Workshop Writers' Space
Feet
by Arthur Cerf Mayer
I’ve been thinking about my buddy, Marty from Omaha. He and I were the only two Jewish GIs in Company A of the 327th Glider Infantry of the 101st Airborne.
I was the spoiled first kid of an older mother, for whom I probably represented some kind of unexpected gift. ( I arrived sometime after her 40th birthday.) One thing she worried about a lot was that my shoes should fit. And, so, until I was in my early teens, she accompanied me to the shoe store – the one that had the x-ray machine that showed how loosely or tightly the shoes fit. This mattered more when I was a kid than it does today because we wore leather shoes everywhere, except to gym, and when our shoes were new, they were stiff, and could hurt.
Marty from Omaha was even more pampered, coddled and spoiled than I. And, his Omaha mother must have had an even more anxious approach to shoes than my Chicago mother. From what I can gather, she was even more fussy about Marty’s precious feet. She certainly made an impression on him. Because as a grown up, and a soldier for Uncle Sam, still taking his cues from momma, Marty continued to worry about them..
I say that because for almost a year, as we soldiered along together, and hiked the same hikes together (some of them pretty long hikes), Marty would complain to me that hiking gave him blisters. Once or twice he showed me his feet. He did have a lot of blisters. Somehow or other, none of the rest of us did.
Blisters or not, when the Company Commander hollered “Fall in!” the whole company, including Marty, fell in and we hiked. With full packs. Rifles or heavy automatic rifles. Ammo belts laden down with tons of ammunition. Sometimes as far as 25 miles. After any hike, long or medium-long - there were never any short ones - Marty was likely to moan about his blistered feet.
Well, eventually, they dropped us off in Normandy, and before very long, the platoon Marty and I belonged to got trapped across a river from the rest of our company.
The lieutenant in command of our platoon needed a volunteer so he demands, “Who knows how to swim?” He wants someone to swim across to the rest of our company on the opposite bank, and direct mortar fire from there onto the enemy.
Marty gets the job. Seemingly, most of the other GIs in our platoon have no special confidence in their swimming skills, but it’s really not that wide a river, and Marty figures he can make it across. So he goes down to the river bank, takes off his boots in a hurry, and wades in. He gets to the opposite shore, delivers the message to the nearest mortar squad, and, just at this point, another of the officers notices Marty wandering around barefoot.
Very un-soldierly, and completely impractical if the U.S. army is to make any further use of him. So, as you might suppose, the officer hollers, “Hey, soldier, get yourself a pair of boots.” And, Marty just stands there wondering where to find a shoe store. He’s all alone, without his mother there to make sure his new boots will fit. I’m not saying all this passes through Marty’s mind. But you can see the problem.
He asks the officer where he can find a pair of boots his size. And the officer, who has bigger problems to deal with, hollers at Marty, “Look over there. See that dead paratrooper? Take his boots!”
So, Marty takes the boots off the dead paratrooper. And he must have doubted, really, if they would fit. However, I guess they did.
Maybe his mother’s spirit was hovering over him. Because we never heard another word from Marty about boots, or blisters, or his feet.
Girls!
by Arthur Cerf Mayer
We kids lined up along the tracks of the Englewood Station in Chicago, waiting for the train to come in.This was the true beginning of summer. This train was headed north to northern Wisconsin. The passengers were not grown businessmen on the prowl for deals, but boys, some as young as five or six, going away to summer camp.
We looked forward to two months of camping. Learning to box, play softball, ride horses, drive golf balls, play basketball, volleyball and tennis, paddle canoes, row boats, dive and swim, and not in a pool either, but off the raft in the middle of a beautiful clear, crystal bright little lake in Wisconsin. Oh Joy!
One of the best things about camp was getting up there in the first place. In a sleeping car. On the train. With a couple of hundred other boys. Including my adored cousin, Ralph.
