Five individuals bound together by their shared experiences in a childhood tragedy, grow into maturity at the beginning of W.W.II. 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.
Red Rover
By Robert R. DozierAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Robert R. Dozier
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4634-7465-2Chapter One
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...
