Red Rover

By Robert R. Dozier

Five individuals bound together by their shared experiences in a childhood tragedy, grow into maturity at the beginning of WWII. Two join the Marines and experience combat at Peleliu, Guadalcanal, and Okinawa. The book traces the impacts of the childhood experience upon their subsequent lives and their individual resolutions of its consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 18, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463474669

Robert R. Dozier

Robert Dozier is Professor emeritus in the History Department at The University of Montana. He taught at Oregon and Texas before moving to Montana. He has writen numerous books, articles and reviews. He served as President of the Northwest conference on British Studies. He is an avid student of World Wars I & II studying at Berkeley and West Point. He has taught MOLLI classes at UM since retiring AND is an avid reader of history and novels. He resides in the beautiful valley of western Montana called Missoula with his wife of 58 years. He has four children, 10 grandchildren and 6 great-grand children. His previous works in fiction are Red Rover (a WWII story about 5 kids growing up and intering WWII at the beginning of the war and their reactions to a childhood tragedy: Wardenstack a science fiction/fantasy work. He also composed academic works. His next work Vortex is a story that just burst out and had to be written.

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 1

It was one of those summer days when time seemed to be irrelevant, as if this was how God intended the world to be forever. The sun beamed down on a peaceful world, white clouds floated above a late spring morning where the leaves had lost their fragile new look and had settled down in their greenery for the long haul. Baton Rouge, Louisiana could be at times uncomfortably hot and humid, but on this morning in June 1931, it was as comfortable as the Garden of Eden.

In a cul-de-sac called Spain Street, two adults and a boy, the latter straddling a battered suitcase between his legs, stood on the sidewalk in front of a solidly—built, two story frame house painted white with green shutters. The men, talking together earnestly, were controlled in their expressions and speech, adopting poses calculated to ease challenges and reduce threats, yet they were obviously at cross purposes. One, the shorter and younger of the two, was explaining something, not begging, yet obviously trying to convince the older that his wishes were normal, not outside the range of reasonable requests. The older man was listening carefully, trying not to be judgmental or accusing. The boy seemed to be the only anxious one of the three.

Timmy Leblanc, the boy, tried to shade his eyes from the sun and look up at the two adults who were talking about him. His father and grandfather, arms folded and with serious expressions on their faces, were speaking the Bougalie, and, of course, he couldn’t understand what they were saying. The Leblanc brothers, of which his father was the youngest, had always blamed their French accents as the prime cause of their economic failures and social woes, and had agreed to raise their children without that handicap. Timmy had learned what little of the language he knew only by chance. But trying to glean information from their expressions was simply too difficult. The sun was directly behind them and he couldn’t look up without somehow getting it in his eyes. Even at that, he wasn’t sure he would understand better even if he could see them.

On top of all that, they had only just arrived, had not gone in the house, and, standing in the sun on the sidewalk this way, he could feel its heat above and below. He was tired after the long trip up from New Orleans, and was more than usually apprehensive about being brought to a strange place to live. There was even an added distraction. He had noticed children playing across the street who looked about his age: seven, eight or nine.

They were in two groups: one, in the shade of a tree that looked perfect for climbing, laughing and talking excitedly, the other playing on the sidewalk quite seriously. The laughing group was composed of five boys and one girl, and Timmy could see that they were playing Tops; each hurrying to scoop his top, rewind, and cast it back into the melee, where the it person was trying to scoop one to get out. Timmy thought he was pretty good at tops himself, and he envied the players.

The other group, two girls and a boy, were glumly playing hopscotch on the sidewalk. Timmy finally saw why there was no fun exhibited by the players; the boy was not playing according to the rules. The two girls constantly called out turn-ending mistakes the boy was making, but he ignored them, blatantly breaking more rules as he refused to give up his turn. In the rear of his attention, he heard his father switch to English, so he turned back to the adults. He knew what they said would be important to him, and he was afraid that the use of a language he could understand was some sort of conversation ender, so he tried to understand.

