Coming Home From War (part 2 of 2)
By C. L. Vestal (with permission)
All day long, all night long, all day long and half the night we rambled and rolled on the Atchison, Topeka and Sante Fe steam locomotive, Woo-woo—woo! down and across California, Arizona and New Mexico. About midnight of the second night, we were pulling out of Clovis, New Mexico. I knew this country now, so I got by the door so they wouldn’t forget me when I got to Friona. An ole Negro porter came to me and said, “Sailor boy, is you that passenger what gets off at Friona?” “Well, er, yes I’m getting off at Friona,” I answered. “Well now, Sailor boy, if you will just get back over in that chair, you will be in a much safer place and we ain’t going to forget you.” I let him know I wasn’t just an ordinary passenger; I knew this country. “Say Porter, you know over here when we cross the state line at Texico and Farwell?” “Yes, sir, I shore do,” he replied. “Well the other side of the state line where the railroad tracks go northeast to Amarillo and southeast to Lubbock?” “Yes, sir,” he replied again. “Is there any chance of the switch being thrown and us to go to Lubbock instead of Amarillo?” I was letting him know just how well I knew this country. “Sailor boy, that ain’t never happened yet, and if it does, we will be in worse trouble than you.” “Oh well,” I thought to myself, “He doesn’t know the kind of odds I run on.”
We rambled and rolled on to Bovina where we stopped and picked up a can of cream, and then we labored and climbed up Parmerton Hill. The black smoke was rolling out of the smoke stack of that old engine. You see, I grew up just a few miles southeast of Parmerton hill and as a boy, I used to watch those trains climbing that hill and now here I was riding one. As we topped the summit of the hill, I was looking out the window toward the southeast kind of hoping that Dad might have left the yard light on that was attached to the windmill. He hadn’t and as I backed up, “Sailor boy, does you see a yard light burning over there in some farmyard tonight?” the old porter was still riding herd on me. “No sir, but I know where I’m going.” “How long you been gone, Sailor boy?” “Two and a half years,” I answered. For some reason, I had begun to warm up to this ole porter. “Now Sailor boy, when we gets to Friona, you just keep your seat till I gets the door open and my step out and then I can help you down ‘cause you is our responsibility till we gets you safe on the ground,” he stated. You know he was right, when I bought my ticket, the railroad contracted to deliver me or my body to Friona.
As we slowed down, we could feel and hear the cars taking up slack in the couplings. We were slowing down for home, almost!! When we got stopped, the porter got the door open and his step down. I started down and out, my sea bag on my left shoulder and my little black suitcase in my right hand. As I started down, I felt a strong firm hand on my arm. There in the dim light of the depot, I could see an ole black hand stuck out. It wasn’t turned up for a tip; it was turned over for a shake. I set my little black suitcase down and took that hand in mine. I heard him say, “Welcome home, Sailor boy and thanks, thanks for a job well done.” Half embarrassed, I answered, “Huh, oh yeah, nice train you got here.” I guess he was glad to know that I approved of his train. All trains going home are nice and wonderful. I’ve wondered if that ole black porter might have been Matthew ‘Bones’ Hooks with the personality he had. The night I left Amarillo for the Navy, ‘Bones’ Hooks gave me a letter of appreciation along with his carnation. I still have both in my sea chest. ‘Bones’ was a porter on the Sante Fe run from Amarillo west during the war. ‘Bones’ had been an early day cowboy and bronc rider on the big ranches of the Panhandle.
As I started walking toward Main Street, I couldn’t help but notice that old steam engine that was pulling that train. It reminded me of a big one-eyed bull dog looking straight down the track. You could hear it breathing. We lost a lot when they pulled those old steamers off the tracks. They had personality all their own. The conductor gave her the hi-ball and they pulled out for Hereford, Amarillo, Oklahoma City and all points east, loaded mostly with soldier boys, sailors and marines—all homeward bound.
