Hi, Diary.
After that Waushara County deputy made his profane remark, he couldn't say another word. At least, that's the way it seemed to me.
"What's wrong?" I thought as I looked at Mr. Shegonee, who was wearing a great big smile. He rose from his barstool and walked up to within a foot of the deputy. "If it isn't Private William Haskins. Damn, I'm happy to see you alive."
At once, the deputy grabbed Mr. Shegonee by the shoulders and hugged him really hard. Finally, and I mean, finally, the deputy backed away and could only say, "As I live and breathe." He sighed and turned to the bartender. "You won't believe this, Ralph, but this man, Sergeant Shegonee, the fighting-ist son of a bitch in the United States Marine Corps, saved my life on the island of Tulagi."
(Diary it took me a three days to finally find that tiny Solomon island in our atlas. It's located near the larger island of Guadalcanal. Our Marines also fought on that island after they fought on Tulagi. I was more than certain Tulagi was spelled Toolahgee, but as you can see, it isn't).
Deputy Haskins continued, "He knelt beside me, swore he wouldn't let me die, tore off his shirt, bundled it up in a ball, and punched it to my chest wound. And he stayed with me even though I could hear Jap bullets whizzing all around us. He was finally relieved by a Navy corpsman. And that's the last time I saw my living, breathing, guardian angel, who just so happens to be a Wisconsin Winnebago Indian. I didn't even know he was alive, but here he is, right here at Silver Lake. I can't believe it."
The deputy hugged Mr. Shegonee, or should I say, Sergeant Shegonee, real hard once more. “Man, oh man, it's so good to see you, Sarge."
Confused, I leaned over to Dork and whispered, "I thought Dad said Mr. Shegonee fought on Iwo Jima."
"Dumb ass," shot back my older brother in a harsh whisper, "he most likely fought on both islands, duh."
I guess I was dumb for not figuring that out by myself. Anyway, the two men just looked at each other and grinned.
"By golly," the deputy said again. "I can't believe it." He wiped at tears with a handkerchief before he stomped a foot on the floor. "Shoot," he said, "I almost forgot why I was sent here. Ralph, can you point out which man in that dance hall is—" The deputy's fingers reached for a piece of paper in his shirt pocket. He looked at the written note and continued, "Uh, Doctor Hoffman?"
“I'm Doctor Hoffman," said Dad.
"Oh," said Haskins, "what seems to be the problem?"
“Your friend, Ralph, refuses to serve your lifesaver simply because he is a Winnebago Indian. You didn't turn down his lifesaving help, did you, because he was an Indian?"
"Hell, no. Me and the sergeant were Marines, not cowboys and Indians."
Haskins turned to the bartender. The muscles in the deputy's cheeks tightened, relaxed, and then tightened again. (Diary, I never knew there were so many muscles behind our cheeks). "That true, Ralph?"
"Okay, okay," said the bartender, hands held high in the air. "I give up. I'll sell him a beer, but if he goes on the warpath because he can't handle his liquor, which Indians can't, I'm holding the sheriff's department and you, personally, responsible for any damage he causes."
"You do that, Ralph," said Deputy Haskins.
Red-faced Ralph turned around in order to open a refrigerator door. From inside, he grabbed two brown bottles of beer with one hand, removed their caps with a church key (I guess I need to explain to a Diary that a church key is a bottle cap opener) and handed both Schlitz bottles, one to Dad and the other to Mr. Shegonee.
"Why don't we all go sit down in the dance hall?" offered Dad.
The deputy followed us. "Doctor Hoffman, Mrs. Hoffman, you folks don't mind if me and the sergeant sit at another table, do you? We got a lot to talk about."
"Not at all," said Dad. Mother, smiling, nodded her agreement.
Both paper mill worker and Waushara County sheriff's deputy, former World War II fighting men, talked for a long, long time before the lawman decided he'd better leave. At least, that's what he told us. "Glad to meet you folks," he said.
"Same here," said Dad and Mother together.
Then, the deputy reminded Mr. Shegonee, "Me and the wife and our two kids will definitely be in the Rapids next Sunday afternoon. I want them to meet the man who saved my life."
“Aw, it was something any man would've done," replied Mr. Shegonee who chuckled good naturedly. "Of course, my wife will be busy all week, making the house look spiffier than it usually is. She's worse than any white-gloved boot camp DI, checking for dust. No doubt about it, me and mine will be looking forward to your family's visit."
After the deputy left, Mr. Shegonee sat at our table. Our war hero lifted his bottle. "Thanks, Doc. No doubt about it, what you done for me, you proved you're one heck of a warrior."
"Aw, it was something any man would've done," said Dad.
Both Dad and Mr. Shegonee laughed really loud and were soon joined by the rest of us. All the Hoffmans laughed like crazy. Even Mother. And Crazy Annie, but I don't think she knew what she was laughing about.
Thing is, Dad didn't get drunk and neither did Mr. Shegonee.
Diary, I've got to tell you I've never been so proud of my parents as I was on our trip home when Mother said, "You did the right thing, Jim."
Dad nodded, turned to her momentarily, and smiled.
I'm certain all of us kids in that merry Oldsmobile were pleased with our parents. For the first time in a long time.
Although Dad had a few beers in his belly, Mother didn't call him a "drunken bastard." Dad, in return, didn't call Mother a "Grease ball." You'd almost think they liked each other.
I've got to tell you another thing, Diary. It was a miracle Dork and I didn't argue or slug each other on that return trip. Maybe because we were happy. For a change.
