18 Days

1.

0950 hours Feb. 19, 1945, Iwo Jima

He was running as fast as he could, at only twenty yards he could feel himself slow down. The sand was deep and his pack was heavy. He still had 20 yards before he reached the rally point. As he glanced at everyone else running he realized that despite the constant roar, there weren’t any shells landing near him. The volcano to his left was a ghost wrapped in dust, it seemed to move with all the explosions. Everyone dove at the base of the step in the beach and looked for their sergeant. No sooner had he hit the sand than Sgt. Campbell starting yelling get up, keep moving, form a line!

As they passed the line of vegetation he heard popping sounds, then whizzing and BOOM! He was pushed in the back HARD. He hit the ground and felt a sharp pain in his arm and turned to yell at whoever pushed him. His ears were ringing and through the smoke and dust he could see someone lying to his right; he realized it was Tommy and he was missing a large portion of his left side. Bullets were coming from all angles and air-burst shells were raining shrapnel everywhere. He managed to get to his feet just as the LT ran up to him. The LT was younger than he was and had a very wild look in his eyes. The LT was yelling for him to do something but all he could hear was ringing and his mouth moving over and over. BOOM! He was knocked down again and the LT was gone. He realized he was covered in blood and starting yelling MEDIC! MEDIC!

Doc Nowlin had to shake me to get my attention but I finally realized he was gesturing to me to head back toward the beach if I could. I was afraid to stand up so I started crawling back, first using the proper low-crawl as I was taught and becoming more upright as I tried to hurry. I saw the Red Cross flag and immediately headed that way. I’m safe, they can’t get me now he thought. As the adrenaline dropped I started to feel some pain in my arm. I looked at my forearm and noticed it was covered in blood. I decided I didn’t need to know more than that.

The Doctor grabbed my arm and told the corpsman that I was a three. The corpsman wrapped my arm with a bandage, then wrapped my arm to my side. He had to put his nose about one inch from mine to get my attention and started yelling you’ll be fine! I need your help with some of the others! Follow me! He led me over to a line of Marines laying in the sand, some were dead and others had a big 1 marked on their helmet, their forehead, arm or leg. We’re too close to the beach, we need to move these guys back about fifteen yards" A crazy thought went through my brain; now I know why the DI's screamed at us all the time and why we had to scream at the top of our lungs in response. All the yelling was still barely audible over the crump, crump, sounds of artillery, rifle and machine gun fire and ricochets. Something went by my left ear that sounded like a giant hummingbird going a million miles an hour. Something tumbled thru the sky whoom-whoom-whoom and buried itself in the sand 20 yards away but not before it slammed into a group of marines trying to push a jeep thru the sand. The jeep driver, covered in blood, hesitated only a moment before he jumped from the jeep and started running. Three steps later he fell to the ground, a bloody mess. The medic was still yelling but his next words were drowned out as artillery shells began hitting the sand close by. That last one pushed all the air out of me, I thrashed and tried to catch my breath. I finally figured out I couldn’t breathe because I had so much weight on my chest. I began pushing, squirming, kicking, punching - anything I could do to get some air. I had several bodies lying on me and I had to burrow up to find daylight. I tried to clear my eyes mouth and nose of the sand - black gritty sand that stuck everywhere, especially anyplace sweaty. And that was everywhere. It tasted horrible. Y left leg refused to work and as I laid in the pile of bloody, broken bodies I had to squint my eyes when an LCM went up in a ball of flame fifty yards out in the surf. The Japanese had pre-registered the beach and surf, every vehicle that got within 100 yards of the beach began to have rounds explode around them. Some were hit and made tremendous explosions, some seemed to sink or capsize when rounds hit very close. One LCM had almost reached shore when a round exploded in the water just to the right and rear of the craft. The world seemed to slow down; I watched, amazed, as the LCM was picked up out of the water and flung forward! It slammed upright into the sand not 5 yards from where I lay and as I began trying to free myself again, the landing ramp dropped down on the pile of bodies and pinned me again. I could see inside the LCM as a Weasel came barreling down the ramp. I could see the drivers face as the track bore down on him and I screamed…

2.

