Burton's War

By Regina Smeltzer

Burton Wilfong, a teen during World War II, kept a diary during those tumultuous years. Burton’s War blends fiction with the realities of being a male teen during World War II to create an historically accurate novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Nov 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664209442

Regina Smeltzer

Regina Smeltzer was given journals kept by her elderly uncle. Inside those pages were years of history calling to be shared. The author of three novels and one novella, Regina  Smeltzer has crafted a unique blend of history with fiction.

Book preview

Burton’s

War

39595.png

REGINA SMELTZER

39577.png

Copyright © 2020 Regina Smeltzer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

844-714-3454

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-0943-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-0945-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-0944-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020920481

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/02/2020

CONTENTS

Chapter One Present Time

Chapter Two March, 1942

Chapter Three March, 1942, Continued

Chapter Four Late March, 1942

Chapter Five Early April, 1942

Chapter Six Early April, 1942, Continued

Chapter Seven Early May, 1942

Chapter Eight Late May, 1942

Chapter Nine Memorial Week End, 1942

Chapter Ten Memorial Week End, 1942, Continued

Chapter Eleven Memoria Week End, 1942, Continued

Chapter Twelve Later That Night

Chapter Thirteen Memorial Week End, 1942, Continued

Chapter Fourteen Early June, 1942

Chapter Fifteen August, 1942

Chapter Sixteen Late September, 1942

Chapter Seventeen Late September, 1942, Continued

Chapter Eighteen Late September, 1942, Continued

Chapter Nineteen October, 1942

Chapter Twenty December 24, 1942

Chapter Twenty-One April, 1943

Chapter Twenty-Two April,1943, Continued

Chapter Twenty-Three December 25, 1943

Chapter Twenty-Four April, 1944

Chapter Twenty-Five Late April, 1944

Chapter Twenty-Six June, 1944

Chapter Twenty-Seven June, 1944, Continued

Chapter Twenty-Eight August, 1944

Chapter Twenty-Nine August, 1944, Continued

Chapter Thirty August, 1944, Continued

Chapter Thirty-One Fall, 1944

Chapter Thirty-Two February, 1945

Chapter Thirty-Three February, 1945, Continued

Chapter Thirty-Four March, 1945

Chapter Thirty-Five Late March, 1945

Chapter Thirty-Six Late April,1945,

Chapter Thirty-Seven Late April, 1945, Continued

Chapter Thirty-Eight Late April, 1945, Continued

Chapter Thirty-Nine Late April, 1945, Continued

Chapter Forty Late April, 1945, Continued

Chapter Forty-One Late April, 1945, Continued

Chapter Forty-Two Late April, 1945, Continued

Chapter Forty-Three May, 1945

Chapter Forty-Four Mid May, 1945

Chapter Forty-Five Mid May, 1945, continued

Chapter Forty-Six Mid May, 1945, Continued

Chapter Forty-Seven Mid May, 1945, Continued

Chapter Forty-Eight Mid May, 1945, Continued

Chapter Forty-Nine Mid-May, 1945, Continued

Chapter Fifty Mid-May, 1945, Continued

Chapter Fifty-One End of July, 1945

Chapter Fifty-Two August, 1945

Chapter Fifty-Three June, 1946

Chapter Fifty-Four June, 1946, Continued

Chapter Fifty-Five August, 1946

Chapter Fifty-Six August, 1946, Continued

Chapter Fifty-Seven November, Present Time

Addendum

Dedicated to W. Burton Wilfong, who trusted me with his life.

Love,

your niece, Regina Smeltzer

Chapter One

39609.png

PRESENT TIME

S trange the way life happens. Some experiences fall like soft rain, barely dampening the skin—a passing frustration, felt but not lived. Life goes on regardless. Other times, life bends the back. The inexperienced cannot understand the tension, the forced need, or the aching loss. Mostly the loss: the emptiness cast across the future, burrowing deep into the soul, intertwining with the sinew and bone of the survivor.

The anger that defined my youth burned out long ago, replaced with embers of regret.

I run my hand across the cold marble arch and enter the World War II Memorial Park. I glance at the scenes carved in stone. Men at war.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, heralding a November storm. Appropriate. My old bones ache with memory.

