The Cost

A light snow was falling as I pointed the dirty snub nose of my company stake-bed Ford pickup west, into the black Dakota night. I looked at my watch. It was 7:30. Sundown was hours ago, and the door Deere logos were almost certainly iced over on my exterior. Anonymity by weather.

The cab was cool and humid inside, heat full on, but condensation still formed on the inside of the glass. I was breathing too hard, I guess. I could see it with every exhale. Unwrapping my muffler from around my neck, I wiped down the inside windshield. Even with wipers on full speed, I could still see only feet beyond the hood ornament. Oddly, my feet were sweating inside my galoshes, but my fingers were cold against the steering while. How can the human body not self-regulate warmth evenly in all its extremities?

I was feeling sorry for myself. Imagine being told to drive 650 miles on a night like this, just to show our sales brochure in a little town clear across the state. Couldn’t they have gotten Swede to do it? He was already out there somewhere. But then I had received the wire stating that Clark had asked especially for me to come back to complete the circuit. He was a pal, and it meant a boost for me at the main office. It’s seldom anyone gets a call from one of their territory managers to come all the way back just because he likes your style in handling “the show”.

I was only twenty-five, and a good word from Clark may just be the thing needed to get me the advancement I needed. Plus, it might keep me from the impending draft. The crumpled letter from my mailbox, read just before I headed out, rattled around between umbrella and ice scraper, on the floor of the truck:

Greetings:

As the atmosphere in Europe grows increasingly concerning, and as the tempest of war looms large, the possibility exists for our young men to be called upon to serve their country. This letter serves as notice of the possibility for a call to service.

As you know, the recent passage of the Selective Training and Service Act of 1940 means that all men between the ages of 21 and 35 are now eligible for the draft. While we pray that it will not come to that, we must prepare ourselves for any eventuality.

President Roosevelt and his administration will only call upon our troops if absolutely necessary, and should you be needed, you have the government’s assurance that you will be well-equipped and properly trained for duty, under the umbrella of our protection.

Should you be selected for training and service, your local board will furnish transportation to the nearest induction station. You will be required to report immediately. It is well to keep this in mind while arranging your affairs, to prevent any undue hardship.

Please stay vigilant and await further instruction.

Samuel B. Yaff

Member and Clerk of the Local Board

My young wife did the books for the dealership, but she couldn't sell tractors and keep our home by herself. Worrying out loud to Clark would always inevitably elicit his soothing credo, "We will weather...this too shall pass". Well, that was Clark…an all around good fellow.

If you’ve ever traveled in Dakota, you know what it is. It’s just black night. Really black. Endless black. Even blankets of glittering snow can't penetrate the ink. Every hour or so you just pass through one of those tiny South Dakota towns, about three lights burning and a faded speed limit sign, now coated in a film of white.

Listening to the steady drone of the motor sure makes a fellow tired. I struggled to keep my eyes on the road through the now steadier snow, which alternately danced straight towards me and blew horizontally. There are no mountains here to serve as buffer to the winds across the plain. I was fighting sleep. By 3 am, I still had such a long ways to go. It isn’t safe to be driving 40, much less 60 or 65 on these roads, but the thought of Clark waiting out there gave me new pep. So, I just kept driving and fighting the drowsy.

By five a.m. I was in bad shape, but Clark and some up-at-dawn rancher were waiting for me. The towns were further apart, and the snow was approaching a blizzard. I just couldn’t seem to keep my eyes open. I must have just dozed when I’d swear someone spoke my name. Just one word, "Jim", and I awoke in time to avoid a head-on smash into the guardrail on a steep curve. Fishtailing, I struggled to straighten her out and pulled over to see how close I’d come. It was a straight plunge down about 30 feet into a creek bed below. A razor-thin escape.

Continuing on, I obsessed over reality. Who had called out to me? No amount of second-guessing could convince me that I hadn't heard it. Absolutely sure, I shook my head vigorously, clearing the clouds from my mind. I glanced at my watch. Now 5:30. Finally reaching the outskirts of Dickinson, there was no sign of my notoriously-prompt boss. Calling his house about six, I heard his wife’s sobbing voice say, “I’m sorry, but Clark died of a heart attack about 5:20 this morning. He was just bundling up, getting ready to go meet you, and I found him collapsed in the mud room, overcoat and boots half on. The last thing he said to me when he got out of bed this morning was that he was worried about you, and that he wondered if you’d have to drive all night in this weather to get here.”

Outside the phone booth, the clouds parted slightly, and the early morning sun poked one slender golden shaft through the grey to the blanketed earth. From that day on I can think of nothing else. I am living on another man’s time. Soon after, the Spring thaw arrived, and I received the advancement I had been seeking, thanks to Clark’s special request for my service. He had placed the directive for promotion with the head office before I'd even left for the drive. He saved me from the storms.

But why did it cost so much?