Montgomery County History Center | Dave McFarland
It was late morning as the old man walked slowly out the front door of Artz Drug and started west across the street when he suddenly stopped. Directly in front of him lay the park, Fountain Square Park. Strange, he thought, what a compelling place Red Oak had been. He had not been born here, and he had even left once for the greener pastures of Des Moines. But when his old Guard unit had been called up, he had returned. Now he knew he would stay here forever.
It had been early morning as he remembered his grandfather telling him about his wars. Grandpa had joined in 1862 to fight in the Civil War, but instead of going South, ended up fighting Indians in the Dakotas. The fighting had been rough, but the weather had been the real enemy, always cold and snowy or hot, dry and dusty – everything was always one of extremes. But Grandpa said that Great Uncle John had it worse; he had been one of the first to go, not even a month into the Civil War. He was one of 200 men from Southwest Iowa who fought at Fort Davidson. They lost the battle, but won the campaign. Fort Davidson fell, but the cost to the Rebels had been so high St. Louis was saved from the Confederacy.
The old man stood there looking at the fountain, his mind fixed. Had it been 30 years? As a young man, really just a boy, he found work in a local laundry. Mom was always quick to say it was honest work. Oh, but it was hot, sweaty work – everything was heavy and wet. The pay was OK, he guessed, especially for someone just starting out. Maybe that is why he joined the local National Guard – it was a break, something more positive, a sense of adventure, open fresh air. He could remember watching Darwin play football; what a talent! How sad it was that he died late one night in Cuba aboard his ship, the Maine. The Guard company didn’t even wait for orders. They mustered and said they were going to fight the Spanish and avenge Darwin, even if they had to buy their own tickets to Cuba. Edwin, Darwin’s little brother, was a member of the company. No Cuba though! Instead, they went to California and then to the Philippines. They actually missed the Spanish American War, but they would fight in the Insurrection. He almost chuckled. Thinking back – the jungle or the laundry – which had been hotter and more steamy?
Wait! There was that fountain. Twenty years flashed passed – off again to fight, this time in the Great War. Each spray on the fountain, a man he knew and a man lost. One was his nephew, George. George died due to the War, but not from combat – rather the flu. The old man felt that he had seen too much, but there were so many who had seen more.
It is afternoon now, and here comes Frank, just leaving the First National Bank and heading east across the street. He pauses to give reflection at the monolith of stone. All those names, names he knew. Then his hand went to his coat pocket. Yep! It was still there, the can of beans. How ridiculous he thought, I am still carrying that silly can. It was a ticket back, all those years ago.
World War II came, and it was off to Camp Claiborne, then Camp Dix, and finally North Africa, Morocco, and then Tunisia – boring days in the desert only to be punctuated by the sheer terror of battle and the confusion. They ran out of ammo, out of food, and even water. They desperately attempted escape only to be captured. It was off to Stalag IIIa as a prisoner of war and days of too little of everything. He could still remember getting that little ration can of beans. It had given him strength and hope. He never had the heart to open and eat it, but he knew it was there. If things got too bad, he had something fall back on. It remained something like a memory, and he could not let go.
Evening is setting in and there is Martin headed to Williams. Frank thought to himself, there is a guy who really knew what rough was. Martin, you’d better hurry, for you see, Martin is afraid of the dark. Not the dark of night, but the darkness of being alone with his memories. Once a teenager who lied about his age in order to join the Marines, he was just a scrawny kid on Okinawa who helped blast Japanese soldiers who would not surrender from caves and bunkers. From that island, Martin went to the frozen mountains of Korea and the Chosin Reservoir. And if that was not enough, he would see a green hell in the jungles of Vietnam.
It was getting dark as Mike rushed past Martin. Martin thought to himself, “I sure wouldn’t have wanted to be him.” Mike was still wearing that brown camouflage jacket he wore in Iraq and then in Afghanistan. Suddenly, Mike made a sharp jog to his right, giving a wide space to the bag along the sidewalk. What was it – an improvised explosive device, just an empty bag carelessly left behind, or maybe just a dark memory always to be in the shadows of one’s mind?
Fountain Square Park probably is not unlike other parks – often ignored or just taken for granted. But what an expensive piece of real estate it represents.
Dave McFarland is director of the Montgomery County History Center. You can reach him at mchsociet@qwestoffice.net.