Hi, Diary. The last time I wrote in you, I told you about the candy we kids buy. Plus, I wrote about Bob Martin. He owns half of Peters and Martin's grocery store on Baker Street, a couple hops, three jumps and more than twenty-four skips away from our house. Bob’s the nicest man in town. I've known him for a long time. You could say I've known him the better part of my life. Six of my eleven years would be the better part, wouldn't it?
I remember that first time as if it happened yesterday. I was with Louie Abler in front of Turbin's grocery store. Louie and I were best friends in our Kindergarten class at Irving grade school. During summer vacation, Louie and I often stood in front of Turbin's grocery store, directly across from Peters and Martin's. We looked at drivers and riders of cars going by. Thinking they looked funny, we giggled and laughed. The funniest person we ever saw was a bald man chomping on a big cigar. He leaned so far forward over the steering wheel that his cigar touched the windshield.
It was getting close to supper time. Before Louie and I left each other, we saw two U.S. Army trucks come into view. We knew who'd be sitting in the back of those trucks: Jap POW's, Prisoners of War. That was before we won the Second World War. Soldiers with rifles and machine guns and plenty of ammo in their ammo belts stood on both sides of the trucks' running boards, holding onto steel handles with one hand only. Also, heavily armed soldiers stood on ramps in the trucks' rear. The Japs sat on the floors of the trucks' beds. Some looked at us. Some didn't. No one smiled. Not "Our Boys," either. "Our Boys" is what most adults call our soldiers, including Mother and Dad: They're really not boys like Louie and I were.
Louie and I prepared to do our part for the war effort.
"Yellow Bellies," we screamed as the trucks nearly reached us. And when they passed us by, we gave the Nips our best "Raspberries." We stuck out our tongues and blew hard. Then, we laughed because the raspberries sounded like horse farts.
"Hey, Slant Eyes," we screamed. We laughed and laughed. We felt pretty good that we could let those Japs know how we felt. They were our enemy. And they were no good.
That's when Louie started poking me in the ribs with a sharp elbow. "Gordy, we better stop."
"Huh?"
Louie pointed with both eyes to a man standing on the corner across the street, ready to cross the street. The muscular man with black hair was kind of staring at us. He wore a man's white apron with a bit of blood on the front. Under the apron, he wore a white shirt, its sleeves rolled up. He wore a black bow tie. I guessed he was a butcher at Peters and Martin's. Louie knew him because when the man approached us, Louie said, "Hi, Bob."
"Hi, Louie. How ya doin?"
"Fine, just fine."
"And how are your parents and brothers?"
"They're fine, too."
"And who is this with you, this Carrot Top?"
"You mean Gordy?"
"Sure do, that fella with red hair and a zillion freckles."
"He's my friend, Gordy, Gordy Hoffman, you know, the doctor's son."
"Doc’s kid, huh? Glad to meet ya, Carrot Top."
I wasn't going to argue with a man with big muscles and blood on his apron. So, I just nodded.
"The reason I came over here is to let you guys know that maybe you shouldn't call them Japs names. You see, they're our Prisoners of War."
"We know that," said Louie. "That's why we do what we do."
"Yeah, we know that," I seconded Louie's statement.
"But did you know them Japs are helping our war effort?"
"No," Louie and I answered as one. We couldn't believe what Bob was saying.
"Sure, they work on truck farms between Rapids and Plover." He meant little Plover, Wisconsin, and our big city of Wisconsin Rapids, Wisconsin.
"Truck farms?' I said. "They don't make trucks on farms, do they?"
Bob laughed. "No, they don't make trucks on truck farms. Truck farms are small farms where vegetables are grown."
"Oh."
"And those Japs do all the work on those farms because most of our young men who work on those truck farms are in the service. Those Japs take their placed and spade the earth, working it day in and day out. They plant seeds, hoe weeds, spray DDT, and continue to hoe weeds. Finally, they get to pick them vegetables. And do you know who eats 'em?"
Louie and I shrugged.
"Our soldiers, sailors, Marines, and flyboys serving in the Pacific Theater. That's who."
