No Road Back: A WWII Novel

No Road Back: A WW II Novel

Thomas D. Street

Copyright 2012 by Thomas D. Street

Smashwords Edition

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This is a work of historical fiction. All characters, events, organizations, etc. used in this novel are products of the author’s imagination and are used in a fictional manner.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Many thanks to my wonderful daughter Katherine for converting the crumbling, onion skin hard copy original of my father’s manuscript into digital format. Your typing speed and accuracy are simply amazing.

Thanks also to the many unnamed editors my father hired over the years to help fine- tune his manuscript, and lastly, to the many beta readers who have given invaluable feedback.

I know that somewhere, my father is smiling down on all of you.

Lisa (Street) Damerst

FOREWARD

First cousin to James Street, author of ten best selling novels, four of which were made into Hollywood films, Thomas Street felt a passion for story telling. He delighted in telling stories to friends and, in more private moments, to my sisters and I. But there was one story he told only to himself.

My sisters I and often fell asleep at night to the sound of him click-clacking away on his Royal typewriter, writing and rewriting. In my earliest memories I see my father sitting at the dining room table surrounded by stacks of red-marked onionskin pages. A labor of love, the manuscript took him decades to complete, through joy, frustrations and tears and with the unwavering support of my mother, Frances. The story draws its life from my father's 26 years of service in the United States Air Force, that included World War II, the Korean War and peacetime stations in Hawaii, England, Italy, and Japan.

Waiting for his editor to finalize the manuscript, my father passed away on a cold Saturday in January, 1976. Two days later the editor handed his manuscript to me, a teenager, and overwhelmed by loss and sadness, I set it aside with an unbroken promise to someday realize my father’s dream of publishing No Road Back. The story existed only on onionskin for thirty-six years and now, in 2012, finally appears in print.

CHAPTER 1

The house on the hill overlooking the village of Paulding, Mississippi where Dave Wagnor had spent his boyhood days, once a symbol of security for those who worked the land, was vacant. It had been since Mrs. Wagnor passed away. Never in his life could he recall the house being as silent as it was that fall afternoon of 1944. Nothing moved. Even the wind had hushed, and the cedar trees growing alongside the sagging picket fence were motionless. Memories gathered quickly and sadness gripped his soul. Wiping the mist from his blurred eyes, he stepped onto the full-length front porch and heard the boards creak beneath his feet, reminding him that the long months of serenity had been broken. His emotional crisis deepened.

After unlocking the front door and stepping into the hallway, he stopped and looked all around him. Memories, furling in his mind like the surging tide of an angry sea, held him in its clutches. A full moment passed before he moved. When he did, he went straight to his mother’s room at the head of the winding stairway and sat on the edge of the bed. The last rays of the setting sun sent beams streaming through the west window. Realizing it was getting dark, he got up, struck a match and held it to the wick of a kerosene lamp. The soft yellow light sent dancing shadows across the gloomy room. An old trunk where his mother kept her important papers caught his eye. He walked over and placed his hands on the lid. His fingers disturbed a thin layer of dust. After opening the trunk, his eyes turned to a stack of papers lying in the corner of the tray, bound with a rubber band. He picked up the papers and removed the rubber band. He found a copy of the will his mother had left, the newspaper note his father received just before he was killed, and a note written to him by his mother. It was dated June 30, 1943. That was his last day on the medical board at the South Mississippi General Hospital in Laurel. He had been ordered to report to Camp Shelby the following Monday morning where he would enter the service. He recalled each moment as if it were yesterday.

Dave had worked in the emergency clinic the night before and was relieved at eight o’clock the following morning. He had two more days he could call his own, then off to the army.

After saying goodbye to those with whom he had worked for the past four years, three of them in residency, he went to his apartment three blocks away and slept until five that afternoon. After getting up, taking a shower and changing into fresh clothing, he went to the Breakfast Nook for dinner. The Nook was located just off Main Street and was the gathering place for medical students from both South and Mercy Hospitals. He got there around six and found the quaint place crowded. A long line waited alongside the service counter to place their orders. His attention centered on a girl in front of him. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn’t recall exactly what it was. He noticed, as she talked to the waiter, she gestured with her hands and smiled a lot. She was blond, wearing a light blue dress with a low neckline. He liked what he saw.

Can I help you, sir? asked the waiter. Our special is pot roast. Only seventy-five cents.

Oh, sure. Turning to the waiter, he added, That will be fine.

What’ll you have to drink?

Iced tea.

Sure.

Two sugars and hold the lemon.

Anything else? the waiter asked.

That will be all.

After putting the change from a five-dollar bill into his pocket, Dave picked up his tray and began looking for a table. There were no vacant ones; then he saw her, the blond, sitting alone in a booth. He wanted to meet her and luck was on his side. Since there were no empty tables, he headed toward hers.

Pardon me, he said, bowing slightly. There doesn’t seem to be any empty tables, and I thought, well, do you mind if I join you?

Looking up and giving him a penetrating glare, she nodded, Go ahead. I’m only going to be here for a few more minutes. I have to get back to the hospital.

Sitting down opposite her, he asked, Are you a student at South?

Mercy.

Oh, that’s right. He smiled. I almost forgot there are two hospitals in Laurel.

You must be at South.

I was until today, he said, but I’m leaving for the army on Monday. The war, you know.

She nodded. I’ve got one more year at Mercy, then they can take the text books, doctor’s orders, and the lecture jazz and junk it. I’ll be through with the whole shooting mess.

"Then what are you going to do? Don’t you plan to follow the medical profession?

