No Ordinary Joes (41 page)

She opened the door, surprised to find Bob standing there. She hadn’t talked to him since the night at the Medford Hotel in October, a night that had not gone well. Whether it was the alcohol, or performance anxiety, or not having been with a woman for so long, Bob was not able to perform.

Barbara was amazed at how much better he looked. He was no longer puffy, his eyes bright and clear, his smile back. “You look great,” she said.

“So do you.”

He was still on his ninety-day leave, on his way to Reno to get a divorce with the $200 that Mr. Koehler had given him. He had taken a big detour to San Francisco. In truth, he’d come to the apartment to ask Edna out for a drink. But not now.

“Why don’t you come to Reno with me?” he asked.

Barbara thought for a moment. “Sure,” she answered.

The snow was still falling when they awoke. For Bob, everything seemed perfect. The drive from San Francisco to Reno in Kunhardt’s car had been so romantic, a light snow falling the last few miles. Along the way, Barbara had scooted across the front seat and snuggled up next to him, her hand on his leg, kissing his neck and cheek. By the time they checked into the hotel, they were in full heat. This time, Bob was able to finish what he hadn’t been able to in Medford—four times—although they interrupted their lovemaking long enough for Barbara to send a telegram to her parents letting them know where she was. They also went out dining and dancing, stopping at several places and each time requesting the band play “The Anniversary Waltz.” It was December 16, 1945, four years to the day that they got married. “Let’s just stay in bed all day,” suggested Bob.

Barbara sat up. If Bob was not 100 percent the man she’d fallen in love with, he was certainly better. His spark and his humor were back, reminding her of what had attracted her to him in the beginning; she found him so damn cute. She was attracted to Kunhardt too, but the sexual chemistry she had with Bob was not there.

“We can’t stay in bed all day,” she replied.

“Why not?”

“First of all, you wore me out. Second of all, we have to go file for divorce.”

Bob’s mouth fell open. She couldn’t be serious. They’d made love all night long and she still wanted a divorce?

Barbara’s heart was telling her to stay with Bob. There was passion there, and history. She had cried on her pillow for months after she received the telegram telling her he was missing in action. And when he finally got back, he’d confessed that he’d survived his nightmarish imprisonment only because of the hope of seeing her again. With all of that (not to mention the incredible sex), how could she not be with him?

But her brain was telling her something else. She was convinced her parents would never accept Bob and would surely disown her if she chose him. Kunhardt would obviously provide a more secure future. He talked about how he was going to make admiral one day and she loved the thought of being an officer’s wife and the prestige that went with it. Bob, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have a clue where his life was heading other than to the next bar. Kunhardt’s family had been so warm and welcoming, something that she’d never felt with Bob’s. And as affectionate and passionate as he’d been last night, there was something that told her he still wasn’t whole. He had not said one word about what had happened to him, brushing off every attempt she made to get him to open up with either “You wouldn’t want to know” or “You couldn’t possibly understand.”

“Bob, I know this is hard for you to understand,” she said, “but I still want to go through with the divorce.”

An hour after getting their divorce, they headed west out of Reno on US 50. Bob eyed a hitchhiker up ahead. “Barbara, I’m asking you one last time,” he said. “Let’s turn around and get remarried.”

“I can’t do it, Bob.”

“But how can you tell me you love me like you did last night and not
want to be married? I thought people who were in love were married. Or did that all change while I was away?”

“I don’t understand all of this myself, but I just think I’m doing the right thing.”

He swerved to the side of the highway, motioning for the hitchhiker to climb aboard, instructing the man to sit in the middle, between him and Barbara.

For the rest of the way to San Francisco, Bob talked occasionally to the hitchhiker, but not to Barbara, six hours of icy silence between them.

Back at the apartment, Barbara read the brief-but-to-the-point telegram from her parents: “Your recent escapade leaves much to be desired in the way of comportment.”

She set it down and took a deep breath. She was twenty-four years old, but her parents’ opinion still meant everything to her. Her parting with Bob in front of the apartment building had been as silent as the ride home, but in some ways, that had been for the best.

As Barbara put the telegram in a drawer, the phone rang. It was Kunhardt, calling on a two-way radio from Pearl Harbor. Yes, she reassured him, she really missed him and still loved him. “I can’t wait for us to be married,” she said.

The next day, Bob boarded a bus and headed back to Medford, and an uncertain future.

T
im peeked out the blinds of his parents’ house in Chula Vista, California, a growing suburb in southern San Diego County. He was impatiently waiting for Gordy Cox, who’d called to say he was visiting from Yakima and needed to see him. They hadn’t talked since prison camp.

After his release from Oak Knoll, Tim had been transferred to the Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego, although he was spending most of his time in Chula Vista with his parents. During his imprisonment, Harrell and Cappy McCoy had begun talking to each other for the first time since they’d divorced when Tim was in ninth grade. His dad had divorced his second wife, remarried Cappy, and moved to California for the climate. He seemed devoted to Cappy and proud of Tim. This was all good news to Tim, especially how happy his mom seemed. Tim was doing his best to forgive his dad.

Tim was trying to keep a positive attitude, not just about his dad but about everything. On the days he had to go to Balboa Naval Hospital for tests, however, it was tough. Located next to scenic Balboa Park in San Diego, the hospital had become the primary care provider for thousands of military families in Southern California, and now housed nearly 20,000 war wounded; a walk down a hallway could be depressing. The facility was so short-staffed that on some rotations young doctors were overseeing as many as a thousand patients. For Tim, who was born impatient, the waits seemed endless.

He glanced out the window again, hoping to see Gordy arrive; there was still no sign of him. Bulldozers and contracting crews worked on a new subdivision across the street. Chula Vista was on the front edge of suburban expansion in southern California, and with the return of thousands of servicemen who wanted to stay in the area, the lemon tree orchards that once covered the landscape were now giving way to low-cost housing developments soon to be financed by the GI Bill.