Thursday March 14, 1946. Bronx, New York

Welcome home. No matter how many times we heard it, it felt just as good as the first time. Welcome home. People would smile, tell them welcome home and keep right on going. Usually older folks, sometimes teenagers and kids. Girls their own age were the best; you usually got a coy smile with the welcome home. Men their own age would sometimes give them a sad smile and a nod. Others couldn't or wouldn't make eye contact. A few would puff up, but not many. Welcome home. It doesn't get any better than that. Two years ago it was much different. Folks would look at them with a mixture of pride, sorrow, apprehension and hopefulness. Most would flash the 'V for Victory'. No one did that anymore. Victory had been won. Peace and rest at length have come, all the day's long toil is past, and each heart is whispering home, home at last! I read that in a book.

The three of them walked the path lost in their own thoughts. It was a gorgeous day, much better than March had a right to be. The sun was out, the skies were clear and they owned the world. They were conquering heroes, home from the war. Two of them were dressed alike; green wool slacks, khaki shirts, identical hats at a jaunty angle and a field scarf to complete the look.

Cpl. Elmer ‘Bones’ Bonenberger was of mixed European and American Indian descent, a sixth grade education, and had lived with seven different families and friends from birth until he joined the war on his eighteenth birthday. Long and lean, over 6’1 and with wide shoulders he made 210 pounds look light. Known as Slim as a child, he was able to find humor in almost anything, even himself. What a great day to be alive, and look at all this split-tail", he said with a grin.

Sgt. Mike ‘Twice’ (he’s so big you have to look twice to see all of him), Thompson didn’t bother to answer; he gave Bones a half-grin and started looking a little closer at all the civilians. He was a good two inches taller than Slim and had him by a good forty pounds. Twice looked like he had spent his entire life in the harness. A heavy brow, square jaw and massive neck topped the block of stone. Most people would consider him a little dull or withdrawn but Twice just liked to think about things before deciding or offering an opinion. Twice was slow to boil but once he reached the flashpoint his Irish and Italian heritage would kick in. By the time Mike turned 18 he sometimes felt like Frankenstein's monster. His senior year the football team had gone to the State playoffs and when he ran onto the field the opposing band actually stuttered and stopped playing. He was now 24 and had been at war from the day it started. Technically, the day after. That Monday lots of folks had joined up to fight.

They made a sight - Slim looked like he could take a running start and jump over a car; Mike looked like he could run through a car. Just two big ol' country boys enjoying a beautiful spring day and taking a stroll in Van Cortlandt Park, New York City. They were in just the right place at just the right time; they had money, and they had hours just to enjoy themselves, look at all the women and soak up the looks of admiration and envy from all the civilians.

Sgt. ‘Rusty’ was the one that first noticed the man on the bridge. He flashed the signal for danger and motioned the other two toward the man. Rusty was the observant one, a mix of Belgian and Hungarian, he was a good bit shorter than the other two. A little over 2 feet tall and about a biscuit shy of 65 pounds he was one of the most feared warriors to come home from the fight. Rusty was a Marine Scout Dog. Of the 500-some dogs used by the USMC in WWII more than half did not survive the years of combat. Few Scout Dogs lived to see the end of the war and Rusty was very fortunate to be here today.

3.

1940, Columbus, Ohio

Rusty didn’t think of himself as a dog, in fact he didn’t think of himself as ‘Rusty’. His name was Védö and as long as he could remember Jack calling him Védö he knew he would be alright. I remember Jack because I am Védö. I am Védö because I remember Jack. Védö & Jack, Jack & Védö.

Védö's mother had fled Hungary with her master in 1933. A Jewish University Professor living in a country that was sandwiched between the German Socialists and the Russian Communists knew that changes were coming and none of them would be good for him. László Werkner looked much younger than his 71 years, and had mastered the amused air of the college professor. Of average height and average build it was his clothes that set him apart. He had all his clothes tailored, from dungarees and wool pullovers to tweed jackets and cotton slacks. In the barn or in the lecture hall, he looked comfortable and stylish and hadn’t changed between lectures. He sometimes wondered if his appearance increased his stature in others eyes, but alas, an experiment left undone. Einstein could keep the frumpy look, he would let others chase fashion. He wore the typical clothes of the time; and he wore them well.

