Home Sweet Home Front

By Richard Veit

Home Sweet Home Front is a nostalgic return to the vanished America of World War II, a coming-of-age story that follows teenager Wesley Brower on the fast track to manhood amidst the tragedies of global conflict. With most of the male workers away in uniform, Wesley lands the job of his dreams at a local radio station. But his infatuation for sweet young things of the opposite sex proves to be a virtual minefield of rejection and bittersweet loss. Wesley's widowed mother somehow manages to hold the family together. Her older son joins the Navy to fight aboard a combat vessel, while her daughter faces terrors of her own within a few miles of home. A spunky boarding student adds spice to the drama, as does a country girl who is not as shy as she first appears. Rich in period detail, Home Sweet Home Front is a kaleidoscope of rationing, wartime telegrams, and goodbye kisses… of the USO, boy meets girl, and blue stars in the windows… of Lux Radio Theatre, overcrowded Pullmans, and the St. Louis Browns. Despite a vast assemblage of personae, the main "character" of Home Sweet Home Front is the pervasive shadow of war itself.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wingspan Press
• Release date: Jun 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781595948489

Richard Veit

Richard Veit is a Professor of Anthropology and Associate Dean of the Wayne D. McMurray School of Humanities and Social Sciences at Monmouth University.  His research interests include gravestones and burial grounds, early American material culture, vernacular architecture, and conflict archaeology.

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Home Sweet

Home Front

by

Richard Veit

WingSpan Press

Livermore, California

Copyright © 2013 by Richard Veit

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, settings and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, settings or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in reviews.

Published in the United States and the United Kingdom

by WingSpan Press, Livermore, CA

The WingSpan name, logo and colophon are the trademarks of WingSpan Publishing.

www.wingspanpress.com

Second edition 2020

Printed in the United States of America

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Veit, Richard.

Home sweet home front / Richard Veit.

p. cm.

ISBN: 978-1-59594-692-8 (hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-59594-501-3 (pbk.)

ISBN: 978-1-59594-848-9 (e-book)

1. World War, 1939-1945—Fiction. 2. Coming of age—Fiction. 3. Families—Texas—Fiction. 4. Texas—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3622.E427 H66 2013

813—dc23

2013944557

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Richard Veit wishes to express gratitude to the men and women of the Allied forces, who placed their lives on the line against the Axis foe during World War II. Among this heroic generation were Mr. Veit’s father, Richard Earl Veit, his uncle, Wesley Arthur Veit, and his wife Patti’s uncles, James Philip Haston and Robert Weldon Haston. The author would also like to thank two friends and literary mentors, American playwright Horton Foote and English screenwriter John Finch, for their invaluable influence and encouragement. Further appreciation goes to Baylor University and the city of Waco, Texas, without whose historical settings—in time and place—this book’s honest depiction of the American home front would have been impossible to achieve.

Home Sweet Home Front

Wesley Franklin Brower fell in love with radio the instant he set foot in the lobby of KWXN. The first thing that seized his attention was a metal paperweight lying on the front desk—an RCA microphone with the vertical letters CBS affixed to each side. Five Star Jones could be heard from a pair of loudspeakers overhead. Behind the desk, the wall was paneled in rich hardwood and bedecked with framed publicity photographs of Eddie Cantor, Al Jolson, Cecil B. DeMille (autographed), and Burns and Allen.

Even the receptionist was elegant, a pretty brunette who spoke to him with what seemed to be genuine respect. Yes, sir. How may I help you? she asked. Her lovely smile made him go weak in the knees.

I’m delivering a package for Superior Office Supply, Wesley said. My dad told me to bring it over here on my way back to school. Then, to explain his apparent truancy, he added, I’ve been home for lunch.

Oh, you have, have you? Well, thank you ever so much, Mr. …?

I’m Wesley Brower … but my friends call me Wes.

Well, thank you ever so much, Mr. Wesley Brower. I’m sure we were needing this package very badly.

Yes, ma’am. It’s just a letter opener, a pencil sharpener, and a couple of ink wells.

She smiled at him again, and despite intense effort, he could feel his face beginning to redden. A moment later, when she returned to her telephone duties, he noticed the nameplate on the desk: Miss Elkins.

As Wesley walked toward the doorway, repeating her name over and over to himself, he was impressed by the way the people around him were dressed. A distinguished gentleman with gray hair was talking to two younger men. All were attired in expensive-looking, pin-striped, black or charcoal suits, and their shoes gleamed like polished mirrors. To an excitable, nine-year-old mind, these men seemed to be shady figures from the underworld, but in actuality they were probably salesmen.

Wesley Brower was nearly sixteen when he again found himself standing in the lobby of the radio station. That was in October of 1942. Sadly, Miss Elkins was no longer there, and a portly woman of about sixty now occupied the front desk. But she was friendly and helpful, which made his ordeal just that much easier. He had come looking for a job.

Elaine Overmire directed Wesley to a small table, where he was required to fill out the application form. In the square for age, he stretched the truth to 16, reasoning that his birthday was only four weeks away, and certainly nothing would turn up before then. Sorrow stabbed at him when he reached a line requesting Parent or Guardian’s Name (if applicant is under 21), for Harold Brower, the boy’s father, had died suddenly of heart failure four years earlier.

Wesley was sitting at his desk in school when the news came. Mrs. Taylor was called to the door, where the principal stood, surveying the class. She said something to Mr. Jamieson, who closed his eyes and nodded his head. A moment later, Wesley sensed that the principal looked directly at him, although from his vantage point across the room he could not really be sure. When Mrs. Taylor approached his desk and quietly asked him to report to the principal’s office, something in her tone of voice made him shudder with fear.

The office door was open when he arrived, so Wesley took a hesitant step inside. Mr. Jamieson was standing with his back toward him, but he turned around when he heard the boy enter. Have a seat, Wesley. He motioned to the children’s chair near his desk. Mr. Jamieson made no eye contact, and Wesley noticed that the principal’s hands were shaking as he spoke.

I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, son.

Wesley thought at once of his loved ones—Mommy, Daddy, Steve, Lizzie, Grandma Coleman, Uncle Matt. Mr. Jamieson cleared his throat and finally looked straight at the boy.

It’s your daddy, Wesley. Your momma’s brother called and said they found him unconscious at work. He was gone before they could even get him to the hospital. The principal put a strong hand on the boy’s shoulder. I’m sorry, son. You’re excused to go home, of course. Your Uncle Matthew will pick you up in a few minutes. You just wait here, and I’ll go retrieve your books and jacket.

