Kankakee Valley Post, Volume 14, Number 42, DeMotte, Jasper County, 1 September 1944 — MR. WINKLE GOES TO WAR [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

MR. WINKLE GOES TO WAR

By THEODORE PRÁTT

W.N.U. RELEASE

CHAPTER I It never in the world ever occurred to Mr. Winkle that he would be drafted and sent off to the wars. War was for young men, not for a settled married man of forty-four. There was talk of the Army not wanting the older men, but nothing had yet been done about this. The thing being done was what Mr. Winkle received in this morning’s mail. When he reached in the mailbox and took out the communication from his draft board, his hands trembled a little. Peering through his. metalrimmed glasses, he read that he was classified 1-A. He knew what that meant. After ten days* time, he was subject for induction into the United States Army. He stood there on the-front steps of his house, a small man engulfed by a tremendous event that toppled over his world and sent it bowling Dff into space like a cannon ball. He thought: Not he, who had been married for twenty years. Not he, a former careful accountant who was now the conservative proprietor of a modest general repair shop located in the alley back of his house. Not he, with his overly active and morbid imagination. Not he, who was no man of action, but was afraid to death of guns or violence of any sort. Not he, with his stored-up memory of how% as a boy with his .22 rifle, he had shot a squirrel. The tiny animal fell from the high branch where he aimed at it, landing with a thud on the hard ground. When he held the warm, fuzzy body in his hand, he w'as sick at heart at what he had done. In later life, when he stepped on an ant, or squashed a spider, or even swatted a fly, Mr. Winkle felt squeamish at taking life. Upon being called by his draft board last week for physical examination, Mr. Winkle had thought that the strange doctor appreciated his dyspepsia, his nearsightedness, his caved-in chest, his good beginning on a paunch (even though otherwise he w'as skinny enough to be underweight), his jumped-up pulse at the slightest exertion, and his general make-up of no great muscularity. Never before had Mr. Winkle known himself to be such a physical w'reck. The doctor pursed his lips at the visual evidences of this close approach to the grave. r He frowned in such a manner as to give Mr. Winkle reason for counting on his not being recommended. And though the doctor and the members of the draft board, working their mysterious ways, had not committed themselves on the result, it still hadn’t seemed real to Mr. Winkle that he would be seriously considered as a soldier. The notice couldn’t mean him. He looked at it again, to see if, possibly, there had been some mistake. But he saw his name typed out boldly: Wilbert George Winkle. The thought of going in and telling Mrs. Winkle about it swept over him. The prospect of this was one of both panic and intense interest. Certainly it would take a lot of the strong wind out of her feails. Mrs. Winkle during recent years, had developed into a positive individual who was prone to run her husband the way a locomotive engineer kept his hand on the throttle. Mr. Winkle never liked to put this into the actual term of henpecking, but nevertheless that w'as the true state of affairs. Now he wondered how Amy would take it. There was little she could

do about it. She wouldn’t be able to argue with this, nor impose her will in any way upon it. He felt a little sorry for her, for he knew that deep down, in spite of her sharp words and orders, she loved him and he loved her. Beyond his speculation on how she would receive the news, he had a reluctance about telling her. Yet he didn’t see what else he could do. With a sigh, he went into the house. Mrs. Winkle was already behind her half of the newspaper in the breakfast nook, which was all the dining room their small house possessed. Mr. Winkle, in his mind, could look right through the paper and see her, a well-filied-out lady of exactly his own age. To a person seeing her for the first time, she appeared dainty in spite of her plumpness, quite feminine, and of an eminently good nature. It was a shock, upon second glance, to notice the way her lips pressed themselves together and the perpetual frown that creased the otherwise smooth pink skin between her blue eyes. Amy paid no attention as Mr. Winkle carefully stepped over Penelope, the third member of the family. Their sad-eyed spaniel was settled on the floor with her black muzzle resting on her paws. At eight, Penelope in her dog world was approximately Mr. Winkle’s comparative age in the human world. She

w r as as amiable and mild as Mr. Winkle himself. Never having been allowed a husband, she had a rather droopy disposition. Now, in her middle age, she had given up hope and no longer pretended to any interest at the sight of a male, but simply sniffed loftily or ignored the meeting altogether. Penelope, Mr. Winkle thought, was no more prepared for the large, adventurous and dangerous things of life, such as war, than he. He sat heavily in his place in the breakfast nook. From behind her paper, Mrs. Winkle demanded, “Anything for me?” “No-o,” answered Mr. Winkle. At his drawing out of the word, Mrs. Winkle put her paper aside and looked at her husband. She didn’t see what he had received, for he held it below the table. But from