I must tell you about Ralph. Unlike me, the first of two boys, and thus destined to take all the first steps, and make the most of the missteps, Ralph was the last kid in his family's string of three. And his two predecessors were not brothers but sisters. Can you imagine? Wouldn't that be an experience? As I looked at it, Ralph's life story would have to be the most valuable a boy could have. Just being around a couple of sisters all the time would have to teach him a lot. Maybe everything he needed to know. About GIRLS!!!
And, then, as he explained to me, he learned a lot not only from his sisters, but from their girlfriends, girls older than himself, of course, who would always be in the house, and more than occasionally trying out their tactics, their secret strategies and other charms and delights on humorous, handsome, always agreeable and willing little Ralphie. What a great bunch of teachers to have around at all times! What a fantastic educational experience! What luck to have sisters, and not just sisters, but tall, beautiful sisters, instead of a crappy kid brother like mine.
Ralph knew all about everything. And I would be by his side, picking up hints, all the way north to Hayward, Wisconsin, with its beautiful woodlands, countryside and lake. Because, on the way up on the train, I could quiz my cousin Ralph, and he would impart to me everything he had learned about GIRLS from his two beautiful sisters, and all their fascinatingly beautiful girlfriends.
Only trouble: how could I take full advantage on such a short overnight train ride? I realized that once we got to camp we'd be so busy with the softball, basketball, volleyball, horses, canoes, swimming and such, we'd never have time to get back to learning about sisters and other GIRLS. Well, now, if ever, was to be my chance.
It wasn't long before we had ridden clear past Milwaukee, and the Pullman porters had turned the lights down. It was dark inside the car, but not, as you might suppose, quiet. Instead of its usual quota of sedate and quiet business travelers, this car was full of warm, squirmy six-to-twelve-year-old boys. All in their pjs. All in both upper and lower births. For most of them, lights out was just a signal to start yakking, jibbering and jabbering away. Communicating, if you will.
That's what it was for me. I was in an upper birth. Cousin Ralph was in the lower birth. Just beneath. Neither of us was sleepy. So I whispered down to him.
"Ralph, can I come down and talk to you?"
And he said "Sure."
So, I clambered down. And, before long, we were on the subject Ralph was notably expert in, GIRLS. His sisters, their girlfriends. Their girlfriends' girlfriends. The other girls we knew at school. Especially the naughty ones. And surely Ralph never had a more eager acolyte than his little cousin Artie. Six months older, but a lot unsmarter. Me.
Ralph told me how his sisters were forever buying clothes, and studying college catalogs, and going out on dates. And always doing whatever it took to look pretty. And Ralph's big sisters were seriously pretty.
And how his sisters' girlfriends would come over, and take little Ralphie (who was not THAT little) into the bedroom and play with him, because to play with a little boy like Ralphie would never be commented upon, even if playtime took place in his sister's bedroom. And they, the girlfriends, could try out daring adventures and explorations and never worry about ruining their "reputations," as could be their concern if they engaged in such exploits with boys their own age and older.
And as for being found out, Aunt Ruth was too busy running the house. And Ralphie could be relied upon never to tell.
To say that I was envious would have been to criminally understate. But I certainly couldn't have let anything like that interfere with this golden opportunity. I struggled to find the right conversation to help keep Ralph's deep well of information flowing. And, as long as I remained a willing student and admirer of his precocious prowess, Ralph kept coming up with a virtual instruction book full of those useful nuggets I had to have.
Finally, he seemed to be running down, and I fought to find one or two more conversation starters intriguing enough to keep the talk going. I was trying in every way to get every last bit of information that could make ignorant, sisterless, little me more attractive and exciting to the girls in the neighborhood.
At last, I found the right question. "Ralph," I said, "How do I get them to let me kiss them? Huh, Ralph?"
Ralph, of course, knew the answer and was generous with the precious intelligence. He let me have it instantly.
"Just tell them you love them," said Ralph.
Why would that work I wondered. But I decided to try it next time I had the chance.
And, I did. And it did.