Wesley appreciated not having to go back to the classroom, and he never forgot this small act of kindness on the principal’s part. Mr. Jamieson sat with him in his office until Uncle Matt arrived to take him home.

Mr. Brower, if you’ll come with me, they’d like you to do a mike test while you’re here. Mrs. Overmire, application in hand, opened a door leading to a long hallway and waited for Wesley to follow.

Now …? Wesley asked. He was stunned by the suddenness of the employment process.

If you don’t mind. We prefer to attach an evaluation to the application form, if we possibly can.

Wesley stood up and did as he was told. It did not take a keen observer of the human condition to see that this teenager was suffering from acute stage fright. Don’t worry, whispered the receptionist. It’s pretty straightforward. You’ll do fine.

The announcing booth was just slightly larger than a broom closet—perhaps five feet by seven feet. It was heavily padded, with thick acoustic insulation on walls and ceiling. Near the window, at eye level, hung an RCA 44-BX microphone on a short metal boom. What appeared to be an ordinary music stand stood directly beneath the microphone.

Give me a voice level, please, came instructions over the speaker.

Wesley was unsure what to do. I … uh … don’t understand.

Just say ‘Mary had a little lamb. Its fleece was white as snow.’ We need to set a mike level on the pot.

Wesley took a deep breath and quoted the nursery rhyme.

That’s fine. Hollis will be bringing you some copy to read, the same disembodied voice said. Stand a little closer to the mike, please.

The door opened, and an elderly man, presumably Hollis, handed Wesley some United Press news copy. Read this when the red light comes on, he said. We’ll give you a couple of minutes to look it over. The door closed with an airtight thump.

Off in the distance, across a darkened studio, Wesley could see three or four men lounging around a smoke-filled control room. Hollis disappeared into the darkness and then emerged to join the others. There was absolute silence. Wesley looked down at the two jagged sheets of yellow newsprint, which he felt sure would either make or break his radio career. He scanned the words, hoping to find no solipsisms or pokladnas.

After an intense five minutes, during which Wesley scrutinized his script so many times that he could nearly repeat it from memory, a more resonant—almost Wellesian—voice came over the booth’s loudspeaker: Have you had enough time to look over the copy? Wesley’s mouth went dry. Years of faithful listening left no doubt whatsoever that he was now in the rarefied presence of Marshall McFall, the Dean of Central Texas Announcers.

Wesley cleared his throat and mumbled something to the effect of, Yes, sir. I guess I think I have. Then he looked up, waiting for the executioner to throw the switch. The red light came on. His mike was open. He began reciting.

HERE ARE THE LATEST NEWS HEADLINES FROM THE UNITED PRESS ...

GERMAN AND RUSSIAN REPORTS TODAY INDICATED THAT WINTER IS BEGINNING TO CLOSE DOWN ON THE LONG RUSSIAN FRONT ... FROM THE APPROACHES TO THE CAUCASUS OIL COUNTRY TO THE BATTLEGROUNDS OF LENINGRAD AND THE FAR NORTH.

THE NAVY ANNOUNCED TODAY THAT AN ENEMY SUBMARINE HAD TORPEDOED BUT FAILED TO SINK A MEDIUM-SIZED UNITED STATES MERCHANT VESSEL OFF THE PACIFIC COAST. THE ATTACK OCCURRED SEVERAL DAYS AGO AND SURVIVORS HAVE LANDED AT A WEST COAST PORT.

CHIEF FRED S. WALLACE OF THE AGRICULTURAL ADJUSTMENT AGENCY SAID TODAY THAT ALTHOUGH 1942 SET AGRICULTURAL PRODUCTION RECORDS, MORE IS NEEDED FOR NEXT YEAR AND ... QUOTE ... WE SHOULD EXAMINE OURSELVES TO SEE IF WE ARE DOING ALL WE CAN TO WIN THIS WAR.

THE WAR DEPARTMENT TODAY ASKED CONGRESS FOR IMMEDIATE ENACTMENT OF LEGISLATION TO REDUCE THE DRAFT AGE TO EIGHTEEN, IN LINE WITH PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT’S ENDORSEMENT OF THAT PROPOSAL IN HIS RADIO ADDRESS LAST NIGHT.

AND ...

BRITISH FOUR-MOTORED BOMBING PLANES ATTACKED INDUSTRIAL AREAS OF NORTHERN GERMANY DURING THE NIGHT, AT THE COST OF ONLY TWO PLANES. GERMANY, ADMITTING DAMAGE TO NORTHERN AND EASTERN GERMANY BY INCENDIARY BOMBS, SAID SEVERAL PLANES WERE SHOT DOWN.

Wesley stopped reading and breathlessly watched for the red light to go dark. Though he had flubbed incendiary and momentarily stumbled over immediate enactment, overall he was quite pleased with himself. In fact, he wished he could keep the news copy as a souvenir, but he decided that might not seem professional. When the door finally opened, he handed the copy to Hollis, who escorted him back to the lobby.

Mrs. Overmire was busy on the telephone, so Wesley waved goodbye to her as he walked by. She did not notice him and continued reading off a set of figures from the station’s rate card. Pepper Young’s Family was on the air, and Wesley listened while viewing the revised collection of framed photographs on the wall behind her desk: Major Edward Bowes, Fred Allen, Cecil B. DeMille (autographed), and Kate Smith. Then he wandered out to where he had left his bicycle for the two-mile ride home.

Hollis returned to the studio, tossed the United Press wire copy into the wastebasket, and lit up another cigarette.

* * *

Portia Faces Life, said National Broadcasting Company announcer George A. Putnam, a story reflecting the courage, spirit, and integrity of American women everywhere …

It was 4:15 on a Tuesday afternoon, and Nora Brower was in the kitchen, pressing her family’s laundry. She always positioned her ironing board near the table radio, so the Frigidaire’s cycling motor would not disturb her enjoyment of the daytime serials. These were her only escape from an otherwise spartan routine of housework and doing her bit for the war effort. Monthly stipends from the administrator of Superior Office Supply enabled her to manage the home while still keeping food on the table. Like frugal women across the nation, she lived by the wartime slogan of Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.

Nora never had to change the dial from 820 kilocycles during the four-o’clock hour because WBAP in Fort Worth and WFAA in Dallas carried a succession of her NBC favorites on that uniquely apportioned frequency. When a Girl Marries had just ended, and today’s installments of Just Plain Bill and Front Page Farrell were yet to come. Her younger son, Wesley, was already upstairs, tackling his homework, but Nora knew that within fifteen minutes he would be sprawled in front of the Philco radio/phonograph cabinet for Superman on WACO. Dinner tonight would be baked chicken with store-bought sweet corn and homegrown black-eyed peas.

