A Different War by Jean Poynter It was another time, another place and a different war, but I can still remember standing in the bright sunlight, shading my eyes and watching for Uncle Charlie. Where was he? The sun was crossing the sky, a golden globe in a sea of blue, its rays burning everything without mercy. A slight breeze came in small gusts, making 10,000 acres of wheat ripple like a golden ocean. The toddlers began to cry, and one by one, they were taken inside for naps. "Do you think something happened to him in that newfangled auto?" someone asked no one in particular. "Maybe Charlie got sick and had to stop," someone else said. I got to worrying myself. Maybe I was never going to see him again. Maybe he didn't like me anymore. Then, one of the older boys perched high in the apple tree let out a holler, "I see someone coming!" It was like watching a long, smoky zipper separating two pieces of cloth as the little Ford came steadily up the lane. World War II was going full blast. Pearl Harbor had come and gone. Charlie's three older brothers had been drafted and were fighting in the South Pacific and in other places that the grown-ups talked about. One by one, the boys, all in their 20s, left the old, weather-beaten ranch house that sat in the middle of a vast stretch of land. Ten miles from Sprague, Wash., it had been homesteaded by my German ancestors in the 1800s. Uncle Sam had given Uncle Charlie a deferment because he was the last son at home. That didn't set well with him. He said he could fight as well as the next guy. One day he hitchhiked into town and joined up to fight the Axis. The family was devastated; I was bewildered. I was about 5, and I didn't understand why my favorite uncle and best friend had to leave. Somehow, I felt I was to blame and I hid in the hayloft, crying and sucking my thumb. My parents were divorced, and later, my mother gave my grandmother custody of me. Now Uncle Charlie was leaving me, too. "Jeanie, there are just some things a man has to do," he said when he found me. "It won't be for long, and I'll be back before you know it. Why, I couldn't leave your grandpa and grandma and you! And what would I do if God hadn't made these fields? You'll understand when you're older." He lifted me easily to his tall shoulders and we followed a well-worn path along the fence line that led to the main road a half-mile in the distance. "I'll betcha you could stay home if you really wanted to," I said, trying hard not to cry. The next morning, Charlie took me out to the watering trough to swim. It was big enough to water eight to 10 draft horses at a time, and it was 3 feet deep. Once every two weeks, Charlie had to drain it, scrub the green slime from the bottom and sides, and fill it full of fresh water straight from the pump where the spout was positioned over the edge of the concrete. Now, someone else would have to do it. "I still betcha you could stay home if you asked," I said, sniffing and whining. Charlie squeezed his eyes shut and turned away from me, trying to hold the moisture in. I didn't understand that in order for Grandma, Grandpa and me to live in a free society, Charlie and thousands like him had to go to war to protect that right. He let me swim twice as long as usual and my fingers and toes were like wrinkled prunes when he carried me, soaking his shirt, back to the house. The next day he was gone, leaving a painful emptiness behind. I haunted the bunkhouse where he had slept with his older brothers and then some of the harvest crew, hoping I would find him in his bunk, his legs too long and his feet hanging over the end. Time passed and one by one, Charlie's older brothers came straggling home--one on a cane, one with malaria and screaming nightmares, and the other in a heavy cast, walking with crutches. None of it made sense to me. "Grandma, what about Uncle Charlie?" I asked one day, getting right in her face. Grandma looked away from me like she always did when I mentioned Charlie, making the sign of the cross. It was as if she sensed something the rest of us never voiced. Then one day, the mailman drove right into the front yard in a cloud of dust and grasshoppers, and handed a telegram to Grandma. He squeezed her hand and then he was gone. She told us later that he had the saddest look on his face. Grandpa and I were up on the thresher, me in his lap, with three teams of horses pulling us when I saw Grandma coming. Wheat chaff flew everywhere, billowing from the animals and the machine. I could barely make her out but I knew it was Grandma by her bright cotton dress. "Grandpa, look!" I pointed. He reined in the horses and jumped from the seat, holding me lightly as he hit the ground. "My God, Mama, you look sick! What's wrong?" 'It's our little Charlie!' she cried, shoving the telegram at him. 'He's been hurt, bad!' She kept sobbing and Grandpa kept reading the paper over and over. I started to cry, and then I was screaming in long, high-pitched wails that floated across the fields and made the birds fly from their tree nests and rabbits scurry for their holes. 'I want my Uncle Charlie!' I demanded. 'Where is he?' 'How bad do you think it is?' Grandma cried, ignoring me. 'What can we do?' 'All we can do is wait. It says here that he's been sent to the Veterans Hospital in Walla Walla, Washington, for treatment.' Leaving the horses in the field, Grandpa hurried back to the ranch house, Grandma and me running behind him. He cranked up the phone and asked everyone to stay off the party line, that his boy had been badly wounded, and he needed to find out just how badly. Grandma rang the dinner bell and the men on the harvest crew came running; they knew it was too early for supper and that something was wrong. Everyone gathered in the big kitchen, all 32 hands, their hats in hand, anxious to hear about Charlie. 