I haven’t been able to make Timmy stop, his father said. Somehow the little guy always…

What does he fight about? Peter Ryan, his grandfather asked.

Seems like everything. When I talk to him about it… well, it seems like he had a good reason, but I only hear his side. Timmy thought about that. That was always the chief problem for him when his father, Alcide, let him stay with various relatives, friends, and acquaintances. He was always in the wrong. And it was partly true. Sometimes it was not too bad, if he remembered not to be pushy, or if he could manage to stay in the background. This was not too hard in the homes where he had stayed. But at the new schools, if he started off on the wrong foot, or if he didn’t control his temper, it could be a nightmare. Every day after classes there would be a clash, continuing until he either admitted total defeat, or won an incontestable victory. But on two occasions, victories did not end the hostilities, and he had to face a new opponent, a friend or brother of the defeated, going through all the agonies again. Timmy did not relish the problems of moving from one location to another if it meant changing schools. He felt thankful that summer vacation had begun and at this new place with his grandfather, he wouldn’t have to face new schoolmates for the next three months.

How long you plan to leave the boy? his grandfather asked.

Just until I get on my feet. Things are real slow in New Orleans.

In this year, 1931, real slow had a wealth of meanings. Alcide had been out of work for months.

I hear the telephone company…

I got a lead on a real good job with the L & N. In fact, I’m supposed to show up day after tomorrow.

If you don’t pick him up by the fall, should I put him in school?

Alcide looked up and studied Peter Ryan’s face. Peter was about six inches taller and it irked Alcide to have to speak to him this close where the difference in height was so noticeable. He saw a squarish face, a strong chin, and eyes under level eyebrows that glared at him with a stern, serious, disapproving expression. But Peter’s attitude had always been that way, Alcide thought, since the days when he first began courting his daughter, and now that she was gone and especially when he was asking a favor, it seemed to be even more disapproving. What was worse, Alcide felt Peter could see right through him.

I guess so. But I’ll probably come get him before then.

How long then?

If I get the job, it’ll be no more than three-four weeks before I get my first check. Then I got to find a place to get set up… .

You could let me know when you’re ready and I could put the boy on a bus. But wouldn’t you have the same problem when… ?

Maybe he’ll grow out of it. He ain’t really bad… just bad luck or something, or at least that’s the way I kind of figured it. Maybe something might change by then. But I got to go, he said pointing up the street. Joe’s already late leaving.

Peter looked the way Alcide pointed and saw Joe sitting in the cab of a tractor-trailer waiting on Rome Blvd. Joe didn’t want to turn into Spain Street because it was a dead-end, and backing a trailer out was too much trouble.

Tell Gladys I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. Alcide continued, then looking down at Timmy said,

You be a little man, and mind your grandfather. Here, give me a shake.

Timmy shook his hand mechanically, knowing what his father would say next.

I’ll send for you as soon as I get on my feet. Then to Peter, Thank you for helping me out. I’ll be in touch. He then walked rapidly away, waving to Joe, who started his engine.

Timmy watched his father’s back recede, his anxiety increasing with every step. Unable to control himself, he took a few hesitant steps to follow him, but stopped, dejectedly. When his father got into the cab, he gave his obligatory wave as the truck pulled away. Fighting back the tears that rushed into his eyes, and feeling abandoned, he watched in silence as the truck lurched down the street. Even after it was out of sight, he could hear the roar of the truck’s engine and the gears clashing. He pictured his father sitting next to Joe. Maybe he might change his mind, he thought quickly, but that faint hope faded just as quickly. He looked up at his grandfather. Peter wasn’t smiling, but there was a kind look on his face.

I’m your Papaw, Timmy, and you’ll be staying with me for a while. Come in and we’ll get ready for you to meet your Nanan.

Peter didn’t touch the boy, but after one last disdainful thought about the worthless father who had finally left, reached down and picked up Timmy’s cardboard suitcase and walked into the house. Timmy followed slowly, glancing again at the children playing across the street. They were his future friends or enemies. As he watched, the boy playing hopscotch pushed one of the girls down and ran away.

