Al McClintock, both attempted to describe what they had seen, but both were slow-talking, and slow-thinking, and covered in an inordinate amount of grease and oil, and whenever anyone asked them a question they both looked as if they’d been asked to write an essay on a subject unfamiliar to them, so the residents of the Six Towns area never got a proper description of the convoys of camouflage-brindle trucks and Jeeps, let alone of the American soldiers who manned the camouflage-brindle trucks and Jeeps.
One afternoon an American soldier, driving a camouflage-brindle, two-ton army truck, and carrying a dispatch pouch full of supposedly vital information, completely and cleanly missed the Whitecourt turnoff, and might have carried on until he traveled all the way to Jasper, and got stopped by the mountains, except that the camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck developed engine trouble and stopped dead in the center of the road, within spitting distance of Bjornsen’s Corner.
The lone American soldier pushed the camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck off to the side of the road, then stood with his hands on his hips and stared all around him. What he saw to the left of the Edmonton-Jasper Highway was a lot of muskeg sprinkled with twisty tamarack trees, while what he saw to the right of the Edmonton-Jasper Highway was a lot of prairie covered in red clover, and a big, white farmhouse with green shutters, sitting well back in a grove of cottonwoods.
The lone American soldier walked the quarter mile to the big white farmhouse with green shutters, which belonged to Sven Bjornsen, of the Bjornsen Bros. Swinging Cowboy Musicmakers, clutching the dispatch pouch which contained supposedly vital information, and once he made himself understood, which wasn’t easy, because he came from South Carolina, and the Bjornsens came from Norway, and what each of them called English didn’t sound like English to the other one, he was able to use Sven Bjornsen’s telephone, one of only two in the Six Towns area since Curly and Gunhilda McClintock allowed their telephone to be cut off for non-payment, to call the United States Army in Edmonton and let them know approximately where he was.
Approximately, because when the lone American soldier asked where he was, Sven Bjornsen said very authoritatively, ‘You’re at Bjornsen’s Corner, Alberta, Canada.’
Sven Bjornsen said that so authoritatively that the lone American soldier believed him, and the United States Army believed the lone American soldier when he gave that as his location. Finding the lone American soldier proved to be quite difficult for the United States Army, because, when they copied down the information the lone American soldier gave them, they didn’t know that (a) the lone American soldier had missed the Whitecourt turnoff and was many miles west of where he was supposed to be, and (b) that as far as map makers were concerned, there was no such place as Bjornsen’s Corner, Alberta, Canada.
The lone American soldier then tinkered with his camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck, enough so that he could call back the United States Army in Edmonton, the first time Sven Bjornsen’s phone had been used for two long distance calls in one day, and tell them what he thought was wrong with it, and the United States Army in Edmonton told him to hold tight and another camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck would be sent to Bjornsen’s Corner with replacement parts, only, they added, the parts had to come from someplace like Michigan or Minnesota, so he should hold tight for a few days.
When the lone American soldier asked about the dispatch pouch containing supposedly vital information, the party he was conversing with said he was a mechanic and that wasn’t his department and what difference could it make if a few pieces of paper were a few days late getting to Alaska, and the lone American soldier said he had to agree.
That lone American soldier was an amiable sort, and the first night he was at Bjornsen’s Corner, he sat right in with the Bjornsen Bros. Swinging Cowboy Musicmakers, played the spoons like he was a regular musician, and sang Jimmie Rodgers’s songs in a high, sweet voice, like they were meant to be sung.
There were eleven Bjornsens in the house at Bjornsen’s Corner but they made room for the lone American soldier anyway.
‘Ve vill yust put anoder cup of vater in the soup,’ said Mrs. Bjornsen, which she did.
But when, after a week, the second camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck didn’t arrive with the parts, the Bjornsens arranged for the lone American soldier to move in with the Wasyl Lakustas, who were known as the Lakustas by the lake, although Lily Lake, the lake they lived by, had dried up years earlier.
The lone American soldier was both willing and able to pay for board and room, while the Wasyl Lakustas were known (a) to be so poor their children took bacon-fat sandwiches to school, when they went to school, which was infrequently, and (b) to have two eligible daughters, at least one of whom was rumored to be hot-blooded.
Now the lone American soldier, who had a name, but who everybody, which at this point was only the eleven Bjornsens, referred to as the Little American Soldier, because of his size, which was negligible, the Little American Soldier took an immediate shine to Lavonia Lakusta who was seventeen, had dark red hair and brown eyes, and was rumored to be the hot-blooded one among the Lakusta sisters.
Two more weeks passed, and the Little American Soldier walked from the Lakustas by the lake to Bjornsen’s Corner and again used the phone to call his superiors and inquire about the missing truck parts. The United States Army told the Little American Soldier to be patient, that they hadn’t forgotten about him, that they had ordered parts for his camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck from Michigan or Minnesota or wherever, and that they had tracked down the approximate location of Sven Bjornsen’s telephone, and that it wasn’t anywhere near where the Little American Soldier was supposed to be, but since he was liable to be there for a spell, a spell being a unit of time that both the Little American Soldier and the United States Army understood, it was agreed that his pay would be sent to the post office at Fark, which was the closest post office to Bjornsen’s Corner, a place which the United States Army said didn’t exist. In the meantime, several of the eleven Bjornsens had towed the Little American Soldier’s camouflage-brindle, two-ton truck into their yard and parked it in their machine shed.
Wasyl Lakusta, of the Lakustas by the lake, thinking of his old age, recognized good solid son-in-law material when he saw it, and did what he could to promote a match between the Little American Soldier and his daughter, Lavonia. Promoting the match mainly involved showing off Lavonia’s cooking and showing off Lavonia. The oldest Lakusta girl, Sylvie, who was nineteen, took after her mother, and was as Wasyl Lakusta described her, ‘Not much good for look at, but pretty much good for strong.’
Wasyl wasn’t worried about finding a husband for Sylvie, one of the Yaremko boys from Stanger had already shown an interest, a large-bodied Yaremko with legs like tree stumps and knuckles that grazed the ground when he walked, and he was at that very moment building himself a place to live, converting a granary into a cabin, and with a wife by his side they could apply as a couple to homestead three hundred and twenty acres instead of just one hundred and sixty, which was all a single man was allowed to apply for.
But Lavonia was another matter, slim and delicately constructed, she was only good for light work around the house, weeding the garden, feeding the chickens, and for going to round up the milk cows morning and evening. So Wasyl Lakusta, thinking of his old age, arranged for Lavonia and the Little American Soldier to be left alone as often as possible, and even took his pocket knife and cut the cowbell off the neck of the lead cow, so the animals would be harder to find, and leave Lavonia and the Little American Soldier, who always accompanied her, longer to walk alone in the woods and get acquainted.
The Little American Soldier was not slow, and on these long walks he admired Lavonia’s dark red hair, stared into her brown eyes, and discerned by the very act of being alone with her that the rumor about Lavonia being hot-blooded was true.
As far as Lavonia was concerned, the Little American Soldier, in his khaki-gaberdine uniform, and genuine military
