The secret box of old stuff

This is a story of a Montana boy who went from Missoula to fight the German Nazis in WWII. He was never seen again. We lost our only maternal uncle. No fishing, no hunting, no stories, no avuncular advice.

He was Carl Ralph Bonde, Jr. After finishing his Spring quarter of his sophomore year at the Montana State University in Missoula, he volunteered to fight and was drafted March 4, 1942, when he was 18.  

“Everybody went,” said his army buddy, Wally Merza, in Sarasota, Florida, in 2006 at a reunion,  part of the 262nd Infantry Regiment of the 66th Panther Army Division.  

Carl and his peers got more than two years of training and physical conditioning in North Dakota and the Deep South of the United States. He trained for the air corps, he trained to be an officer. The war with Germany and with Japan dragged on. And on. Trainings were cancelled. The smart kids were assigned to the infantry. To Alabama and Arkansas. To the 66th Army Division for shipment to France.

Private First Class Carl Bonde ended up as a really intelligent ammo bearer for the M1919 machine gun section, Weapons Platoon.  According to Wikipedia, each member of an army machine gun section usually carried somewhat more than 30 pounds of ammunition or weapon, in addition to his personal field equipment.

Then our grandparents got a telegram in March, 1945, saying her son was missing in action.  Although they got another a month later reporting him killed in action, Grandma spent her remaining 22 years of life wondering what happened.  And why.  His mother endured her broken heart with courage and stoicism. A Norwegian. She found solace in crocheting. She watched Lawrence Welk. And Groucho.

None of us knew much.  We had not met Carl.  Our mothers told us that he was good and kind, gifted with unusually great intelligence and wit. He was the youngest, and they loved him. He was 17 when he started college in Missoula. My sister remembered playing with him when he returned to Montana on leave from training. “He was handsome in his uniform,” she said.

In 1998, I searched on line for information about Carl, whose nickname was Buddy. My two year project turned into a twenty year project. Stacks of writings gathered dust in the basement. I became more and more depressed. My writing coach told me to “get some fucking help.”

My depression transformed into a kind of abject misery. Some friends helped as I collected some of my writings and published a memoir. If you think you can make a coherent book by stitching stuff you’ve written, I’d recommend against it.

My memoir dropped into the silent void. One friend who tried to read it curled her lip and hasn’t spoken to me since. Several politely said they liked it okay. My son called it a “page turner.” You get the idea. My psychiatrist comforted me by reminding me that most people are not writers. He said I might learn from my mistakes. A friend gave me a hug. She writes romances and sells them.

A librarian in Billings observed that my book “meandered a bit,” then smiled and returned it to me. A poet friend called it peripatetic.

Most recently I nominated my book for an award, and I paid $150 for eight people to read it. I think my book, “How I Improved the United States Marine Corps,” has deep flaws. It has no purpose, no moral. It doesn’t grab you. It might be unreadable. Well, I certainly haven’t read it. I don’t plan to. I don’t have to.

Then, a surprise. Author, musician, and publisher Aaron Parrett wrote a kindly review for the “Montana Senior News” newsletter. Another old friend said it was good, and that made me feel better.

About then, a trove of new stuff about Uncle Carl R. Bonde, Jr. surfaced.

My cousin Blaine phoned me when he found a box of Uncle Carl’s old letters and a Purple Heart medal. He refused to mail it to me or even scan the letters. I tried to make him feel guilty, but that tactic never worked on him. So I invited a bunch of people to his house in Hillsboro, Oregon. I promised them fun. Eat, drink, talk, sing. We’ll look through the box. Visit the Oregon Zoo, play games. Fun. Blaine and his wife Fran are excellent hosts. We had an excellent time.

Well, Blaine and his parents used to host all of us when we were kids visiting him at their beach front house on Puget Sound, on Three Tree Point, near Burien, near Seattle. This was the late 1950s, early 60s. We visited in July when Uncle Norm bought us fire crackers. The older kids got their hands on M80s and cherry bombs. For some reason, we younger ones got only 1 and 1/2 inch-long fire crackers. None of us blew off any fingers.

Back to the present day. Our parents are dead. Three of us cousins, too. My sister is living in Nebraska. She was the oldest cousin, but often she got left out of the fun. You know, a girl. She’s 86 now.

So, six days ago we boys met at Blaine and Fran’s to examine the box of letters and stuff no one knew existed until Fran found it in their garage attic. We supposed Blaine’s mother kept the materials when she moved from Montana. Blaine put the box into my car. My camper van.

If you want to know what was in the box, read the next chapter.