Some Things Never Change

By Joe Sansome

Harry and Castonk are well aware of their situation. They have graduated from high school during WWII. With the draft looming over them, they decided to take some welding classes at the local vocational school. These classes saved them. They picked up welder first class positions at a local shipyard, and were deferred from enlistment for a year. The year is flying by. With the allies taking a pounding around the globe, their expectation of another deferment is slight. They are living life one day at time, trying to get as much excitement in as they can.

Walt has arrived home on leave after training as a B-17 gunner. Walt connects with his friends Harry and Castonk, and the wild times start. Walt only has a few days before he has to report back for duty. While the friendship between these three characters is tenuous, they realize that their numbers could come up at anytime. This sense of impending doom creates a bond between these friends that cannot be broken by any circumstance.

The setting for Some Things Never Change is Superior, Wisconsin during the dead of winter. The cold, snow and gloom wear on Harry, Castonk and Walt, but this does not keep them from their exploits. If anything their surroundings intensify how they feel about life. They start out with reckless abandon, only to find out what really matters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Sansome
• Release date: Aug 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476062730

Book preview

Chapter 1

Friday, December 4, 1942

At 11:30 AM one Friday morning, early in December of 1942, the Great Northern passenger train from Minneapolis ground to a halt in Superior, Wisconsin. The day was windy and bitterly cold. The passengers disembarked and hurriedly dispersed. Some walked, bent into the wind, which seemed to be coming from all directions at once. Others got into waiting cars or cabs.

The last man off was a tall, blond, powerfully built U. S. Army Air Force Tech Sergeant. His uniform and hair were disheveled, his eyes red, his face white. He was badly hung over, half asleep. He looked like he had been drinking for a week. He moved slowly with an air of repressed anger, of impatience.

The conductor watched him stumble down the steps, withdrew his helping hand and stepped back. The Sergeant ignored him, bent into the numbing wind and moved slowly across the platform to the baggage cart. He effortlessly jerked a B-29 bag from the bottom of a pile of luggage, scattering the other suitcases to the ground, and then entered the station.

The station was a pleasant place; warm, clean and newly painted in orange and white. The telegraph key cracked behind the ticket cage. Two middle aged clerks in white shirts, sleeve garters and green isinglass visors were joshing each other. They sensed the Sergeant watching them and stopped talking. They went back to their desks. The Sergeant sat down on one of the wooden benches, head in his hands.

After a few minutes he got up and drank a great quantity of water from the fountain. He picked up his bag and went into the washroom.

The clerks watched him go. One breathed a sigh of relief.

Big as Nagurski, he said.

Bigger, the other replied. I saw Nagurski once.

Who is he? The first clerk asked.

Big Walt Mazerowski.

What’s his story?

Not much. Grew up down in the gas plant area. Big family, small house. Seven boys, three girls. His old man works in the grain elevators, The Great Northern elevator. He went to Cathedral High School. Tavern brawler. Got a mean streak in him. Enlisted a year or so ago. Went up pretty fast, I see he made Tech Sergeant.

Gas plant gang?

No; he’s a loner. He’s got a couple of screwball friends. You know Castonkquay. The Clown, the big mouth."

Yeah.

And there’s another one; Harry Mulvain from uptown. I don’t know much about him.

I know him, the other clerk said.

What about him?

Not much, rich kid, smart in school, lazy, good looking, drinks a lot. Girls go for him. Headed for trouble probably. A dark one. Doesn’t say much. People don’t like him.

Three of a kind? The first clerk asked.

No, not really. Not alike at all, except they’re all fuckups. The clerks looked at each other; laughed, shrugged their shoulders and went back to work.

Big Walt heard the door click shut behind him shutting off the pleasant warmth and noise of the railway station. Fucking civilians, he muttered. He envied the clerks their warm, safe world. The wind hit him, digging into his face and gloveless hands. His breath frosted in the air and condensed on the collar of his overcoat. He narrowed his eyes and looked down the street at a scene of dilapidated buildings, dirty snow and gray ice streets. Christ, what a hometown, he muttered. He bent his body and moved off slowly towards Gappa's tavern, a block and a half away.