the look of Mr. Winkle and th& tone of his voice, she knew at once. Mrs. Winkle was the first to speak again. Her frown deepened and her lips were tight when she stated disapprovingly, “Wilbert, your notice has come.” Silently, Mr. Winkle handed over the notice to her. Mrs. Winkle took it in at a single glance. Her face went white. Her frown disappeared and her mouth softened. She looked bewildered, as if props had been knocked out from under her and she had no solid ground to stand on. She said breathlessly, as if caught off guard, “You’re going to war.” Mr. Winkle cleared his throat so as to be sure he could control his own voice, trying it out this way without first chancing how it might sound, “It means,” he explained, “I’m just being passed on to the Army doctors.” “You’re going to war,” Mrs. Winkle repeated in a whisper. Now she looked actually frightened, amazed, and hurt. It had been years since Mr, Winkle had seen such expressions on his wife’s face. They affected him deeply. He began, “Now, Amy—” “You’ll be killed!” Mrs. Winkle wailed. At this excitement, and perhaps at the new, strange tone in Mrs. Winkle’s voice, Penelope began to howl. Mr. Winkle had counted on no such behavior on the part of his wife. He had become so accustomed to her shrewish ways that he hadn’t pictured them being punctured so abruptly. He realized what a blow it was to her. She was threatened with not having him around to order about. To have him removed from her and sent off to w'ar destroyed her defenses and left her bewildered and alone. It revealed the basic affection she had for him. Mr. Winkle reflected that it w'as taking the greatest w r ar in history to accomplish this. From the look on her face, Mr. Winkle almost expected Amy to begin weeping. But she didn’t. She just sat there staring at him, her eyes bright and wide and dry, and he sat staring at her. They regarded each other awesomely while Penelope continued to howl. Penelope w-as interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Mr. Winkle made a movement to go into the living room to answer it, but Mrs. Winkle, with a rather wild look on her face, started before he did. She appeared to want to do something definite. i Sitting in the breakfast nook, Mr. Winkle heard her voice. “Why, yes ... I suppose so,” she faltered. “Just a minute.” Any hesitancy didn’t sound like Amy at all. Rather, it sounded like the Amy of years ago, when Mr. Winkle married her. Her voice came again, calling in to him, “It’s the newspaper—they want to come out and interview you.” Alarmed at this, and at Amy asking his advice about something instead of deciding it herself, Mr. Winkle asked, “Me? Now? Here?” Mrs. Winkle gave an affirmative answ’er to each of these questions, her w’ords sounding like strangled chirps. Mr. Winkle thought, desperately. Suddenly, he w'anted to lash out at something. “Certainly not,” he said “I can’t wait around here. I’ve got to get to the shop. And I don’t—tell them I don’t want to be interview’ed.” Mrs. Winkle passed on his view's over the telephone. They didn’t

seem to make much impression, for Mrs. Winkle, after listening to what was said in reply, kept agreeing doubtfully, “Yes . . . yes, but —oh, I can see that’s probably right.” She hung up and came back. She appeared to be slightly dazed. “They said,” she told Mr. Winkle, “that you’re already something of a celebrity—from being the first married man in the older men’s classifi-

cation to be drafted —and that it’s your patriotic duty to set a good example. They’re coming out here to take pictures of—of us both." "I won’t do it," he said. “And you shouldn’t—" “But, Wilbert," Mrs. Winkle protested, "it won’t look right if we don’t." "I don’t care how it looks. Where’s my hat?" He was emboldened to

be peremptory. “Where's my lunch box?” He saw them both where they were kept ready for his departure to business. He snatched them up almost savagely, and clamped the hat on his head. He hadn’t felt so aroused for many years. He didn’t quite know what to make of the way he felt, for there was fear mixed in him, too, along with his unaccustomed anger. Mainly, there was the sense of being unnerved by an unsure Amy. He turned, and marched to the front door. Mrs. Winkle followed him. “Wilbert,” she said weakly, “you have to, and you know it;” By the time he reached the steps outside, Mr. Winkle .bad somewhat calmed. His small storm was nearly over. He blinked. “I suppose,” he admitted, “I’ll have to do a lot of things I don’t fee] like doing.” Abruptly, he strode away, down the walk, and then along the street. It wasn’t until he had gone some way that it occurred to him he had forgotten to kiss his wife goodby. It was the first time he had neglected this ritual in their whole married life. Ordinarily, be would have been called back and given instructions. But there was no sound from Amy. Guiltily, he glanced once behind, to see her still standing on the steps, her hand at her throat, watching him depart. Penelope was at her fefi't, staring after -an; n :- : f illy It may seem curious'-that, though Mr. Winkle’s place of business was located right in back of his bouse, he didn’t go . out through the rear door and across the fifty feet of yard to reach his shop. To the Winkles tl n’t strange at all. There was quite a good reason for it. It originated . from-’ Mr. Winkle’s career as a public accountant having disappe.ired during the depression. Secretly, he was just as glad, for he had never cared much for dealing in long rows of someone else’s figures. He greatly preferred tinkering with mechanical things, for which he had,a decided flair and a delicate touch. (TO BE, CONTINUED)

Peering through his metal rimmed glasses he read he was classified 1A.

It wasn’t until he had gone some way that it occurred to him he had forgotten to kiss his wife goodby.