After that Waushara County deputy made his profane remark, he couldn't say another word. At least, that's the way it seemed to me.
"What's wrong?" I thought as I looked at Mr. Shegonee, who was wearing a great big smile. He rose from his barstool and walked up to within a foot of the deputy. "If it isn't Private William Haskins. Damn, I'm happy to see you alive."
At once, the deputy grabbed Mr. Shegonee by the shoulders and hugged him really hard. Finally, and I mean, finally, the deputy backed away and could only say, "As I live and breathe." He sighed and turned to the bartender. "You won't believe this, Ralph, but this man, Sergeant Shegonee, the fighting-ist son of a bitch in the United States Marine Corps, saved my life on the island of Tulagi."
(Diary it took me a three days to finally find that tiny Solomon island in our atlas. It's located near the larger island of Guadalcanal. Our Marines also fought on that island after they fought on Tulagi. I was more than certain Tulagi was spelled Toolahgee, but as you can see, it isn't).
Deputy Haskins continued, "He knelt beside me, swore he wouldn't let me die, tore off his shirt, bundled it up in a ball, and punched it to my chest wound. And he stayed with me even though I could hear Jap bullets whizzing all around us. He was finally relieved by a Navy corpsman. And that's the last time I saw my living, breathing, guardian angel, who just so happens to be a Wisconsin Winnebago Indian. I didn't even know he was alive, but here he is, right here at Silver Lake. I can't believe it."
The deputy hugged Mr. Shegonee, or should I say, Sergeant Shegonee, real hard once more. “Man, oh man, it's so good to see you, Sarge."
Confused, I leaned over to Dork and whispered, "I thought Dad said Mr. Shegonee fought on Iwo Jima."
"Dumb ass," shot back my older brother in a harsh whisper, "he most likely fought on both islands, duh."
I guess I was dumb for not figuring that out by myself. Anyway, the two men just looked at each other and grinned.
"By golly," the deputy said again. "I can't believe it." He wiped at tears with a handkerchief before he stomped a foot on the floor. "Shoot," he said, "I almost forgot why I was sent here. Ralph, can you point out which man in that dance hall is—" The deputy's fingers reached for a piece of paper in his shirt pocket. He looked at the written note and continued, "Uh, Doctor Hoffman?"
“I'm Doctor Hoffman," said Dad.
"Oh," said Haskins, "what seems to be the problem?"
“Your friend, Ralph, refuses to serve your lifesaver simply because he is a Winnebago Indian. You didn't turn down his lifesaving help, did you, because he was an Indian?"
"Hell, no. Me and the sergeant were Marines, not cowboys and Indians."
Haskins turned to the bartender. The muscles in the deputy's cheeks tightened, relaxed, and then tightened again. (Diary, I never knew there were so many muscles behind our cheeks). "That true, Ralph?"
"Okay, okay," said the bartender, hands held high in the air. "I give up. I'll sell him a beer, but if he goes on the warpath because he can't handle his liquor, which Indians can't, I'm holding the sheriff's department and you, personally, responsible for any damage he causes."
"You do that, Ralph," said Deputy Haskins.
Red-faced Ralph turned around in order to open a refrigerator door. From inside, he grabbed two brown bottles of beer with one hand, removed their caps with a church key (I guess I need to explain to a Diary that a church key is a bottle cap opener) and handed both Schlitz bottles, one to Dad and the other to Mr. Shegonee.
"Why don't we all go sit down in the dance hall?" offered Dad.
The deputy followed us. "Doctor Hoffman, Mrs. Hoffman, you folks don't mind if me and the sergeant sit at another table, do you? We got a lot to talk about."
"Not at all," said Dad. Mother, smiling, nodded her agreement.
Both paper mill worker and Waushara County sheriff's deputy, former World War II fighting men, talked for a long, long time before the lawman decided he'd better leave. At least, that's what he told us. "Glad to meet you folks," he said.
"Same here," said Dad and Mother together.
Then, the deputy reminded Mr. Shegonee, "Me and the wife and our two kids will definitely be in the Rapids next Sunday afternoon. I want them to meet the man who saved my life."
“Aw, it was something any man would've done," replied Mr. Shegonee who chuckled good naturedly. "Of course, my wife will be busy all week, making the house look spiffier than it usually is. She's worse than any white-gloved boot camp DI, checking for dust. No doubt about it, me and mine will be looking forward to your family's visit."
After the deputy left, Mr. Shegonee sat at our table. Our war hero lifted his bottle. "Thanks, Doc. No doubt about it, what you done for me, you proved you're one heck of a warrior."
"Aw, it was something any man would've done," said Dad.
Both Dad and Mr. Shegonee laughed really loud and were soon joined by the rest of us. All the Hoffmans laughed like crazy. Even Mother. And Crazy Annie, but I don't think she knew what she was laughing about.
Thing is, Dad didn't get drunk and neither did Mr. Shegonee.
Diary, I've got to tell you I've never been so proud of my parents as I was on our trip home when Mother said, "You did the right thing, Jim."
Dad nodded, turned to her momentarily, and smiled.
I'm certain all of us kids in that merry Oldsmobile were pleased with our parents. For the first time in a long time.
Although Dad had a few beers in his belly, Mother didn't call him a "drunken bastard." Dad, in return, didn't call Mother a "Grease ball." You'd almost think they liked each other.
I've got to tell you another thing, Diary. It was a miracle Dork and I didn't argue or slug each other on that return trip. Maybe because we were happy. For a change.
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