On Wings of the Morning (12 page)

“I thought Mr. Duncan lived there.”

“Just as I said, there’s no one there on Sundays.”

Otto went over to the closet and took out Hans’ Mauser. “No, Otto, not a gun!”

“I don’t know what I’ll run into, Mata. Don’t worry; I’ll be careful!” He ran out the door, climbed into the pickup and roared off.

Mata went into the kitchen to be with Maria. She decided not to tell her about the attack. “Where was Hans going?” she asked Mata.

“He just had an errand, Mama,” Mata told her, patting her hands. “He’ll be back soon.”

***

Otto drove the familiar road to the airport, not sure of what he would find. The office looked secured and the hangar and aircraft untouched, but when he opened the locked office, a familiar rough voice greeted him. “Otto? That you?”

He went over to Wilson’s office whose door was open with the light on. Wilson was in his customary pose with a bottle on the desk and a drink in his hand. He uncustomarily had a Minneapolis extra edition open to the front page on his lap. Duncan lay asleep on the sofa across from him.

“Siddown. In the chair, kid. Unless you want to sit on Duncan. I don’t think he’d care too much.”

Otto sat in the chair. “So what do you think, Mr. Wilson?”

“What do I think? I think we’re as good as at war. And I think there’s a lot of money to be made in the years ahead. Oh, not by young guys like you, poor guys. It’ll be made by guys like me who stay home and own the ‘means of production’ as someone once said. Yep, we’ll stay home and produce the things you need to beat the Jap and the Hun and Uncle Sam will pay us handsomely because that’s what your mommies and daddies want for you—only the best.”

Wilson stopped, out of breath. It was a long speech for him, but he seemed to be habitually out of breath.

“You sound like you think the war is a good thing, Mr. Wilson.”

“I ain’t sayin’ it’s good or bad, kid. It just is, and because it is and because it had to be, there’s money to be made. So it might as well be made by the likes of yours truly.”

“What will you make it in?”

“Oh, various things. Businesses I have interests in. This and that.”

Otto knew better than to push him for specifics. Wilson was always vague about the nature of his “businesses.” All Otto knew was that they were profitable—Wilson always dressed in tailored clothes and wore flashy watches and rings—and that they were probably illegal. He suspected the airport was a cover for some of his criminal activities. Not that the airport was one bit out of step with the law. Mata made sure of that. All the books were above board and accurate and reflected a growing—and honest—business. The others, no one knew but Wilson, and he wasn’t telling.

“So, what are you planning to do, Otto?”

“I’m going to sign up for the Army Air Corps first thing in the morning. I know there’ll be a line and I want to be at the head of it.’

“Well, good luck to you, kid.” Wilson raised his glass. “Good luck to us all.”

***

Otto didn’t have a problem getting up early since it was his habit to do so to tend the cows anyhow. The frozen mud of the barnyard crunched underfoot as he made his way to the barn, fed and watered the stock and attached the milking machines one by one. He was glad they no longer had to milk by hand. Mata had made a good investment, and their production had gone up. He wondered what would happen to demand with the coming of war.

His morning chores done, Otto left the cows to the hired man and ducked back into the house. Mata was sitting at the table nursing a cup of coffee.

“Guten morgen, Bruder.”

“Guten morgen, Schwester.”

He sat down across from her. “I’m off to join up.”

Her eyes looked troubled. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“If I don’t they’ll draft me. This is something I have to do.”

“Let me see if we can get you an agricultural deferment. Those are available for certain types of farmers.”

“I don’t want to dodge this, Mata. I want to get over there, defeat these monsters and get back as soon as I can. You’ll see. I’ll be back in a year, tops.”

He stood up, went over and kissed her on the top of her head. “I’ll be fine. You’ll see.” Mata put her left hand up and he took it. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Be careful, dear brother.”

Otto went out to the truck, got in, started it and soon was driving through familiar fields, glowing golden this morning with the low sunlight illuminating the frost. Traffic grew as he neared the recruiting station located down from the high school. There were so many cars and trucks parked nearby he had to park two blocks away and walk over.

