Duke

  To Matt, in memory of Sidney

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE: Are YOU Doing Everything You Can?

  CHAPTER TWO: No, Duke!

  CHAPTER THREE: Duke to the Defense

  CHAPTER FOUR: A Dog for Defense

  CHAPTER FIVE: Ghost Dog

  CHAPTER SIX: Dear Hobie

  CHAPTER SEVEN: Raising the Flag

  CHAPTER EIGHT: Plan B

  CHAPTER NINE: A Spot of Trouble

  CHAPTER TEN: A Day to Remember

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: No More Pencils, No More Books!

  CHAPTER TWELVE: Fielder’s Choice

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A Doggone Day

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: News

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Situation Normal, All Fouled Up (SNAFU)

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Tidal Wave

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Bombs Away

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Gum and Gumption

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: A Gold Star in the Window

  CHAPTER TWENTY: Santa Comes Early

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Victory in Europe!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Hobie Hanson Calling the Control Tower

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY KIRBY LARSON

  COPYRIGHT

  Hobie pushed harder against the bike pedals, harder against the cold wind scrubbing his face, as he followed the Adairs’ Chrysler sedan. Duke loped along behind, pink tongue flapping. Even a smart dog like him would have no idea why they were out there, in the cold and wet, instead of home eating leftover Christmas cookies and reading the newest Hardy Boys mystery. Dogs didn’t know what it was like to have best friends move away.

  Legs burning, Hobie kept pumping. But he was no match for the last hill. The bike slowed, then clunked to a stop. He was out of steam. Dead in the water, as Dad might say. Panting, Hobie flung up his arm in one last good-bye wave. Mr. Adair answered by tapping the horn three times. As the sedan turned east, toward the highway to Portland, Scooter’s head popped out the window. He yelled something, but the wind carried it away before it reached Hobie.

  And then the car was gone.

  Scooter was gone.

  Duke brushed against Hobie’s legs. “At least I’ve still got you,” Hobie said, scratching the German shepherd behind the ears. “Right, boy?”

  Hobie slid off his bike and began pushing it toward home, trying to catch his breath. The thought of school without Scooter made the pushing even harder. They’d been pals since first grade, when Scooter accidentally knocked out Hobie’s front tooth with a tetherball. Luckily, it was a baby tooth. In the past four years, the only time Hobie had walked to school without Scooter was when the chicken pox was going around. He got itchy all over again thinking about how lonely Monday’s walk was going to be.

  Mom called Scooter a “pistol,” but she would smile when she said it. Usually. That time with the whoopee cushion at her bridge club she didn’t smile. But Hobie couldn’t help chuckling even now, remembering the look on Mrs. Allen’s face when she’d sat down.

  The rain, coming down harder, soaked through Hobie’s corduroy jacket to his T-shirt. After a block or so, he swung his leg over the bike and began pedaling again. Mrs. Lee was out, sweeping, even though her little grocery store was closed for the holiday. She waved as Hobie rode by.

  He passed the playfield and then the school. He knew it would only make him feel worse, but Hobie rode to the far side of the building, peeking in Mrs. Thornton’s fifth-grade classroom. The desk there, in the row farthest from the door, third back, would be empty on Monday. Hobie had helped Scooter clean it out, right before Christmas break. The schoolbooks went back in the supply cupboard, the pencils and erasers into Scooter’s pencil pouch, and the comic books — the ones carefully hidden under a fan of old math work sheets — had been deftly tucked inside Scooter’s jacket. Their teacher never saw a thing.

  Mrs. Thornton must have come in over the vacation to put up that new poster on the wall behind her desk. A finger pointed out at Hobie over a caption that read, ARE YOU DOING ALL YOU CAN?

  Hobie stepped away from the window, wiping moss from his hands. Everyone he knew was doing all they could. Dad had left Uncle Tryg in charge of the family fishing boat, the Lily Bess, to fly B-24s in Europe. Mom joined the Red Cross, and his little sister, June, was knitting socks for soldiers. Holey socks, sure, but she was only seven.

  And now, the Navy needed Mr. Adair to work at the Portland shipyard. “Doncha know there’s a war on?” Scooter had said, trying to make a joke when he told Hobie about the move. But neither of them had laughed.

  Duke shook himself all over, spraying Hobie but good. “Okay, okay,” he said. “We’ll get going.” As they turned away from the building, Hobie heard the slap-slap-slap of a basketball on pavement. Someone was shooting hoops in the covered area. He pedaled over to see who.

  And when he saw, he backpedaled so fast he nearly ran into Duke.

  Mitch Mitchell. Ever since he’d overheard Scooter and Hobie playing like they were Hop Harrigan and his sidekick, Tank Tinker, he hadn’t missed a chance to take them down a notch, making fun of their “baby games.” And that was one of the nicer things he said. Mitch could hit as hard with words as other guys could with fists.

  Hobie gave a quiet whistle. He felt like an ant farm had burst open inside him. He needed to move, to shake everything off. “Beat you home!” he called to Duke, legs racing faster than his thoughts.

  He was no longer plain old Hobie Hanson but Hop Harrigan, about to break the world’s airspeed record. Hobie barreled down the sidewalk, popping over an exposed root before veering around an old lady in black lace-up shoes. She hollered at him as he flew by.

  As their house came into sight, Duke launched into action. He stretched out his front legs, running in that funny rocking motion of his. Front legs, back legs. Front, back. Front, back. Well ahead of Hobie, he bounded up the porch steps and skidded against the door, panting.

  Hobie was panting, too, as he rolled to a stop. Duke picked up one of his old tennis balls and trotted over, pushing his muzzle into Hobie’s hand.

  “What? I have to reward you