The other two children, Elizabeth and Steve, were also home—she talking to her best friend, Susan Keeley, on the telephone, and he lifting his barbells. Nora could hear the weights striking the floor above her, despite the layers of rugged gymnasium matting that Steve borrowed from Coach Harry Stiteler.

Stephen Collins Brower was the athlete in the family, a strapping 180-pound fullback who seemed destined for Baylor University’s gridiron squad until the war intervened. Now he was anxious to enlist in the Navy, though his mother first made him promise to complete his senior year at Waco High School. Steve had turned seventeen on July Fourth, a patriotic birthday he shared with nineteenth-century composer Stephen Collins Foster, in whose honor his music-loving father named him.

Elizabeth Ivy Brower, on the other hand, was the namesake of her maternal grandmother, Ivy Elizabeth (Hahn) Coleman. Though she went by Beth at school, her relatives and close friends continued to call her Lizzie. She was fourteen, two years younger than the middle child, Wesley, and an active leader in neighborhood scrap drives. Her enthusiasm was positively contagious. During the fall, the team that she captained managed to collect the highest volume of discarded metal among all eighth graders citywide. Elizabeth played the piano for her Sunday school department and the flute in the North Junior High School band.

Over the sound of Portia Faces Life, Nora heard footsteps running down the stairway and glanced over her shoulder to see who it was. Elizabeth entered the kitchen with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye. Mother, do you know what Susan saw in today’s newspaper? You’ll never guess!

I’m sure I don’t know, Nora said. I saw the paper after breakfast, but I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. She resumed ironing.

"Not this morning’s paper. The Times-Herald."

I give up, Lizzie. Tell me.

Marsha Dent is getting married … on Friday, week.

Nora looked up, still moving the iron. No! Our little Marsha at the USO?

That’s what Susan told me. Her mother saw it in the paper and showed it to her.

But she’s only sixteen. Are you sure there isn’t some mistake?

Elizabeth flashed a mischievous smile and made certain no one else was within earshot. "That’s just it, Mother. There was some kind of mistake, and that’s why she has to get married."

Her mother looked embarrassed. Lizzie!

Well, can you explain it otherwise? She doesn’t have a boyfriend. Susan says Marsha wasn’t even dating anyone … at least from school. Just dancing with those Army guys from the airfield.

Doesn’t the newspaper say who the bridegroom is?

Elizabeth took a step closer to the ironing board. No, it doesn’t, and that’s what’s so mysterious about this whole thing. It just says ‘Marsha Dent of this city announces her wedding plans for December 4 at Austin Avenue Methodist.’ Susan was so upset she was nearly crying.

Are they close friends?

I guess so. Of course, Susan’s just in the eighth grade like me, but they must know each other from church.

I thought Susan went to First Baptist.

She does, and so does Marsha Dent. But for some reason the wedding’s going to be at Austin Avenue Methodist.

The 4:30 station break caught Nora’s ear, and Elizabeth apologized for interrupting her mother’s listening.

Oh, don’t worry about that. Portia can get along fine without me. Nora examined the white blouse she was ironing. Listen, if it’ll make you and Susan feel better, I’ll give Mabel Johns a call after dinner. She knows the Dents.

Can’t you do it now?

No, not now. I’m busy and so is Mabel, I’m sure. She folded the blouse. You know, this just shocks the daylights out of me … if what you say is true. I didn’t think Marsha was that kind of girl.

I don’t know—those uniforms can do awfully funny things to a girl, Elizabeth said. She giggled when her startled mother looked up at her.

Nora shook her head. And I don’t want you hanging around that USO unless I’m right there with you.

Yes, ma’am. You sure don’t have to worry about that.

Tsssssshhhhhhhh. The water in the pot of black-eyed peas had bubbled over and was dripping into the gas burner.

Oh, dear. Turn that down for me, will you, Lizzie? Just let it simmer.

While Elizabeth took care of that minor emergency, Nora unplugged the iron and laid it upright on the kitchen counter. She folded the legs of the ironing board, turned it on its side, and carried it, cradled in both arms, toward the utility closet. Then she remembered something and stopped short. Oh, Lizzie, would you ask Wes to go buy some coffee for me? Maxwell House. We’re all out, and I don’t want to have to run to the store in the morning. Moek’s doesn’t open until 8:30.

Can’t we have it delivered?

Nora put the ironing board away and brushed some loose strands of hair from her eyes. Now, I’m not going to have poor Russell Mimms trek all the way over here with a one-pound package of coffee—not with two able-bodied young men in the house. Steve will be all sweaty from his exercising, so Wes can do it after ‘Superman’ finishes. She walked over to her ration box. He’ll need to take a coffee coupon with him—number 27—and there’s a half-dollar lying next to the toaster. She handed the coupon to her daughter and heard the heavy tread of her older son’s footsteps coming down the stairs.

Steve, breathless and with a towel draped around his neck, came into the kitchen to get some ice water from the refrigerator. He was sweating profusely, and the accompanying odor contorted the faces of his mother and sister.

You’re dripping all over the floor! Elizabeth squealed.

Steve swallowed a mouthful of water and smiled at her. You should have seen me before I dried off.

Elizabeth held her nose with her right hand, grasped the coin beside the coupon in her left, and hurried from the room.

Honestly, Steve, you really should take a shower before you come down here, Nora said.

He emptied his glass and began pouring another. Couldn’t wait, Mom. Too thirsty.

Who do you play on Friday?

He raised an index finger, as if to scold his mother. "Whom."

Nora laughed. All right, ‘whom’ do you play this Friday? She shook her head and walked over to the gas range. You know, ‘Mr. Clifton Fadiman,’ you’re getting too smart for your own good. She stirred the black-eyed peas.

Sorry. I just happened to have a good English teacher last year. It’s been drilled into me. He reached into the cupboard for some potato chips. Our game is against Bryan High. Their coach used to play for Baylor. Steve stuffed a few chips into his mouth and continued talking with his mouth full. Name’s Pete Jones. Ever hear of him?

I don’t think so. Why?

He was the captain of Baylor’s team in 1928—back when they played on campus instead of at Muny Stadium. You remember Carroll Field?

I’ve heard of Carroll Field, but that’s about all, she said. I never saw it.

It stood where they’re constructing that new student union building now—there and Minglewood Bowl, I guess. He took the towel from his neck and wiped the perspiration off his face. The game’s going to be on radio.