Inside the small office, organized chaos reigned. Four Army sergeants formed up the men who had come into four lines. The would-be recruits stood talking with each other, each grasping a sheaf of paper, waiting to be called back into the medical office.

Sergeant Johnston, the head recruiter, recognized Otto from his prior visits and rushed over to him. “Hey, Otto, no need for you to wait in line. I have your paperwork we filled out the last time you were here, so we can use that.”

“Thanks, Sergeant. Looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

Johnston surveyed the room. “Yep, we’re pretty busy. But they sent me a telegram last night telling me what to expect and sent along some help from Minneapolis. Those are the four handsome gentlemen you see out here. We’ll get it done but it’ll be a long haul. You can go right through that door and Doc Carter will examine you.’

“Thank you,” Otto said as Johnston turned to the next man in line.

Otto opened the door to the examining room where the fellow before him was pulling up his pants. Doc handed him a sheaf of papers and pointed to a door on the other wall. Otto handed him his paperwork and as Doc glanced at the name and then up at Otto’s face, and frowned. “So you finally will have a chance to kill yourself in the air, huh, Otto?”

Otto sighed. Here it came again. “I just want to serve my country and win the war.”

“Couldn’t you do it from the ground? Or the sea?”

“I suppose I could, but I want to do it from the air. I want to
fly.
”

Doc motioned for him to take off his shirt and then moved a stethoscope around his back as Otto breathed in and out four times. “Well, I suppose I could fail you on the physical…”

“Have you found something?” Otto asked sharply.

“Oh no, just doing a little theoretical thinking. But I suppose I still do have some integrity left… look left…look right…OK, cough…that’s it. You have a pulse and you’re breathing, so you’re qualified.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Don’t thank me. Now you’ll learn the most basic part of military life.”

“What’s that?”

“’Hurry up and wait.’ Take your papers, go through that door, collect some stamps from the happy fellows at the table and then wait until you’re called.”

“Wait? How long?”

“Until you’re in service? No one knows. We’re new to this. Weeks. Months. Maybe years . . . .”

“Years? But the war is going on
now
!”

“Yeah, and don’t get too anxious about getting into it. There are people who are seriously dead as a result of war.”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not.” Carter studied Otto for a long moment. “I’ve known you since before there was a ‘you.’ Took care of your mom when she was carrying you. Tried to take care of that hard-headed German father of yours, God bless him.” He shook his head.

“So listen to an old man who knows you and who knows what he is talking about. Please be careful no matter where you are, no matter what you end up doing. There are plenty of dead heroes. I’d rather welcome back a live ordinary guy who had the smarts to survive.” He stuck out his hand. “Promise me you’ll do that much.”

Otto took his hand and shook it. “I’ll try, Doc. I’ll do my best to, anyhow.” Doc patted him on the back and Otto stepped through the door into the next room where, as Doc predicted, his papers were stamped by four bored-looking corporals. He was then sent home to wait.

***

Doc was also right about the waiting. It simply took time to gather the men necessary to run the biggest war machine ever built, to design the aircraft, ships, tanks, trucks and weapons, to mine the ores and resources necessary to build them, to manufacture these Articles of War and then to ship them to the people who would use them. And it took time to put into place the training systems where the people would be taught to operate the machines and systems designed to bring death and defeat to the enemy and his people.

And so Otto, along with millions of his fellow Americans, waited. They didn’t necessarily wait patiently, but they waited. Through long days, longer weeks, long months as they listened to their radios and to news of the war, which was mostly bad. They built camps and training facilities, and they began to train the young men and women who would carry the war to the far corners of the world.

Otto continued to operate the farm and to run the airport. Wilson was largely absent, in Minneapolis, he guessed, and Duncan spent most of his days in a drunken stupor. How he was still alive was beyond him. He seemed to subsist on sleep, stale ham sandwiches and whiskey. Otto wasn’t sure he knew there was a war on.