Dr. Werkner was able to find a position at University of Ghent and had immersed himself in his work for several years but by spring of 1939 knew it was time to get farther away from the lunatic in Germany. He wrote several acquaintances that had gone to the United States and found that his work was well regarded there and had the pick of several research positions. László decided on Ohio State University in Columbus, Ohio. He had no idea what the facilities would be like but he knew of 3 other Hungarians like himself that had positions at the University. László brought his faithful Vizsla with him; a beautiful dog that unknown to him had gone into heat before leaving Ghent. The Vizsla is a Hungarian hunting dog; medium height pointer or retriever with a beautiful golden rust coat. The Vizsla has great stamina, affectionate, above average intelligence and an outstanding hunter. A local sheep dog, a Belgian Malinois had impregnated his Babácska (dolly) a few days before they boarded the ship for America. The Malinois is a well-balanced square dog, elegant in appearance with an exceedingly proud carriage of the head and neck. The dog is strong, agile, well-muscled, alert, and full of life. The pups were beautiful, all the best qualities from both breeds. Fast forward nine months and Védö was almost fully grown. He looked to be a Malinois with slightly longer legs and a slightly shorter face and an auburn coat that would change hue and color with the light. Professor László Werkner lived in a groundskeeper cottage at the University farm. All his research and teaching were conducted there, no reason to stay in town. They had a nice layout here, classrooms, labs and barns were all arranged within the University Farm that was heavily fenced. The Farm worked with everything from rats to horses and cows to exotic animals, and the arrangement was almost ideal for the professor.

Védö and his siblings had the run of the place. László liked to take his lunch at the picnic bench under a large elm tree. Spring was dragging her feet, he thought; but I’d rather be outside than not. His students also knew not to approach him at the bench - it was reserved for Faculty and invitees. The professor had just sat down on the bench when a younger man approached him. Doctor Werkner? A quick nod to the man. My name is Scott Logan, Professor Stevens suggested you would be the man to see for some advice. Scott was still lean and fit at 47 and an assistant professor in the math department. Sandy hair, horned rimmed glasses, clean shaven, jacket, tie and slacks completed the University look. Scott had played football and baseball in High School, but math had always been his passion. A degree from Columbia, graduate studies, post-grad, grad asst, and after 10 years removed from high school Scott was ready to leave University studies. He was ready to research his passion - mathematical analysis and of course teach university courses to pay the bills. He was given excellent recommendations and had no problem securing a position with OSU. Scott was intelligent enough to know that a city boy from Joisey needed help with acquiring and raising the first family pet. His family did not have pets while growing up and between his research, teaching classes and family he hadn't even considered a pet.

Please to sit László said and patted the bench next to him. Advice is free?, probably no good, yes?

Well, I want to get a dog…

You want dog? You have dog now?

No, I want a dog for my son.

His dog dies, you want new dog?

No, well, actually we’ve never had a dog, that’s why I wanted to talk to someone about it before I get him a dog

Never had dog? Never? Best advice - no dog!

But my boy Jack has his heart set, my wife and I have tried to dissuade him, put obstacles in his path but I know I will end up with a dog in my house. My questions are basically - how do you raise a dog and is there any breed better than others for an active twelve year old boy?

"How do you raise dog? Easy! Same way you raise boy. You love him no matter what, you make sure he know that you love him. You teach him what is right, what is wrong. You teach him he is punished if does bad things. You do this with patience. Next day, same thing again. Easy, yes? Good advice!

László Werkner was at his best giving a lecture and between his difficulties learning his new language and the fact that he tended to count his tick off points and lists and assignments to college students almost every conversation sounded like a lecture.

Kind of dog? Many, many kind of dog. Many, many kind of boys. Me, you, boy - we meet. I talk to boy, see what I think. Then we talk again, yes?

4.

