THE DROWNING SIREN

In 1966, the year I turned fifteen, my world was the Loup River, the gently rolling hills of a prairie plateau, and the sleepy little village of Boelus, Nebraska. Viet Nam, race riots, and the Cultural Revolution were all far away – just two dimensional images on a nineteen inch screen for a few minutes in the evening. Except for the space program, I didn’t pay much attention to the news. My biggest worries were my weight, my acne, and mustering up enough guts to ask someone to dance.

Most of my classmates lived on farms far from town, so most of our socializing was limited to school. When I did get together with the few friends who lived in the village it might be to listen to records, play catch, or just lounge around daydreaming. There was a lot of open country within walking distance, so camping and fishing were easy. I willingly spent a lot of my free time alone. I could explore the river and prairie for hours at a time before getting bored and going home to read Hardy Boys novels, build models, or watch TV.

The Rural Electrification Administration had built a dam on the river during the Roosevelt years. Water diverted to the powerhouse canal was controlled by raising and lowering guillotine-like gates. Swimming the underwater passage from the reservoir, under the gate, and into the canal was a dare to teenage machismo that some of the swimmers could not resist.

There were neither riverboats nor runaway slaves, so I didn’t really expect to meet Huckleberry Finn. Like the Mississippi though, life usually moved pleasantly and smoothly. The prairie was an easy place in which to dream. When I stood very still and listened closely enough, I heard the mournful, falsetto funeral cry of Sioux ghosts. A lifeless young warrior, wrapped in a rawhide cocoon, was lifted to the sky on an ornamented scaffold overlooking the river. Perhaps a Pawnee warrior had jumped unexpectedly out of hiding and viciously cut him down.

Though I was a dreamer and blissfully uninformed of current affairs, as long as I lived in Boelus I would always know four things: when it was noon, when there was a fire, when a tornado was spotted, and when someone was drowning. These four things were announced by the siren on top of the village fire hall. The siren would signal noon by winding up to a full wail and then unwinding to silence. It would summon the firefighters by repeating the signal over and over. For tornadoes, the siren would twist out yet a different signal by cranking up to full volume to fall off briefly before climbing back up. After five ascents to full volume, it would fall all the way to silence before repeating the cycle. But the most haunting cry of all was the drowning siren. It would be turned on and left to wail away, uninterrupted, at full volume for a minute or more. That unrelenting howl compelled the most urgent response.

One pleasant Friday afternoon in autumn, I was in sophomore typing class with the other fifteen members of the class of `69. As our nimble teen fingers were tapping out exercises on the keyboards of our IBM Selectrics, someone knocked at the door of our second floor classroom. When Mr. Ryan opened the door there stood a grizzly bear wearing a suit. It was our superintendent, Mr. Jensen. A pudgy finger shoved his glasses back up on his nose. His feelings were usually hidden under a mask of puffy flesh; that day though, as he spoke with our teacher he was twitchy and his eyes kept darting nervously toward me. As Mr. Ryan stepped back from the door, the jittery bear settled his eyes briefly on me and said, “David, come with me please… and bring your books.”

Not being guilty of anything worthy of his attention, I was mystified. What was the problem? In the hall I asked, “What’s going on? What do you need to see me about?” Turning away toward the stairwell, he answered tersely, “I can’t tell you anything, David. I don’t know. Your mother called and asked me to get you home right away.”

We walked in silence to the stairwell, down to the school house door, and out to Mr. Jensen’s big, black Chrysler. As we left the parking lot, his stony silence discouraged me from questioning him again. I stared out the side window without focusing until we got to the highway. Instead of turning onto the main road as expected, he crossed it. I began to look around apprehensively. This was not the regular route to my place. He was taking the dustier, slower way. I wouldn’t be able to see my house until we were very close. A fuse was sputtering in my guts. If he had to get me home so fast, why was he taking the slow road?

When we finally got to the corner by the store, my house came into view and I found myself staring at an olive drab sedan of the United States Army parked on the street in front of it.

I had only two connections with the Army. My brother, Hugh, was a combat medic in Viet Nam. Before Southeast Asia, he was at a prep school for West Point long enough to learn he didn’t want to tolerate the political crap that would be part of everyday life at the academy. His academy-trained officers didn’t like his opinion of the institution which they venerated so dearly. With less than a year left on his enlistment, they saw to it that he was sent to Viet Nam. By September, 1966, Hugh had little enough time left on his enlistment that he no longer had to go out on patrols or with Medevacs. He would finish his tour at the base camp aid station.

My second connection with the Army was Dad. My father was a millwright at the Cornhusker Army Ammunition Plant. They produced bombs and the antipersonnel mines nicknamed “Bouncing Betties,” which were designed to jump up like a bouncing ball and detonate in a deadly band of shrapnel.

Maybe someone was there to tell us Hugh or Dad was injured and in the hospital. Maybe everything would be okay. I got out of the car and quickly went into the house with Mr. Jensen coming along behind. My mother was standing alone in the living room wringing her hands together against her stomach, forehead wrinkled with worry, eyes pleading.

My eyes reflected hers as I asked, “Mom, what’s going on? What’s happening?” She answered plaintively, “I don’t know, son. That man from the Army won’t tell me anything yet.” Mr. Jenson asked mother, “Is there anything I can do here?” “Yes, Douglas, please,” she points out the window at the olive drab sedan, “he’s gone over to the store to find some neighbors. Could you see what’s keeping him?”

Dad was on his way home from the plant. An Army officer returned from the store with a couple of neighbors who bracketed my mother protectively. Dad soon arrived. The officer began to read a telegram to my parents, “It is with deepest regret that I inform you of the death of your son…”

Mother cried mournfully as she leaned into a neighbor. Father’s face twisted in pain as he took it in the gut, and sobbed, “Oh God!” Pain squeezed tears out of me as my fists clenched in helpless anger at my sides. I wanted to kill the pukes that had sent my brother to Viet Nam.

After our emotions faded to a mere numbness, we were able to hear how Hugh died. Someone had been injured when a mine was unintentionally detonated. Medics from the aid station went unhesitatingly to his aid. Just as they stood and started back to the aid station, another mine jumped unexpectedly out of the ground and detonated in their midst. A band of shrapnel viciously cut down seven young medics. Hugh was one of them. He would remain twenty-two years old forever.

The weight of a dreadful sadness unclenched my fists. I was pulled under a cold steel gate into a murky canal. An icy finger reached for a switch… and the drowning siren began to wail.