Backlands (41 page)

Ginny, born out of wedlock, unrecognized by both her father and the government, got nothing. Matt thought it unfair, but Anna Lynn was unperturbed. She'd always expected to raise Ginny on her own, without help from anybody.

Good news from the front came in June with a decisive American naval victory over the Japanese at the Battle of Midway. But it wasn't enough to lift a persistent gloom created by a war now encircling the globe.

Through all this the 7-Bar-K thrived. The War Department bought cattle, and the army wanted replacement ponies. Rains had come in record amounts, greening up the pasturelands. Matt bought cattle to fatten for market and sold all the ponies except his breeding stock. He took a close look at his land after fall works. With good browse for another year, he immediately started replenishing his stock. Agricultural commodities were exempted under the new price-stabilization law, and when shortages and rationing began, the price of beef would go even higher.

In October 1942, Matt sat down and wrote out a plan for the 7-Bar-K of what he hoped to accomplish over the next few years. Indoor plumbing, a bathroom, and electricity were at the top of the list. He wanted several ranch roads built to handle truck traffic and two good work trucks to get around on the spread more quickly. If the money was there, a garage with automotive tools and spare parts and a gasoline storage tank to fuel his trucks would give him greater independence. Last on his list was the luxury of a new hay barn.

Not knowing exactly what the next few years would bring, he wasn't sure that much of his wish list was realistic. He sat down with Patrick and Al Jr. for a confab and went over the plan with them. Al Jr. suggested replacing some old stock tanks and Pa argued that some new fencing was needed.

Matt added the items, handed the list to Al Jr., and said, “That's a hefty list. See what you can get done.”

Al Jr. looked sharply at Matt. “You're gonna enlist, aren't you?”

“Yep, after the holidays.”

“Damn fool,” Patrick grumbled. “Does Anna Lynn know?”

“She will this weekend. I'm going to ask her and Ginny to spend Christmas and New Year's at the ranch. We'll get a Christmas tree up, put a roast in the oven, have some presents under the tree, and make the old homestead look festive. In fact, I'd like to have a real shindig and invite our neighbors over to celebrate the New Year.”

“Sounds like you're throwing a good-bye party for yourself,” Patrick groused.

“And why not?” Matt countered with a smile.

Patrick grinned. “I ain't opposed to it, really.”

“Brenda will love it!” Al Jr. said, pushing back from the table.

Matt stood. “If there's no other business, the meeting is adjourned.”

***

O
n Saturday night at the farmhouse, after Ginny was tucked in and asleep, Matt told Anna Lynn of his decision to enlist in the New Year. She fell silent and got busy tidying up the kitchen. When she finished and returned to the parlor, she sat quietly in her favorite chair and began reading, her spectacles perched on her nose.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” Matt asked in frustration from the davenport.

Anna Lynn looked over the rims of her glasses at him. “What for? Your mind is made up, isn't it? What branch of the service have you chosen?”

“The army. I'm not much of a swimmer. I've been thinking you should marry me.”

She took off her glasses and stared at him. “If I didn't care so much about you, I'd ask you to leave my house right now.”

“Hear me out. I figure we get married and I claim Ginny as my own. If I don't come back, you get a pension and a little bit of extra money for her.”

Anna Lynn's stare turned into a glare. “Absolutely not. I will not profit from your death. I'd feel responsible if something happened to you. It's a terrible idea.”

“It wouldn't be your fault.”

She shook her head. “I know what you offered comes from the heart, but I never want to discuss this with you again.”

Defeated, Matt rubbed his chin and looked away. Finally he said, “Okay, how about spending Christmas and New Year's at the ranch? We'll do the whole shebang: a Christmas tree, presents, a big roast in the oven, and a holiday shindig with friends and neighbors. We can celebrate the good fortune and good times we've had together.”

Anna Lynn's glare melted. She rose and joined him on the davenport. “That's a wonderful idea. How can a man as sweet as you want to go to war?”

Matt shrugged. “I've tried to talk myself out of enlisting. So has Pa, who got shot pretty bad in Cuba.”