'It appears that our boy, Charlie, is blind and paralyzed, and we don't know if it is temporary or not. His tank took a shell and caught fire. When he jumped from the turret, the tank rolled on him and his men had to dig him out of the ground. 'Now, I know that we always pray at mealtime, but let's all throw in an extra word for Charlie. He's gonna need all the help he can get!' It was the quietest meal I had ever seen. Some of the men picked at their food while others ate in silence, their thoughts somewhere with a young man who was fighting for his life. Charlie was a hero, no doubt about that. Family and friends came and went, offering sympathy and support. I tried to stay out of the way, but I wanted to know about my Uncle Charlie. 'What does paralyzed mean, Grandma?' She started crying and couldn't answer me. Finally, one of my aunts sat me down and tried to explain it to me. I finally understood that there might not be any more rodeos, riding horse-back and roping for Charlie. There might not be any more long walks to the mailbox while I sat on his broad shoulders. Walla Walla was too far away for anyone to go see Charlie, so we all waited, going about our daily lives. Grandma lost weight and got big circles under her eyes. Sometimes at night I could hear her moving around downstairs, an occasional dim glow from the oil lamp cutting feebly through the darkness. One by one, Charlie's older brothers got married and brought their wives home. The babies started coming and it seemed like there were diapers everywhere. I was delegated to errand girl and baby sitter while the women worked in the kitchen, cooking, baking and carrying firewood to stoke the range. Sometimes, just to have some peace, I would sneak away to the barns and cattle pens. Another harvest and another winter came, blizzards devouring the land in great gusts of snow and wind. I spent a lot of time huddled by the stove, wrapped in one of Grandma's handmade quilts. In the morning, when I first got out of bed, my breath visible in the air, I scurried and tumbled down the steps to the first floor, leaving behind a half-inch of ice on the inside of my bedroom window. One of my uncles took his family and moved into town where he had found a job in the steel mills. No one ever said it, but ever after that, I looked at him as a traitor. I couldn't understand why he left the fields. After all, they had always been a part of Charlie. Then one day a phone call came. It was Uncle Charlie. 'I'm coming home tomorrow,' he told Grandma. She dropped the phone and Aunt Helen had to take the call. I ran out to the fields to tell Grandpa the news. I had mud up to my knees, but I didn't care. It was springtime and my Uncle Charlie was coming home. Work was done for the day. Grandpa brought some of his homemade brew up from the root cellar and everyone celebrated. The following morning, when the rooster crowed and the hens were scratching, I was up and moving. I kept following Grandma from stove to table and back again until she stopped and braided my hair. The women were already setting up tables on the front porch and in the shade of the apple tree. Throughout the morning, they piled them full of food, covering it all with dishcloths. The morning dragged slowly as first one person and then another walked to the head of the lane, shaded his eyes, looked and came back. We were all starting to get hungry but no one had the nerve to brave Grandma's wooden spoon. She used it with talent. The babies were whining and fussing and the grown-ups were bickering, but over nothing of real importance. One by one, people were stretching out under the apple tree and in whatever other shade they could find. Finally, well after lunchtime, my older cousin saw a car coming up the lane. Everyone jumped up and ran into the sun. We waited with bated breath, but then we could see it was only the mailman. He had a Sears catalog that wouldn't fit into the roadside mailbox. Then someone said they were going to eat, no matter what Grandma said. She stood in front of one of the tables and shook her wooden spoon at us. 'Nobody is getting a bite to eat,' she threatened, 'until Charlie gets here!' 'Ah, come on, Mama, we're all hot and tired and hungry,' Uncle Tom coaxed. 'I'll beat you if you come near!' she retorted. Uncle Ted, easily a foot taller than Grandma, could have taken the spoon away from her, but he respected her too much. Now everyone was standing around, smothering snickers and giggles, choking back laughter, watching the drama between mother and son play out. 'Hey, Ted!' Frank called from the back of the crowd, 'better watch Mama 'cause she's got that look in her eyes!' 'Don't you make fun of me, Mister!' she cried. Everyone got quiet and backed away, watching that spoon. Uncle Ted was 6 foot 3 inches in his socks and he weighed almost 200 pounds. Grandpa grinned and kept his mouth shut. Then it happened. Another car was coming up the lane. When the little Ford pulled into the yard, there was no doubt about it. It was Uncle Charlie. But what had kept him, and why had he been three hours late? Everyone crowded around the car - and there she sat, the prettiest thing I had ever seen. Charlie had brought his new bride home, a nurse who had taken care of him in the hospital. He introduced us to Crystal and she jumped out of the car from the driver's seat with a smile, the friendliest smile a stranger could give. She went to the back of the car, opened the trunk, and everyone crowded forward, trying to see in. I was part way back in the crowd, and all I could see was that she was struggling with something. Then a couple of men stepped forward and offered to help. They sat Charlie's wheel-chair on the ground. I had never seen one in real life, but this one was a mess. The wheels were full of mud, weeds and wheat stalks. Then I knew where Charlie had been. While everyone was talking and greeting the newcomers, I squeezed my way up to the front. I was standing a few feet away from Charlie, looking into his blue eyes. Why, he isn't blind, I thought. He's looking right back at me. Charlie could see! 