3 PM August 16, 1941. Tridelphia, West Virginia

It’s hot. It’s very hot. And humid. Max wasn’t sure this was such a good idea now. Kids playing baseball out in the heat of the day, the worst of the dog-days of August, was asking for players to get heatstroke. But, this was the only start time that the coach of the Triadelphia All-Stars would agree to for their matchup. Max was curious to see this number twelve, everyone said that once you saw him play you wouldn’t believe that he was only sixteen. He had a handful of boys that would be playing High School ball and a couple of those might go on to college or minor league ball in the future. His Wheeling Colt League All-Stars had easily beaten two other area all-star teams and after they beat Layton Minnich's team, he had suggested that Max set up a match with Triadelphia, just so he could see this kid play.

They had retired Triadelphia one, two, three in the top half of the first and were able to only get one run in the bottom of the inning. A very nice double-play had ended the inning, they only got one run and left runners on base. Number twelve was the lead-off batter in the second and Max took a good look at the boy. 6’1 or 6’2, very tall, he appeared to be rail thin. No forearms and sticks for legs made Max wonder how he got the bat around. As soon as he stepped into the batter's box the chatter started; Hey batter, batter, hitter can’t hit from his fielders and encouragement from his Triadelphia mates. C’mon Slim, big bat, big bat, we need one Slim, and then he noticed the Triadelphia fans were all standing up. Slim took the first pitch, a fastball just off the edge of the plate. Cal Rogers was Wheeling's best pitcher and he had heard all about Slim. He was eager to challenge this scarecrow. His second pitch was even faster but Max’s jaw dropped open when Slim took a big cut (and fast! He couldn’t remember seeing a kid bring around a bat that fast!) and sent a towering home run over dead-center field. His entire team just stood there and stared as the ball went over the fence, over the parking lot and dropped somewhere between the highway and the river. Slim didn’t admire the shot, didn’t showboat around the bases - he didn’t even crack a smile until he crossed home plate.

By the sixth inning Max had seen enough of Slim. The kid roamed centerfield and made every play he should, some he shouldn’t have and never once did anything to indicate he knew just how much better he was than anyone else out there that day. Max had already decided that Slim could play minor league ball, maybe even AA ball. At the top of the sixth Wheeling led 4-3 and Slim was due up second. The lead-off batter dribbled a grounder down the first base line and just beat out a throw for one on. Max called time and went out to talk to Cal. He had decided that discretion was the better part of valor and told Cal to intentionally walk Slim. Cal didn’t like it, hell, he didn’t like it either but to pitch to Slim was the same as giving Triadelphia two runs. Cal tossed two balls way outside (that got the fans booing!) and on number three he decided to toss a heater right at Slim. Instead of ducking or jumping back Slim calmly took the pitch right in his side. He rubbed it once and trotted to first base. The boys turned a great double-play and were able to get out of the inning with no runs scored but he knew he needed to score a run or two and build a cushion before Slim was up again.

Slim took the pitcher's mound to start the bottom of the sixth instead of loping out to centerfield and Max and his team all stood on the top step of the dugout to watch him warm up. Max had played minor league ball and was a pretty good judge of pitchers. Being a catcher gave you a unique perspective on the game, it also gave him the bad knees that ended his career and would make him four F when he tried to enlist after Pearl Harbor. Smooth windup, great throwing motion and from the dugout it appeared the ball was just as fast as Cal could throw, and Cal was already playing varsity ball for his High School. Cal was leading off this inning and was doing his best to time the pitches while in the on-deck circle. Cal stepped into the batter's box, got set, Slim wound up and POW! The ball hit the catcher's glove. Ste-rike ONE! the umpire called out. Max was amazed - that tater had to be humming along in the mid-eighties, if not more. Cal called time and stepped out of the batter's box, he must have thought he was facing Bob Feller! A couple of swings and a hat adjustment and he was ready again. Ste-rike TWO! Cal had swung but was pretty sure the ball was in the catcher's mitt before he got around. And close! That ball could hurt bad or break something Cal thought. He brought the bat up, got ready and was totally unprepared for the comet coming straight at his head! He hit the dirt as hard and as fast as he could and was amazed to hear Ste-rike THREE! And people laughing. As Cal walked back to the dugout Max noticed several men in the stands behind home plate that were using huge gestures to show just how big a roundhouse curve Slim had thrown. Slim threw 6 more pitches to retire the side. After the game the home plate ump told Max that every pitch that Slim threw was perfectly placed. Inside corner, outside corner, wherever the catcher held his mitt is where the ball hit. Hard. The next inning, Slim threw nine strikes to retire the side.