This may come as a surprise to you, but the thing I noticed most walking up Main Street at 2:00 o’clock in the morning in the middle of winter, was the scarcity of timber and skyscrapers in Friona. You see, the last ground I had walked on was in the jungles and the last street I had walked up was in San Francisco… When I got to the drug store, I turned left; they call it 6th Street now. Back then it was just the street going west from the drug store. With my sea bag over my left shoulder and my little black suitcase in my right hand, I passed the Baptist church and then the Church of Christ. Where I was going most all of us hometown boys when we left for the service were told, “If you get back some night and your folks are not there to meet you, come on up to our home. We will have an extra bed.” This fellow, Frank Griffith, was an old WWI veteran. He and his wife didn’t have any children.
I walked up to the back door and set my little black suitcase down and knocked. No answer, so I knocked again—I heard a coarse, but kind voice answer, “I’m coming, I’m coming, who is it?” “It’s me, Frionie.” “Who?” Oh my word. Here I was back in Friona and no one knew who Frionie was. “551-3——.” No he wouldn’t know my serial number either. Who the heck was I at home? “It’s me, Vestal.” The back door opened and there stood Mr. Griffith in his long handle underwear. He just laughed and said, “Hey, Mom, one of the boys is home!” The next thing I knew, I was all wrapped up in Goldie Griffith’s arms, standing there in the middle of her kitchen. Goldie, in her long-tailed nightgown was “God blessing me” with one breath and “Praising the Lord” with the next. Then she turned me loose and backed up and said, “C.L., I’ve been praying for you.” “Yes, Goldie, I know it and thanks a bunch.” Now let me set the record straight, there is a lot more comfort in knowing you got a ‘Good ole’ Pentecostal friend back home who gets down on her knees every night to say her prayers before she goes to bed. She finishes up with, “Dear God, please take care of my boys that are all over the world.” Then she calls our names, only this time, it’s on a priority list, not alphabetical, and my name was among the first to be called.
You see, there may be a big battleship just over the horizon ready to blow whatever is bothering you plumb out of the water, but that battleship can’t get down in a foxhole with you. God Almighty, who is much bigger and more powerful, is there with you with His arms around. As my prayer was one time, “Oh Lord, let me live through tonight.” The answer with a touch on my right arm right then was, “C.L., you will live through tonight.” That was all had for. All we needed was one night at a time.
After going to bed, I had a hard time going to sleep. This bed was big and comfortable. There was no clicking of the train wheels on the tracks, no tossing and pitching of the troopship. If a plane had flown over, as The Wop would say, “It’s friendly, I can tell by the sound of the motors. I thought of the nights I’d spent since I last slept in that bed during wheat harvest of 1940 and 41. There were nights that I had slept with a loaded 1903 Springfield lying across my belly and then a naked bayonet in my hand. Here now, all was at peace.
The next morning after breakfast as we sat at the table visiting, Goldie asked, “C.L., do you need Frank to take you out to your home?” “No, Pop Vestal has been in almost every morning checking at the depot and bus station and getting the mail early. You can just watch for him at Double A’s (Crow’s) produce house. He will be in for a can of cream or to get a sack of laying mash,” Frank answered.
I walked downtown, and just before I crossed the street there at seventh, I saw an old pickup pull up to the produce house and a familiar looking fellow in blue faded overalls got out. I stepped behind a highline pole to watch. He looked down toward the bus station (the drug store) and then went in and got a sack of laying mash. He came out of the produce house and started down toward the Post Office. “Well, this has gone far enough,” I thought as I stepped out from behind the pole and started across the street. “Hey, Dad, I’m home.” Now what happened next there in the middle of main street Friona, I will leave to your imagination.
We got in the pickup and went by the school house and got to see and say “Hi” to my sister Wana, who taught school and then we went by my grandmother’s apartment. There in Mam-ma’s bedroom, she had the pictures of a bunch of service lined up on the wall. They were labeled, ‘my grandsons.’ One was an army, air force picture and was trimmed in black—‘lost over Germany its label read. Then there was one picture of a ‘real handsome sailor boy’ that was labeled ‘somewhere in the South Pacific.” We then went back by Frank and Goldie’s to get my sea bag and the ‘little black suitcase’. As I put them in the pickup, I heard Daddy say something like, “Sure thank you.” Frank answered and said, “Sure glad to do it,” and Goldie said, “the blessing is all ours.”