There was in truth little business at the airfield. The military had slapped heavy restrictions on civilian air traffic, and with fuel chiefly reserved for the military uses, no one else was flying, or driving much for that matter. Otto spent his days keeping the field clean and listening to the floating discussion group of pilots who sat in the ready room and exchanged opinions. There seemed to be little else to do.

“Well, I think this is Roosevelt’s war—one he started to make himself and his rich friends richer…”

“Ah, you’re full of it! How could Roosevelt control events thousands of miles away?”

“These rich people have their ways. They’re not like you and me!”

“Hey, Kerchner! You haven’t said anything. What do you think?”

Otto turned from where he was making another urn of coffee. “I don’t know. It is what it is, I suppose, and the sooner we get into it, the sooner it’s over.”

“Well, listen to the philosopher, will you?” This was followed by a round of laughter.

“You asked,” Otto said quietly, and went into the office. It was going to be a long war indeed, particularly if nothing happened.

Except for rationing and a few young men going off to war from Pioneer Lake, things did not seem to change much. There were still cows to be milked and fed every day, and forms to fill out and discussions to overhear at the airfield. Life went on.

One Saturday morning in February, Mata came back from the mailbox at the end of the drive bearing several letters. She waved a rather thick official-looking envelope at Otto. “This one’s for you,” she cried. “I think it’s from the Army!”

Otto tore it open and sat down at the kitchen table where he had been having coffee after finishing morning chores. He read rapidly:

February 16, 1942

Cadet Otto Kerchner

R.R. 6, Box 803

Pioneer Lake, Wisconsin

Cadet Kerchner:

You are directed forthwith to set your affairs in order and report to Camp Atterbury, Edinburg, Indiana, by 0800 hours on Monday, March 16 for basic training leading eventually to flight training.

Travel letters are enclosed for passage from your location to Camp Atterbury and meal chits are provided.

You will receive further direction upon completion of basic training at this facility.

There was more, but Otto didn’t read it right then. He put the sheaves of paper on the table and stared at them. Mata came into the kitchen. She had checked on Maria, who was in bed, and on Hans, who sat with his head down in the living room.

“Otto, what is it? Good news or bad news?”

Otto raised the sheets from the table. “Both, Mata. It’s my orders to report for training. I’m actually going to get to fly and fight.” He stood up and she walked over and embraced him. She was smiling at the same time tears ran down her cheeks. “I’m so proud of you,” she told him, “but also very frightened for you. Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I promise, Mata,” he murmured, but he was wondering, Will I come back at all?

They stayed that way for a moment, then broke apart. Otto stuffed the envelope and letters into the desk by the door. “So, what’s for lunch?” he asked, rubbing his hands. “I’ll need as much home cooking as I can get since I won’t have any for a long while.”

“I’ve fixed dumplings and sausage, your favorite,” Mata exclaimed, moving into the kitchen. “It’ll be ready in about ten minutes. Go ahead and wash up. I’ll get Mama and Papa going and would appreciate some help bringing the food out.”

“You got it, Sis.” Otto washed his hands from the kitchen taps Mata had installed the year before. He smiled as he remembered the first time he had seen indoor plumbing at Dr. Carter’s, such a long time ago. He dried his hands on a towel and lit the burner under the frying pan where Mata had placed the sausages and then did the same with the one under the pot containing the dumplings. He monitored both to make sure they wouldn’t burn. Mata came in as both were heating nicely.

“Whew!” she exclaimed, pushing her hair back from her face. “I must look a fright. Mama is harder and harder to get out of bed and dressed, but I got her to the parlor. Papa is not so bad to get him into his wheelchair. Give me just a minute.” She leaned on the kitchen counter, fanning herself with one hand.

Otto got the plates out, measured out some of each part of the meal, and walked the plates to the kitchen two at a time. He came back where Mata was still standing. “And what, dear sister, would you like to have to drink with your lunch?”

She leaned her head to one side. “If you have any, sir, I would like some milk.”

Otto bowed in her direction. “You are very lucky, Fraulein, because today we are featuring—” Here he opened the ice box with a flourish “—milk!” The interior of the chest was packed with bottle after bottle of milk, which, as Mata was fond of saying, was only to be expected on a dairy farm.