Timmy smelled his first impression of his new home. Nanan used vanilla oil to polish her furniture and the calming odor of vanilla permeated the entire house. While his eyes adjusted to the light that only gave a hint of the interior contents, Timmy was already favorably disposed. The living room stretched across the width of the house so the immediate impression was one of spaciousness. The middle of the room was dominated by a large radio near the wall flanked on each side by comfortable chairs, each with a lamp standing behind. A sofa, side tables, a desk and chair, and a hassock were the only other furniture. Timmy was pleasantly impressed. He had never lived in a house with so much unused space. The hardwood floors, the restrained wallpaper, and the lack of a light hanging down on a cord in the center of the room seemed to him to be signs of luxury.

He heard his grandfather call, so he hurried through to the back stairway and went up to a room where his grandfather was standing.

This will be yours, and the bathroom is just down the hall, Peter said. You get cleaned up, and I’ll meet you down in the kitchen.

Timmy sat on the edge of his bed and ran his hand gently over the bedspread. This would be the first bedroom of his own he could ever remember. Timmy blamed himself for his frequent changes of residence. He accepted the universal conclusion that he was a bad boy, a troublemaker, a bully. Every authority figure, except one, had told him that, over and over. The problem was that Timmy could not understand why. True, he accepted every challenge, he defended himself every time he could, he tried to learn and follow the rules each group of children he encountered formed for themselves, yet, it never seemed to make any difference. No matter what, it always seemed that he was at fault. It wasn’t that he liked to fight; actually, he hated it. It meant failure; it meant that he had not managed to fit. Sometimes he thought he was just too stupid to avoid fighting. Only one adult, Father O’Kane, at St. Theresa’s Parochial School, had ever talked to him as if he were not guilty.

So you beat up that bully, Dennis Dougherty, did you? It will do him a world of good!

I didn’t mean to…

You mean you didn’t mean to beat him up?

Timmy certainly didn’t mean that, but he didn’t know why he had to fight in the first place. He had tried to join a group of boys during recess and they had laughed at him for wearing knickers, or for wearing knickers that obviously didn’t fit. The elastic around the bottoms had long since been stretched to the point where the legs would not stay up just under his knees, and the pants themselves, several sizes too large, were bunched up around his waist. No one else wore knickers in the first place, but they were the only pants Timmy had.

After the taunts, Timmy had tried to walk away with dignity, but Dennis had shoved him in the back so violently that he had gone down. Encouraged by the sounds of obvious approval from the other boys, Dennis had kicked him when he tried to get up. Timmy had no choice; he proceeded to batter Dennis into a crying lump.

I mean, he said as carefully as he could, that I didn’t mean to fight. I only wanted to…

Yes child, I understand.

Timmy was not punished that time.

Other than that one instance, everyone, his father, uncles, aunts, teachers, principals, and even, once, a policeman, told him he was a little barbarian, a mean, bad boy. For no matter who threw the first punch, the irrefutable argument that things were fine before he came would point him out as the culprit. And Timmy believed them. All the evidence was on their side.

The last school year, when he had been in the third grade, had been a nightmare. In all, Timmy had transferred four times, to three different grammar schools in New Orleans. Always the pattern was the same. Timmy would excel in class, or he would wear worn-out, oversized clothes to school, or something would come up to point him out as different, then he would be challenged as a freak, a show-off, or a ragamuffin, and he would respond. He would be first suspended, and when he returned, challenged again and no matter what the circumstances, he would be expelled. Then his aunt, or cousin, or whoever he was staying with would complain to his father that he was underfoot all day and his father would place him somewhere else.

His school records had troublemaker written on them, so he was partially condemned before he actually went to classes. There seemed to be no end to it. When he had his last fight, the principal had suggested Reform School, a euphemism for a children’s prison, so Alcide, with Peter Ryan’s agreement, had determined to get him out of the New Orleans school system altogether. That was the reason he was now at Papaw’s, in Baton Rouge.

