Wisconsin
Five years earlier, when John was thirteen, the depression had held the nation to ransom. Some of the USA had become a dust bowl; people were leaving the land, fruitlessly walking the dusty city streets, knocking on doors looking for work.
John was aware of the problems and knew how lucky they were to be living on the farm. He knew that because his father told him so.
They could live regardless; his father had told him how his grandparents had arrived from the East in a covered wagon. That first winter was so cold that the mercury froze in the thermometer, and you could snap a piece of rope like a carrot.
John doubted it was cold enough to freeze the mercury, but he had broken a piece of rope when it was frozen solid. And it was cold today. Not that cold. Not cold enough to stop the work in the fields, it was almost never cold enough for that, but cold enough that you could stick to a piece of metal.
And it was a piece of metal, piece of junk, as he thought about it, that he was trying to come to terms with now. Two years earlier, when he was fifteen, his brother had gone off to college, leaving John with his inheritance or burden depending on who you listened to; John or his father.
William was the bright one. He was the one that would keep the family well with a job in the city. He remembered how they had stood on the low platform waiting for the train, to Madison. The autumn air clear and sharp, heralding the first change from the blistering summer to the bone-cracking cold of a Wisconsin winter. Each year the same.
In the middle of summer, when the mercury climbed through thirty towards forty and above, all you could think about was the claustrophobic heat. There was no escape from the heat. In the schoolroom he would sit and dream of escaping to bathe in the stream, he wanted to do anything but sit in his smart clothes reading to the class. But that was the route his father had chosen. A good Lutheran school complete with the discipline that his father had suffered. As he grew through his teens, he became aware of the relaxed behaviour of his peers. Lads who went to the Catholic school, where they could wear shorts in the summer and the girls would wear candy-striped dressed.
The girls. How relaxed the other lads were always smiling when they walked home in their shorts and the girls gradually growing. He was grateful for his ability to read well enough in class and his fists to fend the lads off when he was on the street.
But on the hot days, when he was wearing his tweed trousers, even his reading could not let him escape to the river for a cool swim, possibly, with some of the town girls beside him. His brother had, and he could not see why his Father was so insistent that he should not get tangled. Some of them smiled at him, and others laughed, some spoke about his brother and said how alike they were and did he have any cigarettes like Will gave them?
He remembered every piece of gravel on that platform as they stood, waiting for the train. His brother, his best friend, was leaving him for the next three months. He remembered the pat on his back, as the train pulled out of the station, and his father telling him that he, John would now be the farmer. William had left to a finer life which meant that John had just won the main prize.
His father told him that it was like winning the tombola at the county fair. Top prize and he had not even bought a ticket.
‘You just won the lottery, John, my boy.’ He remembered looking at his father, not understanding. ‘With Will doing whatever he intends to do, I guess the farm will be yours. Something to build on, invest in and build on. Yes, you’ve just won the lottery.’
Sadly, he felt he had just lost all his stake money on a gamble he didn’t know he was taking. He hated the farm.
He could cope with the searing heat of summer, now that he did not have to wear the tweed trousers and jacket, but he could never cope with the winter.
He looked at the tractor. His father’s newest purchase, a stream of buying that had he justified because John would inherit the farm. The real reason was more prosaic.
Loan guarantees from the government and an eye for the woman at the supplier had meant several purchases over the past few years. It also meant extended periods without his father and increasing turbulence at home. The breaks meant that John was left with the half whit to run the farm, which in term meant he was getting behind with his work.
Today was typical. November, his father away, three fields to look after, and the answer to their dream, the Farmall tractor would pull twice what a horse could. Assuming it was not 10 below, dangerous to touch and almost impossible to start. They had agreed to store the machine in one of the stables so that the two horses might keep it warmer.
He cursed under his breath and put the starter handle back into the slot and pulled again; nothing.
He walked over to the bench and filled the paraffin lamp, pumped up the pressure and lit the flame. Then he adjusted it to a wide soft heat.
They had done this so many times, he wondered why they didn’t start this way. It would save time, and the risk was minimal if you were careful and intelligent. He would never ask Will to do it. That would be asking for trouble, and he could just imagine the insurance claim, we set the new tractor on fire with a blow torch. Not that his father believed in insurance, “if you can’t look after a tractor you shouldn’t buy one. All insurance does is to pay for the other fools to act like fools.” So, they had no insurance; John wondered if they would have had some of the dealer’s assistant had been selling the policy.
He played the flame onto the right side of the engine, warming the tops of the cylinders and he dried out the plugs.
William stood watching as his brother warmed the engine block. Slowly it started to warm through a little, and John put the burner down and picked up the starting handle again. Will picked up the burner and was about to play the flame on his side of the engine.
‘Not that side Bro. You’ll hit the carb.’ The older boy laughed. ‘No laughing matter, that’s a petrol carburettor. Set that ablaze and we’ll see Christmas again.’ He looked up from the front of the tractor and smiled at his brother. “All brains for books. Brains of a rabbit for anything else.”
The first swing was always the worst, the second kicked back, and the engine chugged into life on the third.
‘My magic touch’ Will said over the noise of the engine as John reduced the mixture, then switched to diesel.
The next day, they took Will to the station again and with a little heat from the winter sun, two hours later than normal, the tractor started with a couple of pulls.
In March the Winter broke into a wet Spring that lasted through to the middle of May. Then the temperature started to rise again, then drop as Autumn approached. Soon the farm would be thronged with casual labour picking the potatoes. And as they collected the last of the crop, and the poorest of the workers were given some of the fields to glean whatever they could, the frost started, and the temperature plummeted again. Again, John was starting the engine on petrol, wearing leather gloves and a blowlamp to get over the worst.