Port wine, he thought.

Port wine, he murmured, grinning foolishly, his good spirits rising when he thought of the drink. What the hell make the best of it, he thought. Five days left.

He entered the tavern. He took off his overcoat. Old man Gappa came up to serve him. Port wine, Walt said. Welcome home, welcome to Superior, the old man replied. He did not smile. He was going to refuse to serve Walt, but saw the aerial gunner’s wings.

Walt drank two water glasses of port and asked for another. He drank that and then leaned against the bar, staring out the window. Old man Gappa refused payment and went to the back of the bar, busying himself stocking the beer cooler.

Walt felt better. The wine warmed him. The sick tired feeling left him. He stretched. He could feel the power coming back into his arms, into the back of his neck. The wine was strong, it hit hard. Probably 20% or 30%, he thought. His mind began to lift in the first pleasant rush of intoxication.

He felt crazy. Just a week ago he had been flying low level strafing missions over the Mojave Desert. He had liked that. The motors roaring, the big 50 caliber Browning machine gun jerking and pounding. Noise and speed had seemed to calm him. Now standing in the quiet hometown bar looking down the street into the downtown area he felt strange, like he had never been away. He had been gone for eighteen months but the more recent memories did not hold the old memories came powerfully back.

He looked down the street. Most of his life had been spent on that street, trying to find something to do, someone to talk to, someplace to go instead of going home. Home, leaping Christ, home, he thought. What a place.

He thought of the small house, his mother either at the stove or at the sink, his father at the kitchen table in his undershirt drinking beer, usually yelling at the kids; sometimes quiet and morose. The ever present smell of cabbage cooking. The noise of the toilet flushing, the bunk beds, his brothers and sisters coming and going. Endless arguments over clothes, money, and everything else.

He remembered the college guys in their bright sweaters and blazers, their father’s car running outside, coming in to pick up his sisters, looking around sniffing, smirking at each other.

Walt understood his parents. The old man had told him one time about how he had worked in Russia as a railroad laborer when he was a young man. About working from dawn to dark, about being fed from a wooden tub of raw herring, about sleeping on the ground.

Better here Pa? Walt had asked.

Ya, better, the old man had answered. Ya, better. His mother had echoed.

Walt thought, But what a life it’s been. All I ever wanted was a girl friend, a model A, a job, to have a good a time once in awhile, to go to a dance at Sokol Hall, a picnic maybe. Drink some beer; eat some potato salad, to go fishing sometimes. Not much to ask for. How many times did it all come together? Not many times. Almost never.

Walt was aware of old man Gappa watching him from the rear of the bar. He knew he would stay busy back there until he left, that he would get no more wine. He didn’t blame the old man. He knew he was underage and that if he were caught in there by the cops it would mean a stiff fine. The wine had taken effect. It would hold for awhile. In about an hour he knew he would want another drink. However, he wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. It was pleasant looking out the window. It was warm. No cops or M. P.‘s were around.

Walt thought of his buddies Harry and Castonk. He grinned. Christ what a couple of friends, he reflected. Some friends. All for themselves. Anything for a laugh, anything for a piece of ass, he grinned again. What the hell, he thought. I’m no better, no different. Something about them though. He’d missed them. They had a way about them.

He looked down the street again. He saw the dirty begrimed frame and brick buildings, the taverns, the second hand furniture stores, the print shop. There wasn’t much snow and what there was, was black with soot. There must have been a thaw for the streets and sidewalks were covered by a gray, cast iron sheet of dirty ice. The wind blew endlessly, signs shuddered, and scraps of paper blew about.

Christ, what a hometown, he muttered.

From the way his face had tightened up as he got off the train Walt figured it must be 20 to 25 degrees below zero. He knew that when it got around 30 to 40 below that the wind stopped and the cold was still and spooky like. Today it was just miserable, bone chilling.

Time to go, he thought.

Thanks, he yelled to old man Gappa.

