In his second year at Baylor, in 5B, the fifth grade, the corporal in the Ranger Squad, Mitchell Lipensky’s quarters were in the Dwight David Eisenhower Dormitory, deck two, chamber five.

Sunday!

Sundays were always the hardest for Mitchell, at least the mornings, because on Sunday all Baylor men were expected to attend church and Sunday school, with no exceptions.

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Baylor Military School

Evansville, Wisconsin

January 14, 1944

During one of their visits the year before, a few months after he’d enrolled, Walter and Myra had spoken to Captain Whyet about the possibility of Mitchell being allowed to miss the Sunday services.

“Captain Whyet,” Walter had said, “both Mrs. Lipensky and myself are more than slightly disturbed over the fact that Mitchell is made to attend your Sunday morning church services.” He’d glanced at Myra, who imperceptibly nodded her head, urging him to continue. “After all, Sir, we are Jewish and what he’s taught here in, uh, Sunday school and church, goes against everything he’d ever been taught in the past, and to be honest, it’s confusing him terribly.”

In Captain Whyet’s impressive, oppressive and more than slightly intimidating oak‑paneled office, Walter and Myra were sitting, uncomfortably, on hard, straight‑backed chairs.

Leaning back in an overstuffed, leather wing chair smoking a pipe, Captain Whyet sat behind his large, glass‑topped desk.

“Mr. Lipensky,” Captain Whyet looked from Walter to Myra, “and Mrs. Lipensky,” appreciating a pretty woman, he’d smiled at her. “This is your son’s first year here.” He drew on the pipe, exhaled and tilted his head back, watching the aromatic smoke spiral above his head. “I’m glad you brought the subject up because it gives me the opportunity to let you know how we here at Baylor feel.” Putting the pipe in a leather-bound ashtray, leaning forward, folding his hands on the desk, his voice taking a tone of severity, “America is a Christian country,” he’d said. “This is a Christian school, and if you do not want your son to learn the true belief and teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, then it may be for the best if you remove your son from Baylor altogether, and find a…” Captain Whyet smiled, “Jewish military school.”

Myra looked at Walter. “Captain Whyet, no, we, uh, do not want to take Mitchell out of Baylor, it’s just that his father and I feel if he didn’t have to attend church and Sunday school, we’d have absolutely no problem with Baylor.”

Captain Whyet picked up the pipe, sucked on it noisily, struck a match and drew it back to life. “I am well aware of your, uh, Jewishness, but we will make no exceptions. As a matter of fact, we feel remiss because we’re as lax as we are with the boys’ religious training. If you want your son to remain here at Baylor, then he must attend church and Sunday school along with the rest of the boys.” He stared at Myra a moment, then, “If there is nothing else,” he said, “I have other parents to speak to.” Standing, Captain Whyet extended his hand across the desk. “Good day, Mister Lipensky, Mrs. Lipensky.”

                                                                                       ****

“Mitchell, your mother and I have spoken to Captain Whyet about your attending his, uh, church, and he thinks it’s best we don’t make it look like you’re any different than the rest of the guys here.” Sitting on the steps in front of Mitchell’s dormitory, looking across Mitchell, at his wife, “We’re sure there’s other kids here that don’t want to go to church and Sunday school, and if he makes an exception for you then he’ll have to make an exception for the others, too, and…”

“But, Dad, there are no others, I’m the only Jewish kid here!”

“Mitchell, don’t ‘but Dad’ me! You’ve got to do what the other kids do, and that’s final!”

Mitchell looked from his father to his mother, who was looking at her lap, tying and untying a knot in her handkerchief. “Mom?”

“Mitchie, I’m sorry, but you’ve got to!” Taking her son’s chin in her hand, lifting his face to hers, “And for God’s sake, Mitchell, don’t say anything to Pa and Ma about going to, uh…” as if loath to say the word, “church, because I’m sure they wouldn’t understand and it would only make them feel bad. As a matter of fact, Mitchie, it would probably be for the best if you didn’t say anything to anyone back home about it. Okay… Okay?”

His eyes cast downward, “Okay,” he’d said, nodding his head.