Smiling narrowly, she replied, Why should I? I’m going to get a job at some airplane factory. After all, that’s where the money is.

Then why are you spending all this time training to be a nurse if you aren’t going to use it? Sounds like wasted years to me.

Oh, I’ll get around to using it when there isn’t a war to fight.’

Dave studied the girl openly for a moment. Her attitude had confused him and he wanted to know more about her. You’ve got your future all figured out, haven’t you?

There was a moment of silence. Finally she said, I didn’t say I was going to give up nursing. I only said I wanted to get a job where there’s money to be made. You have to admit nurses are very much underpaid. You spend three years with your nose to the grindstone and the rest of your life wondering where your next meal’s coming from. At the same time, girls across town are working in defense plants and making a killing. That doesn’t seem fair.

But the girls working in defense plants will have a very short career. The war isn’t going to last forever. Besides, I’ve never heard of a nurse going hungry. If you think you’ve got it bad, what about us doctors? We have to spend six years learning what makes the human body tick. When we get out, we face a future about as promising as a year old bird’s nest. Anyway, we’ve dwelled on that subject long enough. I was never good at arguing. What brings you to town?

Looking up and smiling slightly, she said, I have the weekend off and I wanted to come downtown and do a little slumming. Usually they keep us so busy we don’t have the chance to do anything but work.

"I don’t see how you’ll find much slumming at a cafeteria. However, there’s a dance out at Lake Wakuway Pavilion tonight. That’s where you can do some real slumming. Would you like to go out there with me?

The invitation caught her off-balance. Smiling wistfully, she said, This is your last night to be free. Don’t you have a friend you’d rather spend it with? Your girlfriend maybe?

There’s no girlfriend. How about it?

Getting up from the booth, she said, You can pick me up at the dorm at eight. I’ll be watching for you.

Who’ll be watching for me? We haven’t exchanged names yet. Mine’s Dave Wagnor.

Hi, Dave, she said with a smile. I’m Sylvia Nicholson. It’s nice to know you. I hope I won’t have to change my mind later." With that remark, she left.

As he walked from the cafeteria to his rooming house, he kept thinking about the familiarity surrounding her. He wondered if they had met before, or if he had met someone like her. Maybe before the night was over, he would know for sure.

He borrowed his roommate’s car and a few minutes later he was at Mercy Dorm. She was waiting for him in the reception room, wearing a light summer dress that floated around her like a cloud. It was green and reminded Dave of mint sherbet. She had the right number of curves, and all in the right places.

When you say eight o’clock, he said, you mean it. It’s nice not to be kept waiting.

I have a reputation for being ready on time, she said. I loathe having to wait for anyone.

Their conversation was easy-going and light. They were enjoying being with each other. About a mile out of town they came to a dirt road and swung to the right, leaving the main highway behind them. The road led them through a grove of scrub oaks, down a narrow ravine and to the front yard of an unpainted wood house.

You wait in the car, he said, pushing open the front door. I’ll see if I can wake somebody. The house was pitch dark.

Is that what you call a speakeasy? she asked.

Bootlegger is a better name. What would you like, bourbon, Scotch or wine?

Whatever you like. I’m not a heavy drinker. I can roll with the punches.

When he got to the house, he looked all around for some sign of life. There wasn’t any. He leaned over and knocked twice on the small window. About a minute or so later, a fat man, wearing a sleeveless undershirt and exposing his dirty arms and neck, raised the window and stuck his head out. He saw Dave and asked gruffly, Can I help you?

I’d like a bottle. I was told I could get one here."

The man asked, What kind ya want?

I want a bottle of bourbon, about a pint.

Aw’right. Taking hold of the window to close it, the man added, Go back and wait for me at ya car. Sellin’ this stuff is illegal. I don’t keep it ‘round the house, it’s too risky, I’ll be back in ‘bout five minutes.

Presently the bootlegger returned. He came from a patch of woods and over to the car. He handed Dave a pint of whiskey wrapped in newspaper.

Glancing at his watch and slipping the car in gear, he turned back to the main road and headed for Lake Wakuway. It was eight-thirty. The dance would be starting in thirty minutes. Already the highway was heavy with cars heading to the pavilion. For the next few minutes the conversation dragged. No doubt they could have talked about something, but Dave felt that action spoke louder than works. He knew he had a lot to prove, and he would start when they reached the resort.

Down where the road bent to the west, they could see the dim outline of the lake unfolding before them. Twilight was gone and the stars were out, and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen anywhere. The road was dusty, rising and falling like the track of a roller coaster. The night was dark and clear, and they could see the lights of the pavilion reflected against the lashing water.

This was Dave’s first visit to Lake Wakuway in over a month, his third trip ever. Sylvia was seeing it for the first time. It was Friday night and a large crowd was on hand. Every table and booth in the main lounge was occupied, and talk ran like a river. Some were dancing, some were sitting, and some were standing in a line near the service counter as three bartenders worked feverishly trying to take care of the crowd. The clock on a shelf behind the bar struck nine. Nobody paid it any attention. They were too busy laughing and talking and having fun.

After getting a set-up of ice and two Coke’s, Dave and Sylvia went out on the patio and found an empty table near the guard railing by the steps leading to the water. He treated the Cokes to the contents of the bottle he bought from the bootlegger and handed Sylvia a glass. He lifted his in a salute. Here’s to tonight, he said. I wish I had known you earlier.

You did know me before, she said, looking down into her glass. You just didn’t know who I was.

Her remark startled him. All he could say was, Huh?

"That’s right. You are Dave Wagnor from Paulding, Mississippi. My dad is Nick Nicholson.