Top of the eighth, Donnie, his shortstop, fields a grounder for one out and then fumbles a one-hopper and Triadelphia has a man on first. Slim settles in the batter's box and Cal looks over at Max. Max mouths WALK HIM and Cal’s face flushes deep red. Cal lobs ball one outside and the Triadelphia fans start in on him. You can see Cal growing a deeper red with ball two and as he moves forward with number three Cal decides that he can sneak a strike past Slim. CRACK (any baseball fan will you tell you that is the best sound in the world!) and Slim has hit a liner to right field. The runner chugs the bases as Max watches the ball roll in the corner and knows one run will score with Slims’ perfectly placed double. Except that Slim was standing on third when the relay came into second. Score tied, one out. As the next batter stepped into the box Max wondered if Slim didn’t pull up just a little on his bat and the bases to let one of his teammates be the hero today. Two pitches later the boy hit a single up the right side and the score was five to four, Triadelphia. Wheeling turned a double play and finally got out of the inning. Max talked up the boys but he knew Slim would get out of the inning and the game very quickly. As Slim was throwing his warm-ups he noticed more and more of the Triadelphia fans were looking off to the west. He looked also but did not see any weather approaching but that is what the fans were acting like they saw. The first batter swung and missed three pitches, his second batter had just stabbed at strike two when the Universal shift warning horn sounded. If you have ever lived in an industrial area you know that the factory horns signal the beginning and end of shifts, two short toots for one shift to begin shutdown or takeover of continuous machines and the long horn ten minutes later for shift change. The Universal Match Corp was announcing the end of the first (and last) shift for this Saturday. Production would not resume until Monday morning. Mondays thru Friday they ran two shifts, ending at midnight, but on Saturdays they only worked one.

Before the two blasts ended the Triadelphia coach was calling timeout and trotting on the field. Slim tossed him the ball on his way to the dugout. Max saw Slim duck out of the dugout while the new pitcher warmed up and didn’t notice that Slim was gone until after his last batter had popped up to end the game. After the teams shook hands he asked the Triadelphia coach where his star player had gone. Slim has a job at the match factory, and has to be there before shift change. That is why I wanted to start as early as possible.

5.

August 16, 1943. Camp LeJune, North Carolina

Slim was running as fast as he could which wasn’t very fast. Carrying ninety pounds of equipment, plus a rifle, has that effect on you. The Drill Instructor was screaming at the top of his lungs at the recruits but Slim and the rest were too tired and had pushed themselves to the limit already.

He knew he had to keep moving, that was the ‘lesson’ to be learned that day. No matter how tired you were or how difficult the obstacles; it was all about moving forward. Attack, attack, attack. Fire teams doing leap frog from cover to cover, searching for targets. Boot Camp was hard, but wasn’t as hard as Slim had heard, plus, for the first time in his life he was given enough food to feel full! They did indoctrinate you fully and show you just what your limits really are.

On induction day he was standing in a long line of young men, all wearing Marine issue t-shirts and boxer shorts when a DI walked up behind him and starting yelling questions at him:

DI: What’s your name recruit?

Slim: (who knew enough to stand at attention) ELMER BONENBERGER SIR!

DI: GODDAMMIT you maggot! I want a SIR first and a SIR last! It’s a sir sandwich you idiot! Private Bones I do believe you are the tallest and skinniest 'sumbitch I’ve ever seen. There ain’t a lick of meat on your bones. Can you even do a pushup for my beloved Corp?

Slim: SIR YES SIR!

DI: (immediately) "JESUS H. CHRIST!! DO I NEED TO SEND YOU