                                                                                        ****

Sunday mornings after breakfast the tables in the mess hall were moved to one side of the large room and the chairs aligned in straight rows. As each boy filed into the room he was handed a Bible and a hymnbook. After a short Bible study class, Captain Whyet, in his best oratorical voice, read from the new testament as the boys, most of the boys, followed along with silently moving lips, each—most—reading from the Bible they held in their hands. Accompanied by Mrs. Whyet on the old Steinway in the corner, the entire assembly stood as each hymn was sung, as all the while, fighting to keep his eyes open and his head from nodding onto his chest, Mitchell pretended to read and sing. It was only the frequent standing that kept him awake, until, finally, they stood for his favorite hymn, favorite because of its volume, but mainly, because it signaled the end of the session:

“Onward Christian Soo‑ol‑diers,  Marching off to war, With the cross of humm-humm…”

“Thank you, men,” Captain Whyet would say. “You’re excused.”

The boys filed out of the mess hall, and the rest of the day was theirs to do whatever they wish: to read, study, play games, work on their stamp collections. Or, once a month, the boys from each of the four decks were given the opportunity to see a movie at the local theater, if Captain Whyet approved the film. This day it was the turn of Eisenhower Dormitory, deck two, and Mitchell was looking forward to seeing that week’s double feature of “Tarzan Triumphs,” “Wake Island,” and assorted shorts.

                                                                                     ****

“…Mitch, you told me you’d trade… Hey! Gunner to pilot!”

“Huh?” Forcing his mental focus back to there and then, turning from the window, Mitchell looked at Frank Rizzo, his sergeant and best friend at Baylor. “Oh, yeah.” Opening the thick book lying on the desk, he turned pages till coming to Costa Rica. Removing one of two identical stamps, he handed the tri‑cornered stamp to Frank, who gave him a New Zealand in exchange.

“Whats’a’matter? You don’t look so hot. You feelin’ okay?”

“Yeah, sure.” Reaching into his pocket for another lemon drop, “I’m fine. Here, you want one?”

“Yeah.” Taking the box, putting the open end to his mouth, up‑ending it, “Thanks, Mitch.” Tossing the now-empty box back, “You’re okay, for a Jew, “

Catching the box, looking inside, “You wop pig! I didn’t tell you to eat ’em all!”

Stooping, reaching under the desk, “Die, Jewish peeeg!” Frank said, in a bad imitation of Gilbert Roland’s Cisco Kid, as, grabbing Mitchell by the ankles, he dragged him off the seat.

“Italian turd!”

As they scuffled on the floor in make‑believe fight:

“Sheeny shit!”

“Stinky dago, wop, fart!”

“Hey, you creeps!” Rolling about the floor, they’d accidentally, on purpose, bumped into Pete Marcos.

A hand reached up, grabbed Pete by the belt and, “Die, Greek peeeg!” Pete was pulled into the melee.

Sitting nearby, not wanting to be left out of the ruckus, Stan Carmody jumped into the entangled mass of thrashing arms and legs.

“Stop it!” Hearing the scraping of steel-legged school desks and the thumping of bodies on the hardwood floor, Miss Stoldig had come into the room. “If you boys care about the movies this afternoon, you’ll stop this this instant!”

As if doused with cold water, arms and legs disentangled and the mass became four red-faced boys who, standing instantly, tucking their shirts into their pants, brushed themselves off.

“No more horseplay!” Miss Stoldig looked from boy to boy.

The boys snapped to attention.

“That’s better. Straighten those desks, then get ready to eat.”

The magic words: breakfast, lunch, dinner; eat; food. Oh, yeah! Especially on Sunday!

Mitchell Lipensky always looked forward to lunch on Sunday.

Lunch on Sunday usually consisted of baked chicken and roast beef, mashed potatoes with thick, dark gravy, vegetables, salad, homemade rolls, and a dessert of freshly baked cherry or apple pie with a scoop of rich chocolate or vanilla ice cream.

As it was first-come first-served, the squads did not assemble for lunch on Sunday, and if you wanted a choice slice of meat or a second drumstick, you’d best be in line early.

Mitchell always was.

Moving forward in the chow line, as he approached each of the three civilian ladies, smiling, “Hi, Miss Trankie,” he would say. “How are you today? I’ll have roast beef, please.” And, “Hi, Miss Dormier. How are you today?” and, “Hello, Mrs. Schmitz. How are you today?”

The ladies would look at Mitchell’s face and those innocent green eyes and, like Sam and Abe, Miss Trankie, Miss Dormier, and Mrs. Schmitz would give him a choice piece of roast beef or chicken, a larger portion of mashed potatoes, and a bigger scoop of ice cream, then… “Next!” The next boy moved up and got whatever was plopped onto his tray.