The
Ride to Elkton
The Elkton Train Station, circa 1946
The Gotham,
with the North Side ferry slip at right, circa 1946
It was the summer
of 1946 when my father got the notice from the Chesapeake City Post Office.
World War II had just ended the summer before when the Japanese surrendered,
and I was sure glad they did. I was nine when they gave up and for some time
had worried my head off about them. They
were responsible for the red rationing tokens that my mother had to use at the
American Store; they were responsible
for white margarine that we kneaded to give the appearance of butter; they were responsible for the
frightening news reports on the radio.
I had dreamed about
them, and one of the nightmares I remember clearly. In my dream, I had cycled
into town to Beiswanger’s for an ice cream cone. Well, instead of old, stooped
Mrs. Bieswanger grudgingly dipping out the ice cream, and short, dapper Mr. Beiswanger
fumbling around in the back, there—replacing them in the store—were three or
four Japanese clerks. And there, looking right at me from over the ice cream
counter was one with protruding teeth and a demented, kamikaze smile. Before I
turned and ran, I looked around to where Mr. Beiswanger usually was and saw another
Japanese, who was even wearing a leather aviator’s helmet—with goggles.
Then the dream ended. But the worry
remained even though they had surrendered, and by that summer of 1946 I was
still not over the fear. My Uncle Warren was in the war and at that time was in
occupied Japan .
We all worried about him, yet we were pretty sure that he would be home soon.
But on that Saturday morning, when my father told me what the notice from the
post office said, I was pretty excited. It said that we were to go to the
Elkton Train Station to pick up a large package addressed to me.
“What’s in it,
Pop?” I asked.
“Don’t know, boy,”
he said. “We’ll go get ’er and find out.”
So after we fed the
chickens, dumped some scraps and corn into the hog trough, and made sure that
they had water, Pop changed out of his work clothes and we drove down our long
lane, swerving to avoid the areas mined with potholes. Then we reached the asphalt
road, and we were off—bound for Elkton. At that time Pop had a black ’41 Ford.
Oh, she was beautiful on the outside, but under the hood she was dirt-ugly. The
thing would hardly run, so going anywhere was always an adventure.
We chugged into
town, up the hill to George Street ,
past Foard’s Hardware Store, turned right onto Third Street , past the Methodist church,
and headed down Ferry Slip Road. Halfway down we had to stop to wait in line to
board the ferry. Riding the ferry was nothing new to me; it had been there
since 1942, when our bridge was taken out by a tanker, so I had ridden it many
times.
Finally, we saw it
enter the slip and after a while we drove up the ramp and boarded it, coasting
in on one side and braking abruptly behind the car in front of us. We made the
crossing and Pop drove off the ramp with a clatter and soon we started laboring
up Sisters’ Hill. The rings were worn out in the old V8 and about halfway up
the hill large puffs of blue-black smoke began flowing from the exhaust pipe,
causing the car behind us to fall behind. Pop just shook his head and kept the
accelerator down. For a minute or two I thought we’d have to get out and push,
but she finally made it, barely creeping over the crest and leaving an amazing
cloud of smoke behind us.
We made it to
Elkton all right, crossing over the bridge at Elk Creek and rolling into the
parking area of the train depot. We went in and I followed the clerk and Pop to
a dark room cluttered with packages and large articles of all kinds. The clerk
rummaged around for a while but then found our item standing up in the corner.
It was a long, slim wooden crate, addressed to me. I started carrying it out,
but soon realized that it was too unwieldy, so Pop put it over his shoulder and
took it to the car.
The long package
wouldn’t fit across the back seat so we put it lengthwise from the back window
ledge and across the seat between our heads. The crate was about five feet
long, eight inches wide, and four inches thick. It was exciting and mysterious to
me because I had no idea what would be in such an unusual package. And I don’t
think that Pop knew either. I read the label on the crate; it was to me all
right, in “Chesapeake City ,
Maryland , USA .”
The crate was made of rough wooden slats, nailed together—solid.
We drove on back
from Elkton and our Ford descended Sisters’ Hill like the most powerful vehicle
on the road. When we got to the ferry slip the boat was just pulling out. We
were the first car in line so we sat there with the gate down in front of us
and peered across at the South Side. We could see the Mindy Building
over at the government peninsula, where the old Causeway used to be. We watched
a tug surging against the current with a barge in tow. Rees’ warehouse next to
the wharf loomed in the distance and, of course, the famous Hole-in-the-Wall
where, Pop said, the drunks would have riotous fights when everybody else was
home in bed.
Then we saw the
ferry on its way across. But something was wrong. The current was strong and
the wind had picked up. And both were taking the ferry east, away from the
slip. Oh, it was struggling hard for sure—bereft, askew—and belching black
smoke from its stack. Smack in the middle of the canal, it lost its battle and
was blown east about as far as the old waterwheel near the Corps of Engineers’
office. I sat bewildered as Pop explained what was happening. Then, somehow, it
straightened itself and, favoring the North Side, fought its way back to beyond
the ferry slip.
It made a big
circle and came in towards the slip, sideways like a crab in the current. Then
it came roaring in, churning swirls of water as it maneuvered through the
black, heavy pilings. It bounced off the east pilings and sloshed, banged, and
hissed into the slip like some squat, bulky sea monster. Pop looked at me,
chuckled, and said that Captain Ed must not be on duty today. Captain Ed
Sheridan was our cousin and the best pilot on the water.
So we boarded and
got back to the farm without incident, and Pop put the crate on a bench in the
shed, and with a hammer and a small crow bar opened it. I couldn’t believe what
lay in that box. Filmed with a thin coat of grease was a full-sized Japanese
rifle. It had a heavy wooden stock and a shiny, black barrel. The front sight
was bigger than any I had ever seen, and the back sight could be adjusted for
long-distance firing. Pop read the note that was in the box: “For Bobby from
Uncle Warren. Hope you like it.”
Pop lifted it out
of the crate and wiped off some of the packing grease. We took it outside and
he let me aim it at the corn crib in the distance. I could hardly hold it level
it was so heavy. But it was wonderful; my Uncle Warren was wonderful. Pop put
it back in the crate and we stored it in the corner of the shed for years to
come. As I grew up there on the farm, I would take it out once in a while and
have great fun with it. Because we had no shells to fit it, there was no
danger. Then, later, in my late teens, I bought some 7.7 millimeter shells and
fired it a few times.
About six months
after the rifle arrived, Uncle Warren returned home to his family in Wilmington , bringing with
him a framed picture of himself in uniform, painted by a Japanese artist. He
was to visit our farm often on Sundays and, tilting his beer, he’d joke about
the Geisha girls in Tokyo .
But on his first
visit after his arrival from Japan ,
I ran to his car, and when I smiled at him through the open window he said, “Do
you like the gun?” And I could tell by his eyes and his voice how much pleasure
he got from sending it to me. And I’m sure that he could tell just how much the
gift meant to his ten-year-old nephew. After that I didn’t worry or dream any
more about the Japanese invading our town. Why should I? I had their gun.
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