A group of school children, dressed in navy and white uniforms, approach, some skipping, others running like young ones do when set free. Their voices, their laughter, grate like fingernails on a chalkboard, destroying the sacredness of the place. And yet, the sacrifice represented here was meant for these children. I smile and step aside, allowing an adult, in a Heminger Elementary School sweat shirt, to rush past.

Come on, Uncle Burt. Sally, my niece, stands behind me. Her husband, Doug, hovers close by, understanding my need to linger, but not fully. His war, Vietnam, was different.

I lean on my cane and follow the cement path to the Ohio pillar. My feet falter. Just a little longer, I say. I need to see the Victory Wall. Victory Wall indeed. Here, in our nation’s capital, a wall memorializing 400,048 deaths. Among them, Harvey Gray.

We really should to go, Sally says. I don’t want you to get wet.

A cold breeze swirls dry leaves around my legs before pressing them against the wall. They drop and collect into brown heaps. Someone will remove them. Or, perhaps, the leaves will rot and return to the earth. I heave a sigh. Such is life.

Sally tugs at the sleeve of my Burberry overcoat, the one my wife, Lydia, bought me before the heart attack took her. Let’s start back, she says.

As the first drops of rain splat against the sidewalk, Harvey’s voice from the past fills my head. Don’t tell. Don’t rat me out.

I didn’t.

And Harvey died.

Chapter Two

39609.png

MARCH, 1942

T he piercing sound of the air raid sirens grated against Burton’s eardrums to the point where he was sure his brain tissue would leak out.

Move along, Mrs. Green shouted over the shrieking wail. Take the side staircase. Get to the basement. She herded the Kenmore High School students the way cowboys herd cattle on the way to slaughter. Just keep moving, she repeated. Bodies pressed against each other in the rush to reach the allusive safety of the basement. Burton, your shoe laces!

Burton dashed down the stairs. No time to re-knot broken laces now. And he didn’t need this annoying drill, not today when he had other things on his mind.

It’s only a drill. The words, spoken to himself, hung in the air nonetheless. It’s only a drill—as though thinking it made it so.

They reached their assigned spots along the basement wall, adjacent to the janitor closet and furnace room. Burton knelt on the cold cement floor, right hand over his neck, left arm protecting his head.

The alarm continued; waves of pulsating air throbbed against his skin. Why doesn’t someone turn that blasted thing off? Burton shouted to Nick Borden who crouched beside him. Nick, also a sophomore, lived a couple streets to the north. He was an OK kind of guy. He could fix almost anything with a motor. Sometimes they walked to school together.

Something must be wrong, Nick said. Look at Mrs. Green.

Burton chanced a glance over his shoulder. Mrs. Green’s squinty eyes were huge. She clutched both hands in front of her ample chest, and, even from where Burton huddled, he could see the whiteness of her knuckles. Had the Germans found a way past the borders?

He listened through the blare of the air raid siren for the sound of dropping bombs. His sisters, June and Jean, were both in school, most likely kneeling in a basement just like him. But Mother? Did she know where to go? Why hadn’t they ever talked about it? He tensed, imagining her hearing the wail of the emergency alert and standing in place, perhaps in the kitchen, unsure what to do. He couldn’t count on Dad right now.

He struggled to his feet, ready to race from the school.

The siren’s scream ended.

Murmurs of relief spilled around him.

Principal Fouse’s voice came over the loud speaker. "Well done students. You beat your last time by two minutes, but we need to do better. Return to your classrooms quietly."

So, it was a drill after all.

The United States had been at war for three months. Someday, the Germans, or even the Japanese, might invade the country. President Roosevelt assured the nation it was impossible, but the Japs had managed to get to American ships in Hawaii. Burton would never forget that Sunday night. When the announcement came over the radio, Dad stormed out of the house, returning hours later, drunk. His absences were becoming more frequent.

Burton followed the mass of laughing students up the stairs. In spite of the giggles from the girls and the macho walk of the guys, faces reflected what both he and Nick had seen in Mrs. Green’s eyes.

He swallowed and tried to morph back into a carefree high school student.

Pretending to be carefree hadn’t worked at the end of the summer when he had to leave West Virginia for the second time and come back to Ohio, and it didn’t work now.