Two years later, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour, and the government started to become proactive about their productivity. Then their call-up papers came through.
William had applied for the Army Air core and with his degree and masters on the way, was readily accepted into his chosen profession. The same day, John got his letter from the Government, he would not become a GI, he had a protected profession. He would stay on the land and feed the army.
The town turned out to wave their hero off, and the first in line was John. As tall as his brother now, and without their childhood differences, more alike than ever, they hugged and parted.
Will turned to one side and nudged his brother.
‘I saw you chatting to the County Princess, a month or so ago.’ John turned red. They had been seeing each other since then, but she was a Catholic, so they thought they would spare their parents the grief for a while. He had no idea that his brother knew.
‘She’s a lovely girl John.’ He raised his eyebrows, then made a hand sign, making a ring with his left thumb and forefinger, then repeatedly thrusting his right forefinger through. They both knew the gesture, and they both laughed.
‘So be careful, I was.’ Will smiled, but John didn’t see the joke.
It was their mother who had compared their baby photographs and said they were twins, just two years apart. Anyone looking at them now would agree with her. Then the two men shook hands turned aside without saying a word. It would have caught in their throats to speak.
Six months later, William was on leave at the end of his basic training. Immediately after Christmas, the two men stood by the tractor and William pulled the engine over and on the second swing, it fired. John looked at him. The basic training had been good for Will. Although older, constant farm work meant John was stronger as they became men. But John was not sure that was the case now.
With the engine warming, John showed William how to meter back the choke and switch to diesel. A minute later, the barn was warm with the big engine ticking over, and William light two cigarettes and gave one to John.
‘I’m not going back.’ Will said.
‘What do you mean you’re not going back? You can’t just drop out. This is not college.’
‘You sound like Dad, God rest his soul. He wanted me to become a flyer. But there’s a difference between a Cessna and a military plane, and people are firing at you.’ William sat in the driving seat of the tractor.
‘They’ll lock you up. You know that.’ John perched on the front tyre of the tractor and shook his head gently.
‘Better that than dead.’ For a second, they were silent, then William spoke again. ‘Which field did you say needs turning?’ John told him, and the college man put the tractor into gear and slipped out of the barn.
Three hours later, he was back. In that time, John had done other tasks around the farm and thought hard. Then he went upstairs to their bedroom and changed jackets and looked at himself in the mirror. Then put his work clothes back on.
They changed the appliance on the back of the tractor and John showed him the schedule for the rest of the day. Harrowing and rolling two more fields. Tomorrow the same with other fields, then later in the week, planting. The schedule was on a sheet of paper that John had worked out in the Autumn. Different each year, so that different crops were grown in different fields, and what the Government wanted for the war effort was maximised. Unspoken, they both knew what the idea was.
Seven days later, a uniformed man turned up at an airbase for the next part of his training with a smile on his face. He had a lot to learn.
He knew how to fly, their neighbour had a light aircraft for crop dusting, but William was right, the T6 Texan was something else. It looked like a fighter, and with 400 horsepower and not much weight, it scared him to death on the first flight.
Of course, no one questioned the fact that he needed a larger sized jacket, or that he had to have his trousers lengthened. And the fact that he had trouble remembering the ranks, how to load a rifle, what was meant by the various commands was forgiven, because all his instructors knew one thing. He could fly. And the Army needed pilots.
The new William was a revelation. He could fly quietly when told, cruise over the countryside, checking his waypoints, noting the position of the sun or the moon and not get lost. Land naturally, dropping the three wheels together onto the grass. In the air he had an instinct of where his instructors were coming from, and would dive so fast, they often felt jeopardised by the approaching fields, then at the last moment, the new William would bank left or right, put on the power and flip the aircraft around them. Now the instructors had a sparrowhawk on their tail, and they were just glad the trainer was not armed.
As the American fleet limped back to sea, he passed through training and was transferred to the Navy Flying Corp. Now he was flying fighters with 1200 horsepower, and he wanted more. He would speak to the engineers, and they would care for and caress the big engine bringing his up to the best spec.
He got his first leave when he received his first award. The Distinguished Flying Cross, for exceptional performance throughout his tour of duty. On a quiet news day, the town heard of his achievements and wanted to join in and celebrate his bringing honour to the town.
There was only one problem, William was the clever one, the one that went to college and then into the flying corps, but he was not nicknamed Carrot Top for his dark, almost jet-black hair. Yes, they had looked like twins as babies, but the photographs were taken before either of them had any hair. Later in life, there was never any confusion.
For the last two years, the real William had kept his hat on. Summer or winter, whenever he was in town, he kept his hair covered.
In the Navy, no one knew or cared what John’s hair colour was, or the fact he sometimes responded to John, rather than William, and the black and white photo on his identity card, was poor enough not to cause a problem.
But the folks of Madison County would know. They would expect the red-headed, clever man who they had marched off to war to lead the parade. Not the farm labourer who had won the lottery and inherited his father’s farm. So again, they had to swap, and Carrot Top had to stand on the back of the farmer’s trailer in his, slightly too large, dress uniform next to the Carnival Queen and take the cheers. And like much in his life, John missed out on the accolades; the handshake from the Mayor, the girls wanting to chat him up, the bar offering him free drinks and smiles from Catholics and Protestants alike. And as he watched the carnival, he wondered about his first love, who was standing arm in arm with Will on the back of the trailer.