Yah, the old man yelled back.

Chapter 2

That same morning Harry Mulvain and Alador Castonkquay were taking a break in the forecastle of Hull 19 at the Butler Shipyards.

Harry was a tall, thin, black haired, good looking boy. Castonkquay was slightly shorter, heavier built. He had blonde curly hair. He was snub nosed and freckled-faced. Exuberant good humor radiated from him.

Harry took a pint bottle of whiskey from the bottom of his lunch pail. They were both numb from the cold. They had been welding on the top deck that morning. They each drank several gulps of whiskey then began to eat their sandwiches ravenously. They finished, then sat back, relaxing. Castonkquay lit up a cigarette. Castonkquay took a long drag and blew out smoke.

You know, he said slowly, Walt’s due in today.

Harry looked at him blankly, then grimaced. Castonk continued, He’ll only be around for four or five days. He’s shipping over. We’ll have to spend a few nights with him.

Do we have any choice? Harry asked.

They looked at each other. Then burst out laughing. They both knew they had no choice. Big Walt was coming at them.

Harry held up his bottle to the light. There were a couple of inches left in it. He passed it to Castonkquay. Castonk drank and passed it back. Harry finished it.

Harry held the bottle up again. It was a beautiful dark brown Four Roses pint. It was covered with intertwining glass vines. It was curved to fit the hip pocket. He pushed in the cork and screwed on the Bakelite cap.

Harry’s bottle, he said.

Num, num, said Castonk. They both laughed again. Hope it doesn’t get broke, said Harry. They don’t make them like this anymore.

They both settled back to rest for a few minutes. They had another eight hours ahead of them out in the open, out on deck. They both thought about Walt, about high school, about the things they had done together in the past. After about five minutes Castonkquay yawned, got up.

See you at lunch time, he said. There’s something we should talk over.

Like what, Harry asked.

I think we can get some fucking out in the country, maybe take Walt along. I have been hearing about a girl out there, Castonk replied. A gangbanger. A real dandy.

Out where? Asked Harry.

I’ll tell you about it at noon. I got to get back.

Ok, Harry said.

They went back to work.

When the noon whistle blew Harry took off his hood. He walked to the deck railing and watched Castonk come across the yard carrying a large thermos. Harry could see his big grin from a block away.

Old Castonk, Harry thought.

He was one of the few people Harry liked to see coming. Others seemed dull by comparison. Castonk was a lot of laughs.

Harry watched him make the long climb up the ships ladder balancing the thermos on the top of his head. He walked up to Harry, flexed his neck, flipped the thermos into the air, caught it effortlessly in one hand without seeming to look at it and bellowed.

Hiya fuckhead, where’s old numbnuts?

Old numbnuts, Harry’s lead man, standing a few feet away, did a little dance of rage, moved off a bit, and stood glaring at them.

Harry, grinning, took a swing at Castonk. Castonk, catlike danced back, moved in, and hit Harry three times before he could recover.

Harry and Castonk climbed up the superstructure, into the unfinished Captain’s quarters. Castonk slammed the bulkhead door shut and locked it. He unscrewed the thermos top and poured coffee in it. Castonk took a pint of whiskey from his inside jacket pocket and they started drinking.

Castonk stuck his head out of the porthole. Numbnuts was still standing below glaring up at him.

Numbnuts! Castonkquay yelled.

Numbnuts feet and hands began to twitch. He shuffled back and forth a couple of times, then with bared and gritted teeth, glaring eyes and clenched hands, did a little leap into the air. He repeated the action a couple of times.

Castonkquay ducked back into the cabin for another drink, and then returned to the porthole. Numbnuts, he yelled. Doncha know there’s a war on!

Castonk and Harry sat down at the chart table and had another drink, Castonkquay lit up a cigarette. There’s a new dance just come out, said Castonkquay, called the numbnuts shuffle. He’s outside; doing it. On company time, said Harry.

Numbnuts heard the gale of laughter from the superstructure. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t stop jinking around.