All the way up from New Orleans, as he sat between Joe and his father in the truck, both men told him how important it was for him to take advantage of this fresh start, to keep out of trouble, to not fight no matter what.

You get in trouble again, Timmy, his father had said, and I can’t just pick you up right away. So you keep your mouth shut, and keep your hands in your pockets.

Timmy had taken this advice to heart, and was determined to try his hardest. He knew he needed to fit somewhere; he needed friends to fill the emotional vacuum in his life. If it meant being pushed around, he had promised himself, if it meant being laughed at, even if it meant he would have to let others steal his lunches, or schoolbooks, or anything, Timmy was determined to control his temper and not be labeled a troublemaker anymore.

The next morning, Timmy sat on the curb in front of his grandfather’s house and watched the same group of children playing Red Rover on the lawns across the street. The new clothes Nanan had bought him felt stiff and strange. Go out and play, she had ordered. And remember, no fighting! So Timmy had gone outside, silently. He felt a bit of the usual resentment that rumbled in him on these kinds of occasions. Don’t fight, she said, as if he was always looking for a fight. And then she says, go out and play, as if all a person had to do was just go outside and start playing. She didn’t know how it worked. He had to be invited. Any eight-year old boy knew that. But she didn’t know she was making him confront the people who could be just as easily his tormentors as his friends. So, with much apprehension, he had walked out to the street and sat on the curb and watched eight children, mostly his own age, while they played Red Rover, a game he had always thought was for sissies.

Today there were five boys and three girls, and Timmy quickly understood the pattern of unwritten rules they followed. When a boy was called to come over, he had to run at the clasped hands of two boys, if possible. Girls, perhaps because there were so few of them, ran anywhere they liked. It was a silly game to begin with, Timmy thought, but he found he really wanted to play, or more realistically, he wanted to be included in the group no matter what they were playing.

George, you come on home, a hefty contralto yelled down the street from his right.

Timmy looked in that direction and saw a large black woman, with an apron on, standing in the street and looking at the playing children. But Mama… .

No ‘Buts.’ You come home right now!

Timmy watched as a small black boy detached himself from one of the lines and whiningly trotted home. The sides were now uneven, three against four, and, as some of the children were chattering and pointing at him, Timmy braced himself to accept, in an acceptable manner, an invitation to replace George. Finally, a young, blonde-haired girl dressed in a frilly pinafore ran daintily to a spot across the street and called out to him in a strangely melodious voice,

Wanna play?

This was the beginning of the testing, Timmy knew. Although he had never thought it out fully, he had learned that how these things began more or less determined how they would continue, so he had to start off right. What exactly constituted right, he didn’t know. But he did know that the almost inevitable fights he had been in were caused by more than the immediate challenge, that the challenge itself was based upon more than the immediate insult. It was all so complicated that he could never tell why he would ultimately find himself trying to hurt someone he really didn’t want to hurt in the first place. So he proceeded carefully. He rose casually, and walked with as much dignity as he could muster toward the girl.

You’re on Charles Ray’s team, she said, and turned to join two other children already in line.

Timmy at first didn’t know where to join until Charles Ray, the only other boy on this side, motioned him to his proper place: on the outside, next to Charles Ray himself.

The line then began chattering about which person on the opposite team they should call.

Shirley Beth, Shirley Beth, the two girls squealed as they jumped up and down.

I want Billy Don, Charles Ray said and turned to Timmy. What you say?

Iohno, Timmy replied.

But you gotta say, Charles Ray insisted.

Timmy suddenly found himself in exactly the position he was trying to avoid—the center of attention. His only thought was to get out of it as quickly as possible.

Shirley Beth.

This calmed things down and the little group straightened its line and chanted:

Red Rover, Red Rover, send Shirley Beth over.