Anna Lynn sighed. “I suppose there is no easy answer.” She reached for his hand. “Take me for a moonlight walk. We'll bundle up, look at the stars, and pretend the world is at peace.”

They strolled past the corral and up the canyon. On the basin below, the lights of Alamogordo, a short distance away, winked in the night. To the west of the town, they could see the lights of the new Alamogordo Army Air Field, soon to become operational, with aprons, runways, taxiways, and hangers already built.

Although they didn't speak of it, both knew that when the army planes started flying, the reality of the war, no matter how far away it was for now, would change the Tularosa forever.

I
n January 1943, Matt enlisted and was promptly sent for basic training at Camp Hood, a new army base in central Texas, outside of Killeen and south of Waco. At thirty, he was the oldest member of his basic training company. Soon everyone started calling him Pops, and the moniker stuck.

There were tens of thousands of soldiers in basic training at the camp, but it wasn't much different from the CCC camps, just put together on a much grander scale. His training unit was one of dozens with barracks, a company HQ, rec halls, and mess halls arranged in the same layout as the Forest Service camps he'd inspected for Hubert Roddy.

At first, he worried he might not hold his own with all the young bucks. But by his second week it was clear that many of the guys were having trouble keeping up with him. Used to getting up before dawn and working long past sunset, he was in better shape than most of the eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds. In physical training he lagged only in the runs, although he managed to stay in the middle of the pack. As the days passed, he picked up speed and stamina and started closing in on the front-runners.

At the start of third week of basic, Matt was ordered to report to the first sergeant. His platoon leader had recommended him to be an acting squad leader. He was given an armband with two stripes to wear to show his acting rank. As soon as he got back to the barracks, he got razzed for being an apple-polisher.

It was winter in Texas, but it felt more like a hot, steamy spring, with temperatures hitting the low eighties. The days were mostly humid, and Matt didn't enjoy the mugginess. It sucked the energy out of him.

While it was greener than home, with more trees in the lowlands, the absence of mountains seemed unnatural to his eye. The creek bottoms were pretty and the grass more lush, but the land didn't grab Matt's attention like the Tularosa did.

The camp had a newspaper,
The Hood Panther,
and one issue featured a story about how the camp of more than two hundred thousand acres had been created almost overnight by moving more than three hundred families off their land and demolishing the small towns of Clear Creek, Elijah, and Antelope. Although the article trumpeted the willing war sacrifices made by the displaced farm and ranch families, Matt figured there had to be another side to the story. He didn't think folks whose families had been on the land since the days of the Texas Republic were overjoyed to give up all they'd worked for over the years. He wondered if any of them had dug in their heels and tried to stay put. Knowing country folk, he didn't doubt it.

On the rifle range, Matt qualified as expert with the M-1 rifle, the carbine, and the .45 semiautomatic. A few other country boys who'd grown up squirrel hunting did the same, but all together they formed a small, elite group of five men in the entire company. Even with the temporary rank of acting squad leader, Matt wasn't immune to KP, a duty universally hated by all, but he pulled it without complaint, as he did guard and latrine duty.

Three days before graduation and a day after the company completed a twenty-mile forced march with a full pack, weapons, and gear, Matt was ordered to the company HQ. He dragged his weary, sore feet into the XO's office, snapped to attention, and saluted.

Lieutenant Fultz consulted the papers on his desk. “Private Kerney, you have one year of college and speak fluent Spanish. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You've been selected for admission to the Army Specialized Training Program.”

“I never heard of it, sir,” Matt said.

“Now you have. You get to go to school courtesy of the army,” Lieutenant Fultz said with a slight sneer. “I've been told it's easy duty, Private.”

“What kind of school is it, sir?” Matt asked.

The lieutenant paged through the paperwork in front of him. “You're going to learn Italian at a college in Massachusetts, Amherst.”

“Why Italian, sir?”

Fultz stared at Matthew. “Because that's what the army wants you to do, Private. Your orders come with a priority flag, which means somebody somewhere thinks this is important. Because you're already fluent in Spanish, you'll be in an advanced, accelerated class. There's a booklet in your orders that describes the program.”