Is it really? What time?

At 7:55 on WACO—but they won’t be carrying the half-hour from 8:30 to 9:00.

That’s silly. Why not?

I guess they don’t have any choice, Steve said. He munched a fresh mouthful of chips. Someone at school said the station has to carry ‘Spotlight Bands’ and ‘Gracie Fields,’ or the Blue Network might cancel their contract.

Well, I think a radio station’s first loyalty should be to its community.

Hah! That’s not the way the real world operates. He patted the top of his mother’s head. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure that I don’t score unless we’re on the air.

* * *

As the Christmas season approached in 1942, Wesley had abandoned all hope of securing a position with the radio station, so he took on a morning newspaper route instead. Though by nature an early riser, within four days he reached the conclusion that crawling out of bed at 4:15 was beyond the pale of reasonable behavior. Still, he persisted.

One thing he did like about throwing the News-Tribune was the sense of solitude it afforded him—particularly during the early stretches of his delivery routine, prior to 5:30, when the streets were nearly deserted. For blocks at a time, he would not see another human being, and except for an occasional dog bark, the early-morning silence would only be broken by the sound of his bicycle tires rotating against the pavement. The cold air felt good on his face, and it was a pleasant sensation to exhale in short puffs, allowing his condensed breath to hang like miniature clouds around him.

He never failed to see Frank Jackey, the Pure Milk man, who had been a welcome visitor to the Brower household long before Wesley was born. Now the pair would wave hello as they passed each other, which usually occurred on either Homan or Lyle, just as Wesley was beginning his return trip home. Mr. Jackey drove standing up, with the doors wide open, and Wesley envied his freedom. While most motorists were restricted to three gallons of gasoline a week, deliverymen—with C stickers on their windshields—sailed far above such petty concerns. As effortlessly as gods, they simply filled up their fuel tanks and signed company vouchers before leaving the motor pool each morning.

Even in the short time that he had been a paperboy, Wesley noticed a marked increase in the number of homes displaying Son in Service flags in their front windows. Each of these vertical banners consisted of a small star on a white field, bordered in red and suspended from above by a heavy gold cord. So far, every such star that Wesley saw was blue in color, emblematic of a family member serving in the military. He had never yet encountered a gold star, which signified that a father, husband, brother, or son had been killed in the war. He knew there were some around—the Jacksons on Maple, the McDuffs on North Sixteenth, the Bellamys on Grim—but they were not on his route.

One Monday after school, as Wesley walked home from his friend Morton Wilson’s house, he could see his mother talking with the postman, Mr. Bill Johnston, who had just handed her the afternoon mail. The wind was out of the northwest and bitterly cold, so it pummeled Wesley directly in the face with every step he took. Despite the protection of his heavy coat and gloves, he felt chilled to the bone. When his mother and Mr. Johnston turned to greet him, so benumbed were his facial muscles that all he could manage in response were some slurred syllables of incoherent grunting. It was embarrassing, but even he had to laugh at his inability to produce normal human speech.

Why don’t you go inside? his mother said. I was just hanging this wreath when the mail came. I’ll heat up some soup for you.

Still red-faced and laughing, Wesley opened the front door and tossed a nod of goodbye in the direction of Mr. Johnston. Once the door closed behind him, it felt wonderfully warm in the house. He took off his gloves, then his coat and scarf, and only his feet remained cold. As Wesley changed out of his school clothes, he heard the front door slamming shut and his mother clanging a saucepan in the kitchen.

Campbell’s chicken noodle, he shouted.

Okay, came Nora’s shout in reply. Hurry on down. I have something important to tell you.

Wesley descended the stairs three steps at a time, keeping a loose grip on the handrail just in case he stumbled. He could hear a Sterling Drugs commercial on the kitchen radio, so he knew either Lorenzo Jones or Young Widder Brown must be on NBC. A glance at the electric wall clock told him the former must be just ending.

Get yourself some crackers and sit down, Wes, Nora said. I’ll have it ready for you in a jiffy.

He took a cardboard box of saltine crackers from the pantry and laid it on the kitchen table, where he settled in a chair facing his mother. You wanted to tell me something? He began eating a cracker.

You got a telephone call today from the radio station.

No kidding? From KWXN? A smile beamed across his face.

I guess so. The Columbia station.

I’d about given up on them. Did they say what they wanted?

Nora laid a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of Wesley. So scalding was it that she needed a pair of hot pads to transport the bowl over to the table. No, he didn’t say, but I’ll bet he wants to offer you a job. You’re supposed to call him back as soon as you can.

Who was it? Anyone you’d ever heard of?

No. She picked up a slip of paper from the counter and read it. Mr. Roger Devlin at 2-8-6-7. His voice sounded very official.

Do you think I should call him now?

No, you go ahead and finish your soup first. He said he’d be there until five.

But it’s too hot to eat. Besides, I’d rather call before Steve and Lizzie get home.

Well, Lizzie’s staying over at Frieda’s house for dinner, so you don’t have to worry about her. I’m not sure when Steve will be home. He’s getting some training in civilian defense—he and a couple of his friends. You know, Billy Paul’s father is an air raid warden.

Wesley heard the familiar voice of George Ansbro on the radio: Now it’s time for ‘Young Widder Brown’. The boy blew on a spoonful of soup to cool it down, but to no immediate avail. ‘Young Widder Brown’, the announcer continued, the story of the age-old conflict between a mother’s duty and a woman’s heart.

* * *

It would be untruthful to say that Wesley was overwhelmed by the magnificence of KWXN’s newsroom. In fact, he was downright disappointed. No doubt this was more a function of his own unreasonable expectations than any intrinsic shortcomings of the room itself. Wesley simply was anticipating too much from the number two station in a small market.

The only radio newsroom that he could remember seeing was a breathtaking photograph of WGN’s facility in Chicago—snapped on an incredibly busy news day (or was it staged by the Chicago Tribune photographer?)—with cigar-chomping reporters frantically hunting and pecking the latest fast-breaking stories, pageboys trampling each other to carry communiqués from desk to desk, and an assemblage of wall clocks proclaiming the precise times in such exotic places as Manila, Cairo, and Rio de Janeiro.

KWXN’s newsroom consisted of six desks, with typewriters and candlestick telephones, and a single teletype machine. The clock showed Central War Time.

Wesley labored under no delusions as to how he had landed the weekend news reporter’s job, for his announcing voice, though passable, was still untrained and immature. He had not yet learned to project from the diaphragm, a failing that, despite his most careful articulation, conspicuously betrayed the tender years of inexperience.