Then we headed out six miles south for home and Mamma. Wow! Another happy meeting! Now Mamma didn’t butcher the fatted calf, but there was a new business in town called the ‘frozen food locker’. One could rent a box there and butcher your animals or chickens and put them in there; then you could get out what you need to take home to use and the meat would be just as good as if it were fresh-killed. While she fixed dinner, I helped Dad unload his sack of laying mash. I’d never seen him with so many hundred pound bags of hen feed. They were all of the same design of material. This material was used to make dresses, a wartime effort.
My, what a dinner Mamma did fix! It seems that she tried to have some of everything. I had written home about being hungry for various things and she tried to meet that desire! There were mashed potatoes, and one of those fryers from the frozen food locker, black-eyed peas, chicken gravy—all the works. The folks even had a used refrigerator that they had bought from Wright and Jane Williams when Wright left for the Coast Guard and Jane tried to follow him. When we sat down to eat, Dad asked the blessing and I heard him say something about being thankful that ‘someone’ was home safe. When water gets in my eyeballs, my hearing kind of shuts off!
When I filled my plate (my eyes were bigger than my stomach), I ate a few bits and then said, “I’m sorry, Mamma, I’m full. I just can’t eat anymore.” You see, when all you’ve had to eat for months is powdered and dehydrated food, your stomach shrinks to fit that kind of so-called food. Then when you get real American and Texas food, you can’t hold much of it. Same way with God’s Blessings on you, some people can’t handle it. The prayers I’ve had answered that was left up to God, after His saving grace through Jesus Christ came in the form of my teenage bride, Nola Faye, that blessing I’ve been able to have and hold forever!
While I was home, I went to visit our neighbor Mr. David Moseley, one afternoon. Now Uncle Red, that was what us kids called him, was in his shop working on a grain loader. Uncle Red was also a veteran of WWI. In fact, he had a piece of German scrap iron in his hip. We were talking about the wars. Uncle Red was a good Christian man who practices his Christianity more than he talked it. Uncle Red kept acting like he wanted to ask me something, but didn’t want to embarrass me. So I said, “You know, Uncle Red, there were nights and times that I made it only by the Grace of God.” His face brightened up and he answered, “How well I know it! There are times you just can’t make it without asking for God’s almighty help.”
When my leave was over and the time came to get on that ole Atchison, Topeka and Sante Fe, it was a Sunday afternoon and the folks made sure that I didn’t slip away this time like I did the Sunday afternoon the first time I left for the Navy. Also, down at the depot to see me off was my good friend, Mrs. L.L. Hill with a big Angel Food birthday cake for my 24th birthday that was coming up soon. How sweet and nice of her, but how was I going to have a birthday party on that train? I didn’t know anybody on it, but guess what? You never saw so many service men get acquainted and make good friends with me so quick. My party was over and refreshments served by the time we topped Parmerton Hill!
Back on Treasure Island Naval Base, they got us fixed up to go back to the war, this time to the Philippine Islands. I crossed the Pacific three times in 1945 spending more than 101 days on a troopship. One was coming home from the war. There is one more homecoming for me, but I’ve got to wait for my ship and my harbor Pilot to pick me up. When I do cross Jordan though, I’m going to take that nail-scarred hand and say, “Thanks for riding herd on me all these years. Then I’ll take my little teenage angel Celia Faye in my arms—and she’ll say, “Daddy, what took you so long?” Then I’m going to look up an angel in blue faded overalls. I’m the same age now that he was when he left his earthly home. I’ll put my arm around him and say, “Thanks, thanks for keeping a strong faith and setting a good Christian example during those hard depression, droughty, dustbowl years when I was a teenage boy.” The thing I wonder about the most is when I take that Nail-scarred hand in mine, will he be like that ole Negro porter and bid me welcome with, “Welcome home. Thanks, thanks for a job well done.”