Marooned in Osawatomie
Air Force Lt. Col. Clark L. Wingate has retired to Parachute, Colo., where there are no train stations.

The train wheels were making their traditional clickity-clack as I stared out of the window. It was 1944, and I was thinking about the completion of my infantry basic training at Camp Joseph T. Robinson near Little Rock, Ark. It had been a real challenge. Now, with those 17 weeks behind me, I was on my way to Denver for a 10-day leave. I also was daydreaming about all those wonderful things that only an 18-year-old anticipates on his first leave home. I just hoped there wouldn't be anyone standing in front of the refrigerator door.

The conductor asked for my ticket, and as he made the proper punches, I asked when the train would arrive in Denver. The answer was a real shocker.

"This train doesn't go to Denver," the conductor replied.

I looked at him dumbfounded. "Sir, there must be some mistake. I booked a ticket to Denver, Colorado."

"This is wartime, son. Sometimes our routing gets a little bent out of shape." He went on to say that I would have to get off at the next station and catch the Denver Eagle. Thus reassured that I would ultimately get home, I gathered my things and prepared to leave. As I stepped onto the platform I noticed the station sign read Osawatomie.

The one-room train station was deserted except for an elderly gentleman behind a barred window that served as the ticket counter. I asked if I had time to find someplace to get a cup of coffee before the Eagle came through. He allowed as how I might just make it because the Eagle was due on Wednesday and today was only Sunday.

I couldn't believe I was going to spend almost three days of my precious leave in Osawatomie, Kan. I lugged my duffle bag up the main street of this little Midwestern town and passed a bank sporting a huge thermometer on the outside. I thought probably the most exciting thing the locals do is come down here and watch the temperature change.

Then I spotted the USO. The minute I entered this sanctuary for servicemembers, I was surrounded by a group of wonderful, local ladies. Until now their only duty had been to greet troop trains and hand doughnuts and coffee through the windows during brief stops. Now they had a real, live soldier, and they intended to make the most of it.

For the next three days I was overcome with Kansas wartime hospitality. I must have eaten seven pounds of doughnuts and had dozens of invitations for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. As they mothered, fussed, ironed, washed, chatted, and straightened, they did all the things that any 30 mothers would do for their returning sons. When Wednesday finally came, I was almost sad.

The Eagle arrived, and virtually the whole town came down to see me aboard. They chatted about how much healthier (fatter) I looked. As the train pulled out, I looked back — as I look back today. This was a small slice of Kansas inhabited by the most generous, caring, patriotic, wonderful people on the face of the earth: a typical American town caught in the throes of war.