No, it was just that KWXN, in common with most business establishments of the day, had found itself seriously short of manpower. Three full-time announcers had enlisted, one was drafted, and two weekenders had quit—one to resume his studies and possibly avoid conscription, and the other to accept a customary forty-eight-hour position at the Bluebonnet Ordnance Plant in McGregor.

Wesley’s job in radio was to gather, write, and present a total of five evening newscasts—three on Saturday and two on Sunday—each of which was five minutes in duration (four minutes if sponsored). For the first weekend, December 19 and 20, he tagged along after his predecessor, Myron Burgess, who had suddenly felt drawn to increase his study load at Baylor University and thus would be leaving the station’s employ at mid-week.

Myron showed Wesley how to check the county and city law enforcement blotters (or, in the parlance, SO and PD), as well as the myriad other regular stops that might turn up leads for public consumption. You’ll need about ninety seconds’ worth of local stuff, he explained. The rest is just ‘rip and read’ from UP.

The teenager soon learned that Myron Burgess’s driving habits were eccentric, to say the least. He parked the news unit wherever it happened to coast to a stop after he turned off the ignition. He used the rear-view mirror as a vanity for in-transit mustache trimming. He backed up like a contortionist, with the door ajar and his head nearly resting on the running board. And on well-lit streets he doused his headlights, … in case we come under enemy attack. He seemed blissfully ignorant of the thirty-five-miles-per-hour nationwide speed limit.

Wesley would never forget his first actual newscast, which he delivered at 10:55

p.m.

on Sunday, December 20, 1942. Myron Burgess was in the booth with him—ostensibly for moral support, though he clearly seemed more concerned with the relative merits of Chesterfields and Old Golds than with Wesley’s maiden voyage through the ether. The lead stories that night were the Russian Army’s winter offensive in the Don Valley and the record-shattering cold wave that had New England in its grip. Locally, the headliner was the opening of Providence Hospital’s Ask for the Moon, a three-act comedy at Sacred Heart Academy to raise money for the purchase of war bonds.

Wesley’s family stayed up to hear the two Sunday evening broadcasts, and his mother even greeted him when he returned home at 12:40. Particularly at night, it worried her whenever Wesley drove. He had secured his driver’s license only five weeks earlier—on November 17, three days after his sixteenth birthday—so he was a relative novice behind the wheel. With a sense of relief, Nora turned on the outside light after detecting the sound of their 1938 Chevrolet crackling the gravel driveway. Then, hearing him fumbling with his keys, she opened the back door to give him a warm hug and a kiss. I only wish your father could have been here, she said. He would have been the proudest man in Waco.

After setting his alarm clock for 4:15, Wesley went directly to bed. Still, sleep deprivation caused him to toss that morning’s edition of the News-Tribune in a disoriented stupor. Only the cold rain managed to keep him awake as he pedaled along his route.

* * *

Let’s try ‘My Bonnie Boy’ again, Walter Merkens said to the junior high band. From bar forty-three, please, the ‘Poco allegro’ section. Then the band director appended some words of inspiration, which he hoped might evoke greater intensity and commitment from his young woodwind, brass, and percussion players. Ralph Vaughan Williams, he said, careful to pronounce the first name in the British fashion (rhyming it with safe), is probably England’s greatest living composer, so let’s do him honor by the way that we play. Keep in mind, boys and girls, that he and his countrymen have survived the terrible Blitz, so it’s the least we can do, as Americans, to let the music of Britain breathe amongst us in these times of sacrifice.

One of the boys, no doubt Haywood Sanders, chose that awkward moment to cough, and a round of quiet titters passed through the ranks. Mr. Merkens ignored the affront. "The English Folk Song Suite, of which we are playing the second movement, was written twenty years ago, but just this year Gordon Jacob arranged it for full orchestra. So you may be hearing it some Sunday afternoon on one of the networks. He stared directly at a clarinetist. Ramona, you came in a whole beat too early the last time we played it straight through. Uh-huh, you know what I’m talking about—at bar twenty-two, where it’s marked ‘Cantabile.’ I can’t be holding your hand on this. You need to count those rests very carefully."

Humiliated in front of her classmates, Ramona Eccles fought back tears and avoided looking at her betrayer. She fixed her gaze on the stand that she shared with Penny Plum, then reached over and penciled in a notation on the score. Concho! she whispered to herself.

Following rehearsal, as the woodwinds were disassembling their instruments and gathering up their music, Ramona noticed her friend, Sylvia Baines, talking with two other flutists. Syl, she said, what do you think of our new bandleader now? Her voice was too loud for the sensitive message it carried.

Sylvia glanced around before answering. Not much. He seems to be kind of a … twerp … don’t you think? Ramona laughed her approval. The other girls, Christine McElroy and Elizabeth Brower, were amused but said nothing.

He’s always picking on me, Ramona told the two bystanders, even when I play something perfectly. And it’s always ‘Ramona’ whenever somebody squeaks in the clarinets.

I liked Mr. Bell better, Christine said, and Elizabeth nodded in agreement.

The band hall was nearly empty now. Besides the four girls, there was just a janitor sliding the music stands to the back of the stage.

Ramona spoke more softly now, as if to reveal some classified information. I guess you know why Mr. Merkens can stay, while Mr. Bell is off fighting for his country. My dad says Walter Merkens is a CO … a conscientious objector. She waited for the enormity of the disclosure to sink in. He’s too yellow to fight. He’s a pansy … a coward.

The janitor turned off some of the lights. You girls had better be going, he told them. Time to shut down.

Yes, sir, they said, and they walked together down the corridor to their lockers.

Sylvia was the first to speak. It really irritates me to see someone like Mr. Merkens taking it easy … while our boys are dying all over the world. Mike Lightsey was in the Philippines when it fell, you know. And the Boyers lost a son at Pearl Harbor.

Mr. and Mrs. Fischer already have three sons in the service, Christine added, and Billy Fischer’s going to join the Marines when school’s out in June.

So’s my brother, Steve, Elizabeth said. The Navy. He wants to serve on a destroyer.

How old’s your other brother? Sylvia asked.

Wes? He’s just sixteen. He’s got another couple years to wait.

Ramona knew better. You can join up when you’re seventeen now. They just can’t draft you.

Wow! Sylvia said. You might have two blue stars hanging in your window by next year at this time.

Elizabeth shook her head. Mother would never let Wes enlist until he finished high school. He’s only a sophomore.