“Can I turn these orders down, sir?” Matt asked. “I'd like to stay with the outfit.”

“No, you cannot.” Fultz handed Matt the paperwork. “You are ordered to report to your new detachment immediately. Your travel orders are inside. You don't get any leave to go home. But buck up. I've been told if you finish the program, you'll be in line for a commission. You just might get to sit out the war at some stateside desk job.”

“I didn't enlist for this, sir,” Matt said.

“I don't like it myself,” Fultz replied. “You've the makings of a good noncom.”

Matt scanned his travel orders. “Excuse me, sir, these order show my rank as private first class.”

Fultz grinned. “You've been promoted by the CO for finishing basic at the top of your class.” He shook Matt's hand. “Congratulations, Pops. Get those stripes sewn on your uniform before you clear the post.”

“Yes, sir,” Matt said, executing a perfect hand salute.

Matt took his promotion orders to the PX, bought stripes for his uniforms, returned to the empty barracks, and started sewing. By the time the platoon returned from a tactical field exercise on the obstacle course, Matt was packed, in uniform, and ready to go. His squad gathered around and cheered him out the door, while across the quadrangle, the company commander; the XO, Lieutenant Fultz; and the first sergeant stood outside the company HQ watching. Matt stopped, saluted, and moved out smartly to the camp personnel hut, wondering what he would find at Amherst College in Amherst, Massachusetts.

***

M
att sat in his college dormitory room at the small study desk beneath a window that looked out on a campus covered in a thick blanket of snow. Located on a hill, the college was postcard pretty. From his room he could see Pratt Quad, with a view of the statue of one of the college's founders, Noah Webster. It was a blustery late afternoon, with only a few students crossing the quad in a hurry to get out of the cold.

After the barracks at Camp Hood, Matt's dorm room was pure luxury. He shared it with one roommate, and it was warm and cozy as opposed to cold and drafty. And the showers down the hall had both hot and cold water.

He was three weeks into the program, grinding away twelve hours a day with classes and homework, his head filled with a jumble of Italian conjugations, pronouns, adjectives, and common phrases. The work was so demanding, three students had already failed to make the cut and been sent off for advanced infantry training.

He closed his book, rubbed his eyes, and reached for paper and pen. He'd written Anna Lynn only once since leaving home, a short letter from Camp Hood telling her where he was and that he was all right. She'd not written back. He wondered if she might have already moved on to someone else.

He stared at the blank piece of paper, decided to write again, and began:

Amherst College
Amherst, Massachusetts

Dear Anna Lynn,

I hope this letter finds you and Ginny in good health. I'd planned to come home on leave after basic training, but at the last minute I received orders to travel to Amherst College to attend a language training school and had to report immediately. I tried to get out of it but couldn't, so here I am learning Italian at this all-male college in New England with no gals around to distract me.

It's a pretty campus right next to the town, which is very quaint. Everything about the place seems so settled and permanent, with lots of stately brick buildings, huge old trees lining the streets and campus walkways, and rows of Victorian houses with carefully tended lawns. I now understand why our part of the country seems so wild and untamed to easterners.

I didn't realize until I arrived at Amherst that I would have been disqualified for the program because of my age, if hadn't known how to speak Spanish. How about that? The army considers me old. The boys in my unit here have taken to calling me “Pops,” just like the guys in my company did at Camp Hood.

Most of the soldiers here are eight to ten years younger than me, with more college under their belts, but I'm holding my own in the advanced class. Why they have me learning Italian, since Spanish is also taught here, is beyond me. Sometimes “the army way” doesn't make much sense.

The first day of class, our instructor walked in and said, “Today we are studying the Italian language.” That has been the last thing he said in English. He's a retired professor who speaks five languages fluently. We're learning both the northern and southern dialects. Except for history and geography, all my other classes are also in Italian.

The work is intense. We were supposed to get to go on leave after the first twelve-week period, but instead we're to start the second term immediately. The only guys who aren't bitching are the few married men who live off campus with their wives. Why the big hurry, no one knows.

