  Chris and Pete were assigned to the 1^st Marine Brigade which sailed directly from San Diego to Pusan in July of 1950.  In September of 1950 the 1^st Marine Brigade merged with the 1^st Marine Division and participated in the Inchon landing and the retaking of Seoul. In November of 1950 the 1^st Marine Division landed at Wonsan on the east coast of North Korea and proceeded north to the Chosan Reservoir. It was at the Chosan Reservoir on a bitterly cold December day that both Chris and Pete were killed in action.

            In February of 1951, on a bitterly cold day, the Milbank-Wilmot community held a memorial service for Peter Houser and Christian Engelson; their fallen young heroes who had given everything for their country.