Timmy saw the only girl on the other side step out and turn her back to them. He knew she was conferring with her other teammates to determine which player she should choose to bring back with her should her effort succeed. Shirley Beth was a towhead, with a large, pink bow hanging precariously on the side of her head. Timmy relaxed. Although he could not remember her being called before, he assumed she would run at the clasped hands of the two girls on his team. His only job then would be to hold on to Charles Ray’s hand no matter what.

Shirley Beth, ready to go, called out the mandatory,

Red Rover, Red Rover, I’m coming over, and, then, to Tim’s surprise, tucked the front part of her dress into her underpants and ran fiercely at the spot between Timmy and Charles Ray. Moreover, she ran like a boy: a complete unit, leaning forward, on the balls of her feet.

The resulting collision knocked everybody down except Timmy, who had a firm grip on Charles Ray’s hand. He managed to stay on his feet and hold on to Charles Ray as well. As the children regained their feet, and as Timmy looked with admiration at Shirley Beth, he couldn’t help saying,

That was pretty good!

Yeah, but it didn’t work, she responded with a half-smile.

I tole you we oughta called Billy Don, Charles Ray said, rubbing his shoulder. She’s almost as good as Carli Jo.

Oh, but we stopped her, the melodious voice said. Here Shirley Beth, get between me and Rose Ann.

It was now time for an invitation for one of Timmy’s team to be called over, and while his opponents huddled about thirty feet away deciding on their choice, Timmy saw a larger boy, some 40 feet or so behind them, run from one hedge to another, as if he were trying to sneak up on them. Timmy thought that it was just another child coming out to play but with a plan of announcing himself dramatically. At any rate, he couldn’t say anything. As the new boy, he knew he should not alienate anyone, so he kept quiet about it.

The group of three boys finally made their decision.

Red Rover, Red Rover, send Sally Anne over.

The melodious voice, Sally Anne, turned to the others as they whispered their choices, Emile and Billy Don receiving an equal share of votes. Then she looked at Timmy directly, for the first time, and asked,

Who do you want?

Timmy stared into her eyes and noticed how large and blue they were. He shrugged his shoulders, and, looking away, again wishing to avoid direct attention, blurted out,

Anybody. The one you want.

Realizing how this could be taken very personally, he blushed and looked at the ground.

I’ll ask Billy Don, she said as she turned to her task.

Timmy stared at her back and noticed how her straight blonde hair, cut in a Dutch boy fashion, seemed to reflect all sorts of colors as the sun struck it. He had never paid much attention to these things, although he remembered how it was impossible to look at one of his cousins without staring at a lump on the bridge of her nose. But this was different, and he resisted it. Girls are sissies, he thought, and sissies are sissies. It didn’t help. He still liked to look at Sally Anne.

Sally Anne ran like a girl—in two parts, Timmy thought as he watched her progress in a giggling, delicate way. The top part doesn’t match the bottom part. She’ll never make it. And sure enough, when her progress was halted by two of the boys, Timmy gave an inward snort of superiority. Still, he found he liked Sally Anne, and was not satisfied with his responses either for her or against her.

As the game progressed, and as Timmy more or less fit in with his companions, he noticed that the boy sneaking up on the group was taking his time. He would hide behind a bush or hedge for such a long time that Timmy thought he had given it up, that he had decided not to join the group. Then he would reappear, running quickly from his hiding place to another. He was the boy, Timmy realized, who had played hopscotch yesterday. He made no judgment; he was trying to learn all he could about these strangers, and if they were peculiar that way, they were just peculiar that way.

In the challenge-counter-challenge of the game, Timmy was at first not called to go over, which, in a way, suited him perfectly. They were judging him, he knew, and the less they had to judge him by was all to his advantage. His only job was to do as the others did, keep his mouth shut, and try to ease himself in as quietly as possible. Winning alienated the losers, and he was apprehensive about whether or not he should have to try.

After a series of runs by the opposing sides, the teams were rather even. He, Charles Ray, Shirley Beth and Billy Don were facing Carli Jo, Emile, Sally Anne and Rose Ann. Then Timmy heard what he had hoped he wouldn’t hear.

