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Saying Goodbye
Non fiction
© 2006
The cold penetrated everything as the humid air of an Indiana winter can. It was mid-January 1941 and the seven-year old boy shivered in the dark parking lot of the National Guard Armory in Indianapolis. His mother placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Huge U. S. Army truck engines grumbled into life and belched thick exhaust fumes. Headlights penetrated the darkness. Engines idled while men in uniform shouted orders to others and supervised the loading of the trucks. Equipment, already onboard, awaited the troops who would be traveling south to Camp Shelby near Hattiesburg, Mississippi. The boy strained to stand on tiptoe hoping for a glimpse of his father.
Hours ago at home, his dad explained what would happen this evening. “I’ll be very busy tonight, so I may not be able to talk to you. I may not even see you in the crowd. I hope so, but maybe not.” The boy nodded but didn’t comprehend the explanation.
He looked at the sleeve of his father’s uniform shirt. The outlines of the patches were still visible. He knew they were marks of military rank. “Where did your sergeant stripes go?” he said.
“Since we are expanding to a full division, my position calls for a higher rank. I’ve been promoted,” his father said pointing to the two silver bars on each collar. “Let’s put some of these toys back under the Christmas tree, so you can play with them later.”
The boy reveled in the attention his father was showing him and enjoyed the time they spent together on the living room floor.
His father continued, “I want you to know I love you and I will be thinking about you all the time I am gone. While we’re alone here, I’ll say goodbye now.” He leaned forward and kissed his son on the cheek.
The boy shivered in the dark again. All the time I’m gone, he thought. What did it mean? He was not very close to his father, but he was used to him coming home every night. And now … Gone — where? How long? He heard the word “war” in whispered conversations between his mother and father. War. He knew the word, but struggled with a full understanding of the concept. He was aware people in wars sometimes died. But … how did they die? How many? Which ones?
He was used to his father coming home each night — what if his father was one who would die in the war. A shiver wracked his body and he knew it was not from the cold.
His mother felt his body quiver and turned up the collar on his jacket. She knelt in front of him and adjusted the aviator cap and tugged the flaps down snug over his ears. “It won’t be much longer,” she said. “I think the trucks will be leaving soon. When we get home, I’ll make you some hot Ovaltine. That will be good, won’t it?”
The boy pulled the ear flaps back up — for two reasons. Only the dumb kids wore the flaps down, and the cold wasn’t causing him to shiver. He looked for his father and wished with all his might it would not be the last time he ever saw him.
Pushing between some of the adults, he got a better view of the controlled chaos around the trucks. He saw a man break out of the sea of uniforms and start toward him. It was his father — his father was coming over to see him. Someone behind the man shouted, “Captain.” His father stopped, turned around and disappeared back into the ocean of humanity.
His mother took him by the hand and they moved to another location — one nearer the exit gate of the assembly area. They watched and waited. At long last, the first truck bucked into motion and steered for the gate. One-by-one the other vehicles moved forward and fell in behind one another forming a long single line. The trucks reminded him of elephants he saw in a circus parade his father took him to see. He smiled.
The boy stretched to see as each of the trucks passed his vantage point. Not seeing his father, he shook his head at each truck then concentrated on the next. The last truck went through the gate, and he never saw his father.
He thought of the words: death, gone, war … the shiver wracked his body again. His mother hugged him near to her and started for their car saying, “Let’s go home.”
Home. The boy thoughts turned to the hot chocolate drink his mother promised earlier. He was at peace and the images of a dead soldier melted away like the tail lights on the last truck disappearing into the darkness.
