JAMES CALVIN BELL

   Remembering Her 'Baby' Brother at War

It was 1941 when my brother, James Calvin Bell, left for Germany.  "Jack" was tall, blond and robust.  The large mole on his cheek was typical of our Cherokee heritage and when he smiled, the Dutch-Irish spirit beamed from his red cheeks. 

My older sister, Bertha, Jack and I had grown up in the hills of Tennessee, where the thought of the world being at war was remote and hard to understand.  We had lived in peace among the tall trees and had grown up strong, never knowing the pain and misery that was being felt in Germany. 

Bertha and I had always thought of Jack as our "baby brother."  At 24 he was no longer a baby, but he was the father of a little girl who did not understand at all why her Daddy was going away.  Even at 24, he was much too young to go to war. 

I remember how broad his shoulders were and how much he loved to swim.  His hair was curly, his smile was broad and more than anything he loved to swim.   His chest was covered with blonde ringlets that glistened when he emerged from the lake and he was always in search of a higher landing from which to dive and he never underestimated the water.  But, like all the other able-bodied men in the country, he put his life aside and went. 

As we walked through Union Station there were hundred of other young soldiers and their families, all facing the same separation that we faced.  Jack slung that dark green duffel bag into the air and it reminded me of the bales of hay he used to heft onto the wagon.  When he walked, it was as if there was no burden on his shoulder.  PFC Bell smiled a nervous smile and I could tell that he was a little bit afraid.  This time he didn't know how deep the water was going to be and we didn't know if we would ever see him again. 

Before my sister Bertha and I knew it, he was on that train and gone.  His big hand waved as the train whistle grew dimmer in the distance and the huge black caboose disappeared into the distance.  Bertha and I were filled with lonliness as we walked slowly back to the bus stand and waited in silence. 

His letters came regularly and were more cheerful than I can now imagine they could be.  Each one counted the days until he would return and drive us once again, through the countryside singing songs and laughing that full laugh of his.  We listened to the radio and watched the newspapers to see what was happening.  We were strengthened when we heard that Patton's Army was moving north toward the front and saddened when the Allied Forces suffered great tolls in Berlin. 

Jack went to "sunny France" and wrote that it rained for days.  Then it was on to Japan and finally to Germany where he served in the 142nd Infantry with General Patch.  He sent a fine, silk kimono for Bertha and a wonderful ring for me.  I wore it with such pride. 

His letters were light-hearted and simple.  Reading them now, I find it hard to believe that he was in the middle of such a brutal and agonizing war.   He was always so grateful to get our letters even though it sometimes took weeks for them to catch up with him. 

Bertha's son-on-law, Dave Usher, had to go too, and left his wife and family behind. 

Most of the men were gone, even if they had small children.  Many of them went because they had children and wanted to make sure that the world would be free for them.  Their wives worked in the Army's small arms plant or rolling mills, often doing heavy work during the day and then going home to their babies at night. 

I was grateful to God that my husband, Everett, did not have to go to war.  We lived with our six children in a large rooming house at 4004 Delmar in St. Louis. 

Everett had served his country as a motorcycle dispatch rider in France during World War I.  His job had been to ride an early model Indian motorcycle back and forth to the front carrying messages from general to general. 

So during the Second World War he worked in the Army's Small Arms Plant on Goodfellow.  Our 16 year old daughter, Doris, worked in the rolling mill. 

We occupied one large apartment and rented the rest of the rooms to the wifes of soldiers, married couples and to a few young men who were far from home.  For each soldier still in action, a star was placed in the window.  There were as many as seven stars in our windows at one time. 

The war was long and hard.  Jack was present when American troops crossed the Rhine and forced German soldiers out.  He also earned the distinction of being present the day Germany's Reischmarschall Hermann Goring was captured. 

Back home, everybody had to pitch in with the recycling and rationing.  It was hard, but one day Jack and Dave appeared at our front door and the whole place went crazy!  We screamed, we laughed, we hugged and we cried.   Our boys were home safely at last. 

Now, fifty years later, my brother is 74 years old and is in and out of the hospital because of diabetes.   Recently part of his foot had to be removed.   But he is proud of his service and happy to know that not one of his sons has had to see or experience what he did during the "greatest war" of all.