* * *

Whenever the weather permitted, Wesley would ride his bicycle to KWXN on weekends. The Browers’ family automobile—a dark green 1938 Chevrolet two-door coupe—had a common A sticker on its windshield, which meant that governmental rationing allotted only three gallons of gasoline for the fuel tank every week. At seven miles per gallon, this did not permit any frivolous driving. Too, the automobile’s tires were becoming dangerously shy of tread. Purchased as original equipment from a Chevy showroom in October of 1937, the tires were long overdue for replacement—at the very time when war conditions had created a global rubber shortage.

Truth to tell, Wesley’s bicycle tires were also rather bald, and now that he was delivering the News-Tribune six mornings a week, their mileage was accumulating quickly. New twenty-four-inch tires were unavailable, except on the black market, and such coveted items almost never appeared in the used classified ads. Someday, he thought, if he could just secure more work hours at the radio station, he would quit his newspaper job for good. In the meantime, it was a matter of restricted usage and the occasional patching of flats.

One Sunday afternoon in late April, as Wesley pedaled up Sanger Avenue toward the radio station, he heard an automobile horn impatiently honking behind him. He waved for the vehicle to pass, but it stayed right where it was—about ten feet away, directly to the rear of his bicycle. It was still shadowing him when he turned onto Colcord, so he jumped the curb and turned around quickly to spot who was driving. The automobile pulled to a stop alongside him, obliging Wesley to lean downward in order to see the driver’s face.

It was a girl, about his own age, but no one he recognized from school. She was smiling and motioning for him to come over to the window. Almost as a reflex, Wesley smiled back and laid his bicycle on the sidewalk. He heard her say, Hello again! as he approached the car, and the cheerful familiarity in her voice was confusing. He hesitated a moment before speaking.

I don’t … Am I supposed to know you from somewhere? he asked.

She turned off the engine. Don’t you remember me? I’m Sandy … from church. Sandra Whittsel.

No. I’m sorry. I … His mind raced, but he could not place this girl at all. Are you sure it was Columbus Avenue Baptist?

That’s right, she said. I saw you in the hallway this morning. You’re the radio announcer!

Dazed and flattered, Wesley tried not to seem overly boastful. Well, yes, he said with a grin, I guess I am. The automobile’s passenger window was down, so he rested his forearms on its waist-high lower frame and studied the girl’s face. This he did in profile, for she reacted to his probing look by quickly averting her eyes toward the dashboard—a quality of shyness that he found intriguing. It did cross his mind, however, to wonder why a girl who was capable of tailing a strange bicyclist for several blocks suddenly would feel compelled to withdraw from a direct encounter.

From what he could see of them, her eyes were dark brown with long lashes, and they complemented well her pretty, turned-up nose. Her hair was dark brown, really closer to black, and trimmed short in the stylish fashion of a pageboy. He could not assess her mouth very distinctly because of the way she was sitting—with her right elbow resting upon her leg and her right hand partially obstructing his view—but her complexion was creamy and without any discernible blemish. She was slender and quite petite, in fact barely able to see over the top of the steering wheel.

Where do you go to school? Wesley asked. I haven’t seen you around.

Sandy turned partially toward him but still did not make eye contact. I start sometime next week, she said. We just moved here from Georgia.

At Waco High? Gee, that’s swell. Maybe you’ll be in some of my classes.

I hope so. She looked directly at him for an instant and smiled.

Wesley’s heart was beating faster, and a euphoric feeling swept through him. Yet he surprised himself with how confident he remained, in the presence of such a lovely young girl. It was really quite easy, he discovered, when the object of his attention was so shy and so obviously impressed with his standing as a Radio Announcer.

My daddy’s in the Army, Sandy said after an awkward moment of silence. At Blackland Air Field. He’s a flight instructor.

That’s what I’d like to do someday, Wesley heard himself say. Fly a fighter plane. You know, my brother’s going to join the Navy in a couple of months, after school’s out. But me … I’ve always preferred the Army. An automobile raced by, and Wesley waved at his school chum, Ron Casper. Ron had no driver’s license yet, but that did not keep him from running short errands for his mother.

Well, I’d better let you go, Sandy said. It was nice seeing you again.

Same here.

Are you going to be at church tonight?

Can’t. I’ve got two newscasts to do.

What station are you on?

KWXN—1170 kilocycles. I just do Saturday and Sunday nights right now … because of school, you know.

I’d like to hear you sometime. Maybe next Saturday.

Wesley fought back a smile. I guess I’ll be seeing you around. I think you’ll really like it at Waco High. Just hope you don’t get Mrs. Symes for English.

Okay. Thanks for the warning! ’Bye.

’Bye, he said. She started the automobile—a 1937 Pontiac Silver Streak—and Wesley stepped back as she placed it in gear and slowly drove off. He noticed that there was a military sticker on the rear bumper.

Wesley’s bicycle lay on the sidewalk, but now he wished he had walked to work today. He wanted time to think.

* * *

Almost without exception, Nora Brower did her main grocery shopping on Thursday mornings, following that up with the purchase of some perishable goods on the ensuing Monday. She traded at Moek Grocery, a small neighborhood store on Colcord, not far from the Twenty-fifth Street Theatre. Hermann and Gertrude Moek were German immigrants who settled in San Antonio in 1911, just two summers after their marriage in Dresden’s historic Frauenkirche. By the time the United States entered the World War in the spring of 1917, Hermann Moek was a twenty-nine-year-old dry goods salesman who could speak fluent English with only the barest trace of his Teutonic roots. Still, because of his Boche background and the fact that his parents continued to correspond with him from Kempten, he was suspected of lukewarm Americanism. The couple moved to Waco, with their son and daughter, four months after the Armistice.

Moek Grocery offered a remarkable variety of food items for a store of such modest physical dimensions. The exterior of this rectangular, wood-framed structure was deceiving. Once inside, the uninitiated customer was struck immediately by how much larger it had suddenly become—a function of Hermann Moek’s clever shelving that stretched from floor to ceiling on the outer walls and snaked like a Victorian maze within. The store was not self-serve, like the new Piggly Wiggly markets. A grocer shopped for each customer and then consolidated the merchandise into boxes near the ornate cash register, which stood atop a side counter.

Nora contended she could find dozens of products at Moek’s that one might seek in vain at much larger stores. She also liked the friendly service, the competitive prices, and the proximity of the store to the Brower home. Stock boy Russell Mimms could deliver right to her door within ten minutes, except at peak business hours. Most of all, Nora liked chatting with Gertrude, a semi-weekly visit that more than exhausted the fifteen to twenty minutes it took for Hermann to fulfill the Brower grocery list. Hermann never begrudged his wife this time of relaxation with clientele because she kept their home spotless and orderly, as well as maintaining the store’s fine inventory of fresh fruits and vegetables, some of which she grew in the Moeks’ own victory garden.