'Uncle Charlie, can you see me?' 'Yes, Jeanie, I can see you. I got my sight back a year ago.' He grinned and opened the door. I climbed up on his lap, even though I was getting too big for that. His legs were bony, and leaned to one side. A strap held them together below his knees. He looked weary, and his head was too big for his shoulders. 'What took you so long?' Uncle Frank said, looking so much like Charlie. 'Everyone was worried. Couldn't you wait to see your wheat?' Charlie looked down at his legs and then quietly he said, 'I've got the rest of my life to wait.' Grandma was hovering close, tears streaking her face, and he held his arm out to her. She rushed into it and hugged him tightly. Then Charlie sat me back on the ground. Then he swung his legs out with his hands, grabbed the arms of his chair, and lowered himself into the seat. His shoulders rippled with the effort. He patted his leg and I jumped back into his lap. Uncle Doug, so much like Grandma, stepped forward and started pushing Charlie up the dirt path toward the front porch. Charlie waved him away, and although it was a struggle, managed to wheel himself and me to the bottom step, where he stopped and gazed over the fields. The sun was already dropping toward the west, and the scene - the family crowd, the little Ford, and me on Charlie's lap - would have made a per-fect Norman Rockwell sketch. 'It's just as I remembered it,' he said, looking at the old house and the fields behind it. The years passed. My grandparents sold the ranch and moved into Spokane. Charlie and Crystal bought a small home in the valley, and the rest of the family moved on as well. Being my father's child, I left home at 14, came back, left and came back again. Whenever Charlie or Crystal opened their door and I was standing there, they never turned me away. I was a rebel. I seldom did what Uncle Charlie wanted me to do, but he was always there for me. Then one summer, when I had descended on Charlie and Crystal for the umpteenth time, they talked me into staying for a few weeks. Charlie was going prematurely gray; streaks and flecks of silver spattered his black hair. His precarious health was more fragile than usual. Sometimes I would find him sitting in the back yard, his hands folded in his lap, looking over the 5-acre parcel of land that he and Crystal had made into a small truck farm. Every summer they hired teen-agers to pick the vegetables and berries. One day I was picking raspberries and Charlie was sitting in his wheelchair at the end of the row watching me pick. He was unable to come any farther in the soft dirt. He had been talking about mundane things like the weather and market prices. Suddenly, he fell silent and I looked up. Then he started talking, and it seemed like he kept talking faster and faster. Charlie had dropped his head, perhaps ashamed to show his true feelings. Maybe he thought it wasn't manly, or maybe he just didn't want me to see his face, afraid he would be too vulnerable. I'll never know. One thing was certain: He was hurting inside. When he finally looked up, his face was twisted like he was in physical pain. There was berry juice all over me and I kept squeezing fruit between my fingers, making the mess worse. I was trying not to show the pity I felt for this man who had been like a father to me. I hated myself at that moment. I hated that helpless feeling of knowing that Charlie needed something I couldn't give. "At first, when I couldn't see or move, I didn't want to live," he said. "I kept thinking of those endless fields of wheat that stretched beyond the horizon like golden bands; bands that I might never see again. Then I realized that I could still smell them, and hear the rustle of the stalks as the breeze blew them against each other. Then one morning I woke up in my hospital bed and started screaming. I could see light and shadows. I realized God hadn't forgotten me. 'My eyesight got better and better, and one morning I woke up with the sun shining in my face.' Charlie kept talking, like everything had to be told at once, like he didn't dare leave anything out. His words tumbled over each other and, by now, I had stopped picking, and I was sitting in the dirt on my heels, fascinated by what I was hearing. 'All I can remember, Jeanie, is waking up and hearing the sounds of shovels digging nearby, and I could hear the men's voices, kinda hushed. Then someone said something I'll never forget: 'Hey, Sam, this poor devil's heels are up behind his head!' 'Then I knew it was me they were talking about,' said Charlie, 'the rodeo rider, the farm kid, the hayseed that didn't even smoke. My mind flooded with a thousand kinds of fear, but I kept my mouth shut because I didn't want anyone to see me cry.' With those words, Charlie summed it up. I had never realized the extent of Charlie and his heroics. I don't think he did, either. It was as if he had removed himself from that person for all those years. But everything that had been bottled up had finally spilled over, and I felt ashamed because I had taken him so much for granted. Charlie has been gone for many years now, having died in his sleep at 53. But he is as alive today as he was then, and I still miss him terribly. He left a hole in my heart that I've filled with the memories of him and his golden band of wheat.