Red Rover, Red Rover, send the new boy over.

They don’t know my name, he thought, but now he had to make the attempt. He decided immediately that he would do his best, otherwise he would always have to do the opposite, and that would not start things off right.

Take Emile, Charles Ray urged. Everyone else seemed to agree, so he called:

Red Rover, Red Rover, I’m coming over.

He set himself, planning to run against the clasped hands of Carli Jo and Emile, and had actually started when he saw the boy who had been hiding burst out of cover, rush into Rose Ann’s back, and throw her roughly to the ground. Sally Anne squealed and put her hands up in defense, but the boy pushed her hard into a rose trellis, which fell down on her. Timmy, stopped completely now, was surprised by the suddenness of it all, but was more astonished by the attack on the girls. He thought that boys were not supposed to hurt girls, ever, under any circumstances, and in the face of this violation of conventions, he did not know what to do. The attack, however, seemed to ignite different responses from the other players. Emile gave a shout and ran away. Rose Ann began bawling. Timmy could hear Billy Don shouting for the attacker to stop, while Charles Ray, squealing, ran. Shirley Beth ran by him, at the attacker, but Carli Jo was the first to reach him.

Bobby Earl Brewster, you… oof. Bobby Earl punched Carli Jo in the stomach, and turned toward Shirley Beth, who was just arriving.

Red Rover, Red Rover, I’m pushing you over, he said, in a peculiarly high voice. He then pushed Shirley Beth hard, so that she hit the ground heavily. Then Timmy saw the attacker start towards him. Don’t fight, don’t fight, don’t fight, Timmy kept repeating to himself. But he couldn’t run away; this would brand him a coward, and he was still trying to win the good will of these children. So he just stood there, fists clenched instinctively, but held stiffly down at his sides.

Bobby Earl ran into him full speed and Timmy went down, only to scramble to his feet quickly to face the boy again. Bobby Earl pushed him down again, but Timmy got up just as quickly, still repeating to himself, don’t fight, don’t fight, don’t fight. Bobby Earl was on the point of pushing him down again, when he was himself pushed by a just arriving, gasping Carli Jo. Surprised, Bobby Earl turned to Carli Jo and drew back his fist to punch him again when Timmy stepped in and pushed him off balance.

You’re gonna get hurt, Bobby Earl yelled at Timmy when Carli Jo pushed him again.

The three boys now faced each other, none moving. Timmy looked at the pinched, birdlike features of the older boy and noticed that Bobby Earl was not that much bigger than either himself or Carli Jo: maybe a few inches and a few pounds. Timmy had fought larger boys with some success in New Orleans, and for a moment thought about hitting him. This his caution returned and he stood there, ready, but inactive.

You go way and leave us alone, Carli Jo said with difficulty, still not recovered from the blow to his midsection.

You better watch out, Bobby Earl responded. I’ll beat the stuffing out of you.

This threat calmed Timmy. From his experience, when action stopped and words began, the fight was over. The trick now was simply to hold ground until the one in the most awkward position took the next move. Bobby Earl took it.

You better watch out next time, he said, and turned from them and walked away. As he passed Billy Don, he tried to kick him, but missed.

Carli Jo and Tim visibly relaxed and began to shake a little. It’s always this way, Timmy thought. Every time a fight was over he would get all trembly inside and his mouth would dry up. He looked across the street at his grandfather’s house and could see the round back of Nanan as she went inside. His spirits plummeted. Had she seen it all? Did she realize that he had not been in a fight? But, in a way, Timmy had to admit that he had been in a fight, even though he hadn’t hit anyone. But had she seen enough? A worry grew in the boy’s mind.

What’s your name?

Timmy looked at Carli Jo and realized that the other boy had been staring at him.

Timmy—Timmy Ray Leblanc.

"Well Timmy, we really showed him, didn’t we? Carli Jo now was smiling ear to ear.

Yeah. I guess we did, and Timmy smiled back.

"Let’s go help Sally