Letter from a Troop Train(Hugh Hawkins) Letter from a Troop Train

by Hugh Hawkins


We lived on the other side of the tracks. That was just a joke, of course. The town had developed along the railroad with perfectly good houses on both sides. True, if we were headed downtown or the schools, we would cross the tracks at Watts Street. To use the underpass was six blocks out of the way.

If a train was passing, a barrier came down and you had to wait. But I never minded. I just watched the faces of passengers peering out, or read the labels on the freight cars, some from lines as far away as the Boston and Maine. That was a long way from Nebraska.

After the Pearl Harbor attack nobody wanted to miss school. Home room was exciting, exchanging items of war news, tracing battle lines on the wall map, and singing patriotic songs revived from the First World War, like “Over There.” We had always said the Pledge of Allegiance, but now we put our hearts into it and stopped raising our arm, because that looked too much like the Nazi salute.

Once in a while, getting to school on time was a problem. Troop trains were so long that they snaked well beyond the crossing and they could have long delays.

The teachers at the junior high warned us not to climb under the train. Billy Shelburne bragged that he did it anyway, though I never saw him. The idea didn’t tempt me, and I would just walk along the tracks to the end of the train and cross over, balancing on the ties to avoid the cinders. You got used to the acrid smell left by the locomotives.

My father worked for the railroad in the dispatchers’ office. With the war on, he was putting in lots of extra hours, mostly on the night shift, which meant we saw less of him at home. If we did all sit down together at dinner, he would brag about his contribution to the war effort, something like, “I had to hold up three freights to keep that troop train on schedule.” And then he’d lapse into railroad jargon that only my mother seemed to understand. With his overtime pay, he and my mother relaxed their emphasis on thrift. They bought new bedroom furniture for my sister, and after a lot of wheedling, they agreed we could subscribe to the Book of the Month Club.

After school started that September, I noticed more and more troop trains. Although I can’t remember the day, I know it was in the fall, because I was just getting used to my new classes. I had got a late start and missed the gang that usually walked to school together. Finding the Watts Street crossing blocked, I hurried around the end of the train and headed back toward the street.

Some of the windows were open, and I recognized that this was a very old-fashioned coach pulled out of storage because of the war shortages. I’d been stuck on one that summer on a trip to my aunt’s. I remembered the itchy green plush and the rigid seat backs and felt sorry for the guys inside. The soldiers looking out seemed sleepy and bored. I guessed this wasn’t a long enough stop for them to go into the canteen that the church ladies had opened. I found myself wondering if the war would last so long that I might be in the same position one day.

Then one soldier pushed another aside and stuck his head out the window. His collar was loosened and he needed a shave. “Hey, kid, come over here a minute.”

Pleased to be noticed, I hurried over. “Do me a favor. Take this letter and slip it in a mailbox. It’s all stamped and everything.”

Here was a chance to help one of our brave fighting men. Stretching my arm to reach the window, I took the letter. “OK,” I said and tucked it into my shirt pocket. “There’s a mailbox just down the block.”

“Hey, thanks. I could see you were a good kid.” He sank back onto his seat, and I hurried away.

When I passed the mailbox, I didn’t put in the letter. I wanted to help the soldier, but a worrying thought had occurred to me. I wanted to help the war effort. We all did. You didn’t take unnecessary trips. You saved grease. You bought defense stamps at school, a dime at a time. You couldn’t ignore the posters and advertisements in magazines. The posters about security were ominous. “Loose lips sink ships” with its flaming vessel half submerged. Or “Enemy Ears are Listening” with a wily Hitler cupping his ear. At the canteen next to the station the volunteers had pasted up just such posters.

My father wasn’t allowed to be specific about where troop trains were heading, but it was pretty clear they were mostly going to the West Coast.

What if the letter gave away the soldier’s destination? Might that help the enemy? It was addressed to a woman, a Miss somebody in Tennessee, who might or might not know about keeping military movements secret.

As the day passed, I patted my pocket from time to time, less and less happy that the letter was there. In study hall, I turned the pages of a book, but my mind wasn’t on it. I’d broken my promise to the soldier.

That evening I shut myself in my room, pretending I had a lot of homework. I understood that you didn’t read other people’s mail (postcards didn’t count). But if I didn’t read the letter, how could I know if it gave away any military information? Laying the letter flat on my desk, I slipped my pocket knife under the gummed flap of the envelope. The result was a jagged tear. Nobody could fail to notice the envelope had been opened. And I read:

Dear Betty,
I just now have a chance to write, borrowed some paper from a buddy, but I’ve been thinking of you every minute. I love you I love you I love you. I hope you know that. I meant every word I said. We will be married but there just wasn’t time. Don’t think for a minute that what we did was wrong I know you felt that way but how can it be wrong when we love each other so much.
This train trip is no fun and I’ll be glad when its over. They say we’ll be in Los Angles in two more days and then get right on a ship. No chance to see California. Scuttlebutt is our outfit goes to Australia, then lands on some island. Don’t worry I’m going to be very careful because I want to come home and marry you.
Hope I can get this into a mailbox. Love you love you love you,
Jim

When I finished reading, I swallowed hard. Was there anything dangerous in a letter like this? Well, maybe that reference to Australia and some island could help the Japs. Nobody but Betty would see the letter, but what if she told her friends what he said? Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Maybe I did right to check the letter.

Trying to remove as little as possible, I tore into the margin of the letter and removed everything from “Los Angeles” to “island.” Then I noticed that I’d also removed “Don’t worry.” But maybe that didn’t matter too much.

Betty would see that somebody else had read the mail, and maybe she’d tell him. I hated to think how he’d feel about this “good kid” then.

With some mucilage I resealed the envelope, but the flap didn’t fit well. It made an ugly, uneven crease. I tucked the letter into my history book and on my way to school the next morning I dropped it into the first mailbox I came to.

I didn’t do very well in classes that day. My mind kept turning back to what I had done. I didn’t feel patriotic. I felt like a traitor.

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