Tim spotted the postman and his hopes soared, just as they did every day. Maybe there would be another letter from Valma. Since his release, he had reconnected with her by mail, telling her that he’d thought about her every day in prison camp and that he still wanted to marry her. To his great relief and happiness, she’d written back, telling him how she’d never taken off the engagement ring he’d given her the last day they were together in Perth. He was also happy to learn that she and his parents had been exchanging letters for over a year while he was in prison camp. She’d even sent them a picture of herself, which was now framed and sitting on a shelf in the living room. But Tim was even happier when she agreed to his proposed plans. He’d already sent her the money for the trip to the States; she had said that she wanted to get married in Los Angeles. She’d never been to America, but she’d read about LA in magazines and seen it in movies, and it seemed so romantic, the perfect place to be married. LA was fine by Tim. Now he just had to wait for the red tape to be removed. According to reports, Congress was about to pass the War Brides Act, which would make it easier for servicemen to bring their foreign girlfriends to America to wed. There was still a lot of paperwork they would have to complete before it could happen, but Tim was impatiently counting the days.

On this day, however, there was no letter from Valma, for the tenth day in a row.

Finally, a car arrived and Gordy stepped out, accompanied by a woman. At first glance, Tim figured his crewmate had gotten married, but upon closer examination, Tim saw the gray hair and wrinkles. It was Gordy’s mom.

Tim ushered them into the living room and introduced his parents.

Gordy explained that he and his mother and youngest brother, Willie, had driven down from Yakima to deliver Willie to Navy boot camp. “But that’s not why we came to see you,” added Mrs. Cox, looking first at Tim, then at his mother.

She paused, choking back tears, and pointed toward Tim. “Young man,” she said, “as a mother I want to thank you for what you did for my son. He tells me you saved his life.”

Tim remembered smuggling portions of rice back into the barracks to feed Gordy when he was close to death. “We all did what we had to do to survive,” he said.

Mrs. Cox turned to Tim’s parents. “Your son’s a hero,” she said.

“They’re all heroes,” said Tim’s dad, beaming.

Tim checked the mailbox again, hoping for a letter from Valma. This time there was a nice thick one.

He was nearing the end of his ninety-day leave, and soon he’d have to make a decision on what he wanted to do next. He’d always admired his uncle’s success in the insurance business and considered the possibility of going to work for him. But his uncle was back in Texas, and with his parents now living in California, that might be a harder transition. It was more likely that he would stay in the Navy and try to become an officer. Before he had been captured, he really liked the life—the camaraderie, structure, job security, and feeling of being part of something special, especially as a submariner. But he didn’t know whether he could qualify for training as a naval officer. He hadn’t completed high school, and although the Navy would count the time he’d spent as a POW toward a commission, he didn’t feel confident that he’d learned the skills necessary to advance, at least not yet. His second, and bigger, concern was Valma. It would be hard enough on her coming to a new country and culture without knowing anyone, but to have her husband away from home and out to sea for long periods of time seemed a truly daunting way to start a marriage.

He opened the envelope, smelling the letter as he pulled it out. He liked the way her letters always were written on scented stationery.

Congress had just passed the War Brides Act, and Tim was just one of tens of thousands of U.S. military personnel now involved in bringing their potential mates across the Atlantic and Pacific to marry. America was now experiencing an unusual new wave of immigrants, dubbed “petticoat pilgrims” by the press, women who’d first met American servicemen during a time of war and chaos. These women were now arriving daily on converted warships. It wasn’t an easy transition; prior to leaving, they had to fill out mountains of forms in triplicate and endure sometimes humiliating physicals. They were also often the target of anger and scorn from returning servicemen in their own countries, who were resentful that the women were chasing after a romanticized version of love in America. And now these war brides were quickly encountering difficulties for which love in wartime hadn’t prepared them. They stepped off the ships and discovered men much different from the ones they’d met during the war. Some were battle-scarred. Some had gone from romantic to abusive. Some were broke. Some were jobless. Some were drinking too much. And now, on top of all that, these women were far from home and incredibly lonely, with no money for return passage.

But unfolding Valma’s letter, Skeeter wasn’t worried about any of that. What he knew was that she was the prettiest girl he’d ever met, with an accent so sweet and lilting that he would never get tired of listening to her. In his eyes, for her to be willing to give up everything she had to come halfway across the world to be with him … well, she certainly had to love him an awful lot.

He began to read:

He stopped reading. “No, no,” he gasped; it felt like someone had sucked all the air out of his lungs. How could this be true? His mind flashed to their last night together, and how he’d shouted for joy when she
accepted his proposal. And all those nights in prison camp when he lay in his bunk and thought about her and dreamed of their life together. It didn’t matter that they had probably spent less than ten days together, or that they had never made love. This couldn’t be happening.

Maybe he’d misread that first line. But no, it was true. He continued reading: Valma’s mother had cancer and Valma needed to be there for her. His first thought was that Valma had just made up the story to let him down easy. His second thought was that maybe her mother would die soon and Valma could come to the States then.

But the more he reread the letter and the more he thought about it, the more hopeless it felt. Nothing he’d suffered in prison camp—the starvation, the days in the bunker, the constant battle with the guards—had ever caused him to lose hope. But this was pushing him to the edge.

A
s far as Las Vegas buffets go, it was pretty pathetic: skinny chicken thighs, lumpy mashed potatoes, soggy green beans. But the tasteless food didn’t matter to the
Grenadier
survivors, men familiar with eating rice one grain at a time. It was December 2000, and they were gathered for their annual reunion within the Sub Vets Reunion at the Imperial Palace, a low-rent hotel on the Vegas strip.