After they quit laughing Castonkquay asked, Harry, have you ever been in a situation where a girl had sex with multiple guys at the same time? No, said Harry, have you?

Once replied Castonkquay. Well not really. There were only two guys.

Why? Harry asked.

There’s this girl out Lyman Lake way. Not the usual tavern pig. Young, pretty. I think we could get her. I know the routine. Want to go for it?

When?

Why not tonight?

Harry shrugged, why not?

After a moment’s thought Castonk said, what about Big Walt?

Harry and Castonkquay exchanged a long, wary, meaningful look.

Well? Castonk asked.

I suppose so, Harry answered.

They sat awhile relaxing, joshing each other. Finally Castonk stretched.

Gotta go, see you after work. Meet you at the Black Cat about 6?

O. K. Harry replied.

Castonkquay left. Harry could hear him yelling at Numbnuts out on the main deck.

Later that Friday afternoon Harry welded for a couple of hours. He was still working on deck. Eventually he became so cold he couldn’t function. He was shivering. His hands and feet were numb. He went below to sit by the stove.

He felt dreamy, lazy, half mesmerized by the arc. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone. He found a place for himself on the bench in front of the stove. He elbowed some more room for himself between the other heavily clothed hulks sitting there. He pulled the door of the stove open and sat staring into the flames. No one spoke, no one bothered him. He sat luxuriating in the warmth, half asleep; thinking, the heat soaked into his face, into his clothing.

After awhile he began thinking of his steady girl friend Marianne.

He missed Marianne. They had had a lot of good times together; the high school dances, the proms, the sleigh rides, the picnics. The best times had been the Sunday afternoons they had spent together when her folks went to their lake cabin. They had loafed around her house necking, drinking a little out of each bottle in the liquor cabinet, listening to records.

Marianne, he would say, ‘this ………. is paradise." For it was.

He could see her in his mind. He saw the shoulder length blonde hair, gleaming, and helmet like. He saw her long beautifully formed legs. He saw her lovely face. He saw the face change; the blue eyes became moody, angry, and confused. He saw her sitting at home waiting, hoping, and planning.

A nice girl, he thought, too nice. She just can’t give in. Harry felt sad. He didn’t want to hurt Marianne. She’d been good to him.

Harry knew if it wasn’t for the war they would have been all right. They would have gone right down the line; high school, college, engagement, marriage. Their folks would have helped them, would have enjoyed helping them. Marianne was what he really wanted but he knew he didn’t have much time, and that he couldn’t bear to let these last few months slip through his fingers.

Marianne was getting frantic. Her folks were angry with him. They had gone together for the past three years.

Well, thought Harry, life is the way it is.

He had talked with his landlady about the situation. She agreed with him but her thoughts were somewhat more profound. He heard her words again.

When the whole world’s a slaughterhouse there is little time for the niceties and formalities of convention. She had said, In times of danger mankind tends to procreate the race.

How do you know all this stuff? Harry had asked her.

Books, she said, history, observing, thinking, and, she had continued somberly, "I come from the killing ground of Europe; the plains of Poland. Armies have marched over us from the beginning of time. Marched over us to get at each other and sometimes have fought their battles there. Mongols, Frenchmen, Germans, Russians. They always come. They will never stop. Such nonsense; foolishness. Nothing changes.

I take the train out of there in 29, she had continued, left the family, left everything. Times were bad. I ride across Europe to Hamburg, then go to England, then come here in 34. She had gotten very upset as she talked on. She had been close to tears. Her voice was strained. So I come here, she had continued, "so the killing reaches out again. Some men love war; there is a lot of money to be made out of war, by some. Stay out of it, it will never end. Stay out of it, it proves nothing.

Harry could hear her voice rising, falling. It was as if she was talking to him. He had talked with some British sailors who said the same thing.

He sat dozing and dreaming about Marianne again for another half hour. He dreamt that they were lying in a pile of hay somewhere in the hot sun. That he had pulled her sweater up and unhooked her brassiere and that she was not resisting. Her mouth was soft and wet, her breasts firm, her legs beginning to spread.

The lead man’s