No one had any regard for his feelings, jerking him up and down, and back and forth like a yo-yo. He had been happy in West Virginia, but then five years ago his dad uprooted the family and moved them to Ohio so he could work in the rubber factory. Two years later, Mother got TB, and he was sent back to West Virginia to live with his grandparents for the next two years. He had returned to Kenmore in September, but nothing was the same at school or at home.

And then the war started.

Chapter Three

39609.png

MARCH, 1942,

CONTINUED

A fter two more classes, the final bell rang, signaling the end of another school day. Burton joined the throng of students eager to escape the confines of the building. Principal Fouse leaned over the second floor railing. Mr. Wilfong, tie your shoe lace. Students in the hall snickered and snuck glances at Burton’s feet. We still have a dress code here at Kenmore High, Mr. Wilfong, and I expect you to follow it.

Seething with embarrassment and anger, Burton dumped his books against the wall. Grabbing what remained of the frayed shoe string, he twisted a knot. One more break and there would be nothing left to knot. He sped down the hall, threw his books inside his locker, shrugged into his jacket, and followed the remaining students to the side exit. No time for homework again tonight. Maybe he could squeeze out the math assignment in the morning during homeroom.

Outside, the air was still cold, even though a few dandelions were brave enough to pop out of the soil. He had seen a robin the previous day, a sure sign that spring wasn’t too far away. Along the edge of the student parking lot, mud replaced snowdrifts where eager drivers forgot to stay on the pavement. Burton stepped over the mud and headed to the sidewalk.

Burton, wait up. Harvey Gray stood six feet tall and had muscles where Burton’s refused to grow.

Harvey reached Burton and matched pace with him. "The new Errol Flynn movie is on at the Palace; you know, Footsteps in the Dark, or something like that. Want to go see it tonight?"

Burton shrugged. Got to work.

You always have to work. Harvey shifted a history book from one arm to the other.

It’s a decent job.

I heard Carl say you can make more money at Goodyear working on the line.

But Goodyear doesn’t come with fringe benefits. Burton thought of the dented cans and broken boxes of food he brought home from Marchand’s Grocery. And coffee. They never ran out of coffee at home. He couldn’t say the same for sugar, though, and who wanted coffee without sugar? I have tomorrow night off, if you can wait.

I’ll think about it.

They walked another block. We still on for fishing Sunday? Harvey asked. The weather’s supposed to warm up.

Sure.

Harvey glanced at Burton. You ok?

Just in a rush. Harvey was his best friend, but there were some things a guy didn’t talk about, not even to someone as close as a brother. Trouble at home had to remain private for now. He would write about it in his journal, document his frustration with his pen. The nightly ritual of journaling had some benefits.

As Burton crossed the street to Marchand’s Grocery, he noticed the display window was rearranged. Mr. Marchand highlighted his store’s products, but the boxes were only for display, empty of their contents. Burton hoped someday to be given the job of arranging the window. He had some ideas on how to catch the eye of people walking by.

Mr. Marchand stood behind the counter totaling a female customer’s bill. Burton winced when he realized who the customer was: the infamous Mrs. Anderson. The woman leaned across the counter, the hem of a pink dress showing beneath a lightweight gray coat cinched at her slim waist. Dark brown hair lay in soft curls, so unlike his mother’s tight waves streaked with gray. Everyone knew Mrs. Anderson. Well, not everyone knew her, but the rumors were strong. Mrs. Anderson was the only divorced woman in town, as far as Burton was aware. Divorced women took liberties that chaste women refused. Everyone knew that.

The stub of Mr. Marchand’s yellow pencil scratched across the strip of paper as he calculated Mrs. Anderson’s bill. Burton eased past the woman and grabbed his white apron off the peg.

The order came in, Mr. Marchand said without looking up. I need you to stock the shelves.

I have a few errands to run, Mrs. Anderson said.

Her voice reminded Burton of Hedy Lamarr in I Take This Woman. How many times had he and Harvey watched that film, debating Spencer Tracy’s decision to change his life because of a woman. Mrs. Anderson could play that conniving role.

She smiled at Mr. Marchand. May I leave my purchases here until I’ve finished?