The program is officially known as the Army Specialized Training Program, and we even have our own patch: a lamp of learning with an upright sword thrust through the middle of it. Except for wearing a uniform and an occasional head-count formation, it's like being a civilian.

I got promoted to PFC before I left Camp Hood, and there's a possibility that I might be commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant if I successfully complete the training. Even if I don't get bars for my collar, the course work will put another year of college under my belt. That should count for something.

New Mexico seems so far away, and I'm missing you a lot. Write if you want; it'll boost my spirits considerably. Give a hug and kiss to Ginny.

Love,

Matt

Matt read through the letter and sealed it. He wrote a short note to Pa and a slightly longer one to Al Jr., letting them know how he was doing and asking how things were going at the ranch. He bundled up against the cold and headed outside to the mailroom. When he got back, his roommate, Dominic Amato, a five-foot-five Sicilian from New York City who loved opera, had returned from the library. A naturalized citizen, Dominic spoke both Sicilian and Italian. Matt did language drills with him every night after chow, and it was paying off richly in his classes.

“Are you ready to practice speaking the possessive adjectives?” Dominic asked him in Italian. “Your accent is still too American.”

Matt groaned and began.

***

T
hree weeks into the second term, Matt and Dominic received special orders to report immediately to the Forty-Fifth Infantry Division at Camp Pickett, Virginia. With the orders came promotions for both of them to the rank of technical corporal.

A quick check of a world atlas at the library showed that the camp was located fairly close to the shipping port of Newport News.

“We're going to invade Italy,” Dominic crowed. “I hope we go to Sicily first. I've got relatives there.”

“Maybe it's a big mistake, and we're being sent to invade Norway, where nobody speaks Italian,” Matt replied, studying his promotion orders. “I thought we were supposed to become lieutenants.”

“What'sa matter, you don't like being a corporal, Pops?” Dominic countered. “Besides, we didn't finish, did we? You only get to be an officer if you finish.”

“I'm not complaining,” Matt replied. “Corporal has a nice ring to it. Napoleon was a corporal.”

“Yeah, and so was Hitler,” Dominic added.

“Ouch,” Matt replied. “What do you know about the Forty-Fifth?”

“Nothing. You?”

“Nothing, except it's infantry. I would have preferred the cavalry.” Matt hoisted his duffel and looked around their dorm room.

“You'd think the army would get a horse just for you, Pops. A man your age and a real-live cowboy after all.” Dominic emptied his sock drawer into his duffel bag.

“Call me
corporal,
not Pops,” Matt corrected. “Say good-bye to the good times and easy duty.”

“
Addio,
” Dominic said, throwing his duffel over a shoulder.

“
Arrivederci,
” Matt added, following Dominic out the door.

***

C
amp Pickett was in a frenzied state of mobilization when Matt and Dominic arrived. They reported to the S-1 personnel officer, a major with dark circles under his eyes and a disapproving look on his face. He read their orders twice.

Outside his office, clerks were frantically typing while others were handing out paperwork to soldiers in a line that stretched outside the building.

“Jesus H. Christ, Italian interpreters,” the major finally said. He sized up Matt and Dominic as they stood at attention in front of his desk. “Just the two of you?”

“As far as we know, sir,” Matt volunteered.

“You're probably supposed to go to Intelligence,” the major remarked. “But S-2 has already left the post. We decamp for Newport News in two days. Without orders you'll be left dockside.”

The major bit his lip, pondered, and then started writing. When he finished, he handed one paper to Matt and one to Dominic.

“Give those to my clerk, the PFC just outside my office. He'll cut temporary orders assigning you to a company that's short a couple of men. That'll make you official until S-2 can be advised. Get over to post commissary and get your rank and division patches for your uniforms. Then come back here for your orders.”

“Yes, sir,” Dominic said.

“Welcome to the Forty-Fifth,” the major said without much enthusiasm. He looked the two soldiers up and down one last time. At least they weren't going to be his problem anymore. “When you're finished here, report to the quartermaster and draw your gear and weapons. You may have to do more than speak Italian to help win the war.”