"Yeah, but those Japs work on those farms because our soldiers have guns pointing at them, ready to shoot if they try to escape," I said.
"That's true, Carrot Top. I can see you're an intelligent young man."
It was obvious that Bob was trying to come up with a better way of explaining things. Louie and I waited for him. Soon, Bob's lips parted. His teeth drew in air. We heard it whistle. Finally, Bob's face became smooth again. "Well, did you know Jap soldiers in Japan right now have their guns pointed at their Prisoners of War?"
Again, we shook our heads.
"And do ya know who their prisoners are?"
"Uh-uh," said Louie. I shook my head. I didn't know, either.
"Our United States fighting men. That's who their prisoners are."
"Oh, yeah?" I said.
"Yeah. As the three of us stand here, Jap kids are screaming at our boys just like you two scream at theirs."
"Well," said Louie, "we'd tell those kids a thing or two. Maybe box in their ears. And blacken their slant eyes. And we’d tell them to stop doing that."
"Yeah," I agreed. "That's what we'd tell them. Stop yelling at our soldiers. They're the good guys. Your soldiers are the bad guys. And besides, God is on our side. Not yours, because you're heathens."
"And what do you think those Jap kids would tell you, in return?"
"I suppose," said Louie, "they'd tell us the same thing, but about their soldiers and their Sun God."
Bob snapped a finger against his thumb. "Both you guys are very intelligent. I can see that. You're a hundred per cent correct. Japs have families just like you and me. Parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandparents, the whole kit and caboodle."
"I never thought of that," I said.
"Neither did I," said my pal, Louie.
"Well, do you fellas think you can remember that?"
"Sure. We're sure we will," I said.
“We promise,” said Louie.
The next day, Louie and I waited in front of Turbin's grocery for the Army trucks. As they approached us, we smiled and waved. We didn't yell nasty things at the prisoners. A guard, one of our soldiers in the second truck, waved back. He was smiling.
Louie and I continued to be nice after that whenever we stood in front of Tubrin's store. One afternoon, one Jap POW waved at us. A week or so later, most of our soldiers and all the prisoners waved back. The first truck's horn blew. And so did the second. Everyone was smiling.
Across the street stood Bob Martin. He wore the best smile of all.
I remember that first time as if it happened yesterday. I was with Louie Abler in front of Turbin's grocery store. Louie and I were best friends in our Kindergarten class at Irving grade school. During summer vacation, Louie and I often stood in front of Turbin's grocery store, directly across from Peters and Martin's. We looked at drivers and riders of cars going by. Thinking they looked funny, we giggled and laughed. The funniest person we ever saw was a bald man chomping on a big cigar. He leaned so far forward over the steering wheel that his cigar touched the windshield.
It was getting close to supper time. Before Louie and I left each other, we saw two U.S. Army trucks come into view. We knew who'd be sitting in the back of those trucks: Jap POW's, Prisoners of War. That was before we won the Second World War. Soldiers with rifles and machine guns and plenty of ammo in their ammo belts stood on both sides of the trucks' running boards, holding onto steel handles with one hand only. Also, heavily armed soldiers stood on ramps in the trucks' rear. The Japs sat on the floors of the trucks' beds. Some looked at us. Some didn't. No one smiled. Not "Our Boys," either. "Our Boys" is what most adults call our soldiers, including Mother and Dad: They're really not boys like Louie and I were.
Louie and I prepared to do our part for the war effort.
"Yellow Bellies," we screamed as the trucks nearly reached us. And when they passed us by, we gave the Nips our best "Raspberries." We stuck out our tongues and blew hard. Then, we laughed because the raspberries sounded like horse farts.
"Hey, Slant Eyes," we screamed. We laughed and laughed. We felt pretty good that we could let those Japs know how we felt. They were our enemy. And they were no good.
That's when Louie started poking me in the ribs with a sharp elbow. "Gordy, we better stop."
"Huh?"