No problem at all, Rose. Take your time. Mr. Marchand’s words were as smooth as the polished rocks that tumbled in the creeks back at Grandfather’s farm. The fact that Mr. Marchand called Mrs. Anderson by her first name raised hackles on Burton’s neck. He had heard his boss be familiar with her before, and he knew what that meant. You didn’t call respectable women by their first names. He had expected better of his boss.

Burton skittered toward the back of the store, only too happy to be out of the way. Spend too much time with Mrs. Anderson and he may end up telling her what he thought of her antics. His temper flared more easily of late, and he didn’t need to offend Mrs. Anderson inside Marchand’s and lose the job he’d only had four months.

The number of boxes waiting to be unpacked was fewer than last week. Ever since the war started and rationing was enforced, shipments had become increasingly smaller. For the next hour Burton arranged the flour, corn meal, and Campbell’s soup to make the shelves seem fuller than they actually were. He lined the bags of flour shoulder to shoulder on the front of the shelf. Soup cans stood exactly two inches apart. Corn meal, of which there was never a lack, filled an entire section on its own.

Hey.

Burton turned and grunted. He didn’t hear Harvey approach but wasn’t surprised to see him. His friend showed up most days after dropping his books at home. Mr. Marchand didn’t care if Harvey hung out at the store, as long as Burton did his work.

Decided to wait to go to the movies, Harvey said. Need to study for Mr. Williams’ history test tomorrow. He picked up a can of soup. Vegetable beef. My favorite. He set the can back on the shelf.

My mother’s vegetable soup is better than that. Burton straightened the can.

My mom doesn’t have time to cook since she accepted that job as a telephone operator.

Burton realigned the cans, moving them slightly, more to the center, using the width of his hand for a precise measurement.

Harvey leaned against the stack of shelves. What’s up with you? You’ve been off-sorts all day.

Burton could say the same about Harvey, who had been acting strangely for the past couple of weeks. His friend was not the usual optimistic and spirited person who easily shared jokes. Harvey hadn’t punched him on the shoulder lately; there was no cigarette smoke on his breath. He was in a black mood for sure.

Yeah, well, I didn’t get much sleep last night, Burton said.

Thinking about Margaret Harris? Harvey wiggled his eyebrows.

Burton scowled. Just stuff going on, that’s all. It has my mind all jumbled up. And that drill this morning, it was something else.

You thinking about the war? I heard the Japs got to Australia. Can’t wait till I pound them.

Something about Harvey’s comment felt off, but Burton brushed it aside. My dad didn’t come home last night. He hadn’t meant to tell Harvey, but the words were out. He moved down the row and added another stack of cans to the shelf, refusing to look at his friend.

Harvey laughed. Is that what has you all upset? He probably stopped at the Chop House and had one too many. Mr. Blake is good about letting guys sleep it off in his back room.

Burton! Mr. Marchand’s voice cut through the conversation.

Look, don’t let your dad upset you. Harvey pulled a fistful of peanuts out of his pocket and tossed them into his mouth. Probably the tension is getting to him. First no work, now too much work. The war and all. It’s tough right now.

Burton glanced toward the front of the store. I’ve got to go.

Harvey followed.

Mrs. Anderson stood at the counter. Her purchases, wrapped in paper and tied with string, were stacked in front of her.

Burton, I need you to carry Mrs. Anderson’s groceries for her. Be quick about it; we still have to measure the coffee and get it on the shelves tonight.

Burton went behind the counter and removed his apron. Just what he didn’t want—time alone with Mrs. Anderson. What if someone saw him with her? Would they know he was only carrying her groceries, or would they think—

Burton, tie your shoe, Mr. Marchand said.

Burton glanced at his feet. There’s no string left to knot.

I think there are some shoe laces in the back. Go get one. He turned to Harvey. You want a job? I’ll give you ten cents to carry Mrs. Anderson’s packages home for her.

Harvey grinned. Apparently ten cents was worth the gossip that would circulate tomorrow at school.

In the back, Burton rummaged through the supply drawer and found a pair of shoe laces. White. His shoes were black. He sat on the stool and removed the broken lace and replaced it with the white one. Once home he would try to blacken it. There was some shoe polish in the cupboard, or maybe he could try lamp-black. Anything. He couldn’t go out in public with one white lace in black shoes.