Gertrude Moek was from Dresden, about three hundred miles northeast of her husband’s native Kempten. Like Hermann, she too was short and plump. In contrast to him, however, Gertrude still had one foot in the Old World, whereas he was thoroughly Americanized (Whatcha fellas need today, huh?). Nora Brower used to wonder why this would be, until one day she came right out and asked her friend to explain the odd disparity. Far from being offended by Nora’s bluntness, Gertrude found it endearing that anyone should actually wish to hear her theory on linguistics.

I can only t’ink of two reasons why d’at might be, she said. One … Hermann was studying English all his life, from d’e age of eight. Me, I’m too stupit to go to college. And two … during d’e last war, it was very dangerous to talk wit’ d’e German accent. Oh, yes! ’Specially for d’e man. Germans was d’e enemy, you know. She put her hand on Nora’s arm and made sure her husband was not within hearing range. Old Hermann … he had d’e Deutsch scared right out of him!

What Gertrude’s analysis failed to note was that Hermann Moek was a natural polyglot. He was reared in dairy country, near the Swiss and Italian borders, and he could speak French, Italian, and German with graceful facility by the time he was four. In school, he assimilated English like water through a funnel, though it was not until his move to the United States that he managed to fight off the last vestiges of a foreign accent. He exuded that special patriotic fervor peculiar to a naturalized immigrant.

Hermann and Gertrude Moek had a daughter and a son. Anneliese lived with her husband and three (soon to be four) children in Boerne, Texas, not far from Lampasas. Conrad, though, was an expatriate. In 1934, at the age of twenty-one, he journeyed to his ancestors’ fatherland for the first time and stayed. His parents had not heard from him in several years, and they seldom brought up his name in conversation.

* * *

Stephen Brower analyzed his reflection in a full-length mirror that was attached to the back of the closet door in his parents’ bedroom. With his sister and mother doing their thrice-weekly work at the United Service Organizations canteen on Washington Avenue and his brother away at the public library, he thought this might be a good opportunity to try on his cap and gown without the constructive criticism that normally accompanied such vulnerable moments. The cap seemed a bit snug, but the gown fitted perfectly, barely dusting the tops of his dress shoes. Graduation was now only one month off.

His father’s clothes still filled one entire side of the closet, and he wondered why his mother had never bothered to sell them or give them away. Steve ran his right hand across the long rack of suits, dress shirts, and neckties, and he noticed that eight pairs of men’s shoes were neatly arranged on the floor. His practical mind refused to admit the possibility that his mother simply could not bear to part with them, but that may well have been the case. Were there not still a half-dozen ashtrays scattered about the house, even though none of Harold Brower’s survivors had acquired his taste for cigarettes?

Steve thought he heard the front door open, so he snatched off the cap and gown and carried them to his own room. He tossed them in an unceremonious heap on his bed and began rereading a letter he had received that afternoon from Cynthia Mills. That you, Wes? he shouted toward the doorway.

No, it’s us, came his mother’s reply from below.

"It is we," Steve said, but he got no reaction from the inside joke.

Come on down. We want you to hear something.

Steve took one final look at the bottom of the letter: Love always, C—. Like it or not, that Cynthia was getting to him, even though he had no burning desire to ever see her again. Strange. She claimed to be living in Joplin, Missouri, but the envelope was postmarked McAlester, Okla. He laid the letter on his nightstand and went downstairs.

His sister, Elizabeth, was crouched by the Philco radio/phonograph, holding some record albums in her hands. Listen to this. She placed a disc on the turntable. Mrs. Huddleston donated a bunch of English recordings to the USO.

Their mother, Nora, was seated on the sofa, digging through a large grocery sack of recordings, and she added a few words of explanation. Mrs. Huddleston’s brother brought them over with him from England last year. His home in Coventry was damaged by the Nazi bombs, so he had been staying with his son in London.

Steve sat down on the arm of one of the easy chairs to listen. As Elizabeth placed the needle on the spinning disc, she paraphrased Mrs. Huddleston’s ironic commentary. "Her brother makes it through the Blitz, sails across the Atlantic through all those U-boats … and then dies of the measles in Elm Mott, Texas!"

A few seconds of pops and crackles could be heard, but soon the extraneous noise subsided, and the music began. Steve recognized the song as one he had heard a couple of times at Sheila Marshall’s senior party.

There’ll be blue birds over/The White Cliffs of Dover/Tomorrow, just you wait and see./There’ll be love and laughter/And happy ever after/Tomorrow, when the world is free …

It’s Vera Lynn, Elizabeth said. They call her ‘The Forces’ Sweetheart’ over there.

Mrs. Huddleston told me that of all the singers, she was her brother’s particular favorite, Nora said. There are several of her recordings in this sack.

They also listened to We’ll Meet Again and When the Lights Go on Again. Steve—no great lover of music—had to admit that he liked what he heard. And exactly how long do you plan on keeping this government property? he asked his mother.

We’ll have to take them back with us on Saturday, she said. Mrs. Huddleston just wanted us to hear them before they went into the general collection.

Music! For a moment, Nora recalled how frustrated her husband had become when he tried to teach young Stevie and Wes the clarinet. Of the three children, only Elizabeth would ever embrace that muse. She gravitated toward the piano but was also quite proficient on her father’s single-reed instrument—that is, until Kenneth Bell switched her over to the flute because of what he perceived to be her natural transverse embouchure.

After the three Vera Lynn sides, Elizabeth put on the nostalgic A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square by Elsie Carlisle and There’s a Boy Coming Home on Leave by Bebe Daniels and Ben Lyon.

Deanna Durbin’s Brunswick release of Beneath the Lights of Home was playing when Wesley came in the front door with a stack of schoolbooks under his left arm. What’re we having here … a platter party? he asked over the music.

Shhhh! Elizabeth said.

Wesley put his right index finger over his lips and looked suitably apologetic. He tiptoed across the room to the sofa, where he kissed his mother and sat down with the paper sack between them. Idle curiosity compelled him to shuffle through the shellac discs that remained inside it.

They’re for the USO, Nora whispered to him.

Wesley nodded his head and suddenly became serious. Were these Pop’s? He leaned forward to lay his textbooks on the coffee table.

No, Mrs. Huddleston’s brother’s.

He nodded again and listened to the record.