Louie pointed with both eyes to a man standing on the corner across the street, ready to cross the street. The muscular man with black hair was kind of staring at us. He wore a man's white apron with a bit of blood on the front. Under the apron, he wore a white shirt, its sleeves rolled up. He wore a black bow tie. I guessed he was a butcher at Peters and Martin's. Louie knew him because when the man approached us, Louie said, "Hi, Bob."
"Hi, Louie. How ya doin?"
"Fine, just fine."
"And how are your parents and brothers?"
"They're fine, too."
"And who is this with you, this Carrot Top?"
"You mean Gordy?"
"Sure do, that fella with red hair and a zillion freckles."
"He's my friend, Gordy, Gordy Hoffman, you know, the doctor's son."
"Doc’s kid, huh? Glad to meet ya, Carrot Top."
I wasn't going to argue with a man with big muscles and blood on his apron. So, I just nodded.
"The reason I came over here is to let you guys know that maybe you shouldn't call them Japs names. You see, they're our Prisoners of War."
"We know that," said Louie. "That's why we do what we do."
"Yeah, we know that," I seconded Louie's statement.
"But did you know them Japs are helping our war effort?"
"No," Louie and I answered as one. We couldn't believe what Bob was saying.
"Sure, they work on truck farms between Rapids and Plover." He meant little Plover, Wisconsin, and our big city of Wisconsin Rapids, Wisconsin.
"Truck farms?' I said. "They don't make trucks on farms, do they?"
Bob laughed. "No, they don't make trucks on truck farms. Truck farms are small farms where vegetables are grown."
"Oh."
"And those Japs do all the work on those farms because most of our young men who work on those truck farms are in the service. Those Japs take their placed and spade the earth, working it day in and day out. They plant seeds, hoe weeds, spray DDT, and continue to hoe weeds. Finally, they get to pick them vegetables. And do you know who eats 'em?"
Louie and I shrugged.
"Our soldiers, sailors, Marines, and flyboys serving in the Pacific Theater. That's who."
"Yeah, but those Japs work on those farms because our soldiers have guns pointing at them, ready to shoot if they try to escape," I said.
"That's true, Carrot Top. I can see you're an intelligent young man."
It was obvious that Bob was trying to come up with a better way of explaining things. Louie and I waited for him. Soon, Bob's lips parted. His teeth drew in air. We heard it whistle. Finally, Bob's face became smooth again. "Well, did you know Jap soldiers in Japan right now have their guns pointed at their Prisoners of War?"
Again, we shook our heads.
"And do ya know who their prisoners are?"
"Uh-uh," said Louie. I shook my head. I didn't know, either.
"Our United States fighting men. That's who their prisoners are."
"Oh, yeah?" I said.
"Yeah. As the three of us stand here, Jap kids are screaming at our boys just like you two scream at theirs."
"Well," said Louie, "we'd tell those kids a thing or two. Maybe box in their ears. And blacken their slant eyes. And we’d tell them to stop doing that."
"Yeah," I agreed. "That's what we'd tell them. Stop yelling at our soldiers. They're the good guys. Your soldiers are the bad guys. And besides, God is on our side. Not yours, because you're heathens."
"And what do you think those Jap kids would tell you, in return?"
"I suppose," said Louie, "they'd tell us the same thing, but about their soldiers and their Sun God."
Bob snapped a finger against his thumb. "Both you guys are very intelligent. I can see that. You're a hundred per cent correct. Japs have families just like you and me. Parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, grandparents, the whole kit and caboodle."
"I never thought of that," I said.
"Neither did I," said my pal, Louie.
"Well, do you fellas think you can remember that?"
"Sure. We're sure we will," I said.
“We promise,” said Louie.
The next day, Louie and I waited in front of Turbin's grocery for the Army trucks. As they approached us, we smiled and waved. We didn't yell nasty things at the prisoners. A guard, one of our soldiers in the second truck, waved back. He was smiling.
Louie and I continued to be nice after that whenever we stood in front of Tubrin's store. One afternoon, one Jap POW waved at us. A week or so later, most of our soldiers and all the prisoners waved back. The first truck's horn blew. And so did the second. Everyone was smiling.
Across the street stood Bob Martin. He wore the best smile of all.
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