He stood, hoping his slacks would cover the worst of it, but his ankles showed beneath the hem of his pants.

His journal would get an earful tonight.

Chapter Four

39609.png

LATE MARCH, 1942

S trawberry jam, made by his mother last summer, dripped off the knife and onto the yellow counter. Burton spread jam onto the buttered bread and shoved the sandwiches into an empty bread wrapper. He slid a finger across the drip on the counter and deposited the sticky sweetness in his mouth.

Hey, Burton! Harvey peered through the window in the kitchen door.

Come on in. I’m almost ready. Burton stuffed the sandwiches inside his green tackle box. My fishing pole’s outside. I put new line on it this morning. Burton glanced at his friend. You want to change out of your church shirt? You can borrow one of mine. And an old coat.

I’m ok.

Mother would kill me if I wore my good clothes fishing.

Harvey shrugged his shoulders, indicating he did whatever he wanted. Burton knew better. Harvey was an only child, and in spite of Mrs. Gray being sweet and quiet, she ran a tight house.

So how was church? Burton asked.

Church was church. What can I say?

I should go. I haven’t been to church in ages. Too tired to get up that early. Burton brushed bread crumbs off the counter.

Your mom still at church? Harvey asked, leaning against the wall.

She and the girls should be back soon. I told her I was going fishing.

Hope she doesn’t expect you to bring home supper.

She said the water’s too cold; the fish won’t bite. Burton heaved a sigh as he pulled the storm door closed and allowed the screen door to bang behind him. All he’d done lately was attended school and worked at the grocery store. He lifted his face to the sun, enjoying the promise of warmth. The air smelled like fresh mowed grass; some eager-beaver was rushing the season.

Hefting fishing poles over their shoulders, they walked down Sixteenth Street and turned onto Kenmore Boulevard.

A black Desoto, waxed to a fine shine, sped toward them. In spite of the chill, the windows were down and elbows jutted out the openings. Burton recognized the boys—school jocks. They seemed to show up everywhere. How was it they had gas to burn when no one else did? Burton scowled. He didn’t mind their athleticism as much as he hated the fact that girls clung to guys like that, guys who acted like being able to throw a ball made them mini-gods.

The car’s horn blasted as it passed, followed by the roar of the engine. Ignore them, Harvey said, pulling the collar of his wool jacket closer to his neck.

Burton ground his teeth. He would show them. Someday he would be someone; he would have the girls; he would have…he didn’t know what would make him happy, but he would have it.

The paved road gave way to gravel. A small lake, the favorite fishing spot for most of the Kenmore locals, shimmered in welcome. Half a dozen willow trees grew along the bank, their branches dangling over the water, their slender limbs green with the hint of leaves. Several row boats lay upside-down on the bank. An old pier, maybe ten feet long with graying wood planks, extended into the water.

The boys settled on the pier. So what are you using as bait? Burton asked as he pierced a chunk of last-night’s Spam with his hook.

Harvey held up a green and yellow plastic minnow and grinned, the first smile Burton had seen from him since showing up at the back door. He wiggled the minnow back and forth, This is the deluxe-of-all fishing lures. My uncle has one, and he swears the fish can’t resist it. Harvey attached the deluxe-of-all fishing lures to his line. He gave me one just like his for Christmas. I’ve been waiting to use it, and now, well, I best be doing it. While I’m pulling them fish in, you really think you’re gonna catch anything with Spam?

You never know. Burton cast his line and watched the red and white bobber float over the swells.

Harvey sent his line toward the left shore.

They cast, retrieved, and cast again, enjoying the hissing sound of the line and the click of the reel. The sun warmed Burton’s face, a bird shared a song with his mate, and the jocks with the hot car never came around. Life felt almost good.

Eventually Harvey pulled his line in and leaned back on the dock. Burton baited his hook and watched the Spam fly off as he cast the line.

Give it a rest for a while, Harvey said.

Yeah, the fish aren’t biting anyway. Burton retrieved his line and sat beside his friend, content in the moment. Want something to eat? He pulled out the bread wrapper and handed Harvey a sandwich. "Should