Deanna Durbin was only nineteen years old when she sang this, Elizabeth said. She’s a Canadian actress and vocalist, but the record came from England.

… Let me live my memory/Once again I long to be/Beneath the lights of home.

When the song ended, there was a brief silence, and then Steve spoke up. Wes, I’m going to need your help after dinner.

Wesley noticed that his brother seemed preoccupied. Sure thing, he said. What gives?

Just a little moving project, that’s all. Shouldn’t take longer than about a half-hour. Steve forced a smile. It’s for the war effort. On the phonograph, Bertha Willmott started singing Bless ’em All.

Wesley glanced at his mother and sister, then back at Steve.

You’ll get no promotion/This side of the ocean/So cheer up, my lads/Bless ’em all.

Excusing herself, Nora made her way slowly toward the kitchen, and Elizabeth gathered up the discs.

Oh, no, don’t stop, Nora said to her. I’m enjoying the music. But her voice sounded hollow and tired.

After her mother left the room, Elizabeth looked again at the record album she was holding and ran her hand across its tattered cover. There was some lettering in the upper right-hand corner, Harry Wickham, apparently made with a rubber stamp. I’ll be in to help in a few minutes, Mother, she called to the kitchen.

Steve lowered his head, as if an errant stitch of carpet had caught his attention.

* * *

Help me move these boxes downstairs, Steve said to his brother after dinner. I can’t budge them by myself. He and Wesley were standing in the doorway of Steve’s bedroom, which did not appear to be as cluttered as it normally was.

Wesley swallowed hard. Your barbells?

Well, be honest—don’t you think I’d slow everybody down if I carried them around in my seabag?

Wesley sat on the edge of the bed. So you’re really going through with this, huh?

Sure I am. What made you think I wasn’t?

I don’t know. You just haven’t said anything about it lately.

Steve shook his head. You know how Mom is. It upsets her to even think about one of her chicks finally leaving the nest. The tough part will be getting her to sign that parental permission form. I won’t be eighteen until July.

Wesley smiled. She’ll do it, though, just the same.

Steve walked over to the corner of the room, where the metal bar was leaning with its collars still intact. I’d give them to you, but I know you’d never use them. He laid the bar down next to the boxes.

You haven’t already enlisted, have you?

No, but some of the guys have—Mike, Pete, both Swansons … Jim first and then his brother the very next day. They’ll all be leaving as soon as graduation is over. Five or six on the football team have already signed up. I’ll be going downtown on Monday, week—just for a physical, you know—and it’s anybody’s guess when they’ll decide to take me. Like I say, I’m underage, so I’ll need to get Mom’s okay first.

Well, I’m proud of you. Wesley offered his hand. We all are.

Embarrassed, Steve shook his brother’s hand. Hey, I’m no hero. I’d be drafted anyhow.

Yeah, but you’ve been talking about this ever since the war started.

Talk is cheap. At least this way I get my choice of services.

Navy?

That’s right. I just hope they don’t put me on one of those subs.

Tell them you like to sleep with the windows open.

Steve laughed. You know, I don’t even like to get on an elevator. Are you that way?

No, Wesley said. Despite living in the same house for sixteen years—in the same room for the first six—it struck Wesley how little he really knew about his own brother.

Steve walked over to the desk. You want my slide rule for trigonometry next year? he asked. You’re going to need it.

Maybe I’ll just borrow it from you until you get back.

Take it. Steve placed it firmly in the palm of his brother’s hand. I don’t plan on being an engineer. Here, take my microscope, too … and my radio.

Wesley shook his head. No, I couldn’t do that.

Steve saw that Wesley meant what he said, so he backed down. Okay. They’ll be here if you need them. He looked out his window to the street below. The Army’s sending a scrap truck over here at 7:30. We’d better be getting this stuff downstairs.

Wesley kicked one of the boxes. How much do you think they weigh?

"I can tell you exactly how much they weigh. Each box … He did some quick mental calculations. Each box weighs one hundred and eighty … ninety … ninety-five pounds. One ninety-five. Times two is three hundred ninety in all."

That’ll make a lot of shells, Wesley said.

And one of those shells could save my life someday. He feigned a punch to Wesley’s stomach. Come on, let’s get this over with. Remember to lift with your legs, not your back.

* * *

Only a few weeks of school remained when the new pupil arrived in class on a Friday afternoon. Wesley’s algebra teacher, Mrs. Krenek, ushered the girl to one of two vacant seats at the rear of the room. That situated her right next to Rollie Barnes, Waco High’s starting first baseman in just his sophomore year and a standout guard on the varsity basketball team.

Boys and girls, listen, please. Everyone turned around to hear the teacher’s announcement. This is Sandra Whittsel. She comes from Georgia. Was it Savannah, dear?

Yes, ma’am.

And her daddy’s in the United States Army Air Corps. Please make her feel at home.

Wesley tried to get a good look at her, but Ruth McAllister’s ample girth and flowing hair effectively prevented that. He had not seen the new girl since their chance meeting on Sanger Avenue almost a week earlier, and he was curious to confirm his first impression of her. At the conclusion of class, he hurried toward the door, only to watch the newcomer being escorted toward the sophomore lockers by Mary Jean Lowe, Miss Lowe’s friend Annie Heitmueller, and Rollie Barnes.

Julius Dunnam stopped him a couple of minutes later, just before the bell rang for English. That new girl’s a looker, don’t you think? he asked.

Wesley shrugged his shoulders. Not too bad. ’Course I was way up at the front of the room, so I can’t say for sure. I think her old man’s a flight instructor.

I wonder if they’ve already found a place to stay.

Oh, lay off, Casanova, Wesley told him. He shook his head and grinned.

Two days passed, and church came and went—uneventfully, from a social perspective. Not only was the new girl nowhere to be found, but clumsy Howard Forsch spilled orange juice all over the refreshment table at Sunday school, saturating the crotch of Wesley’s new slacks. Maybe it was a good thing she was not there after all.

That night, Wesley’s mother and sister were slated to work at the USO, so Nora decided to drop him off at the radio station en route. Wesley rode in the back seat, and Elizabeth sat up front, alongside her mother. The girl’s flute case was there too, just in case the director thought some live entertainment might brighten the fly-boys’ spirits.

Whenever she was in an automobile, Elizabeth would preside over the dashboard radio, adjusting its dial every few seconds until she located a song she wanted to hear. Perry Como was singing On the Island of Catalina with the Ted Weems Orchestra, so she allowed it to play.

On the island of Catalina,

I fell in love at a single glance.

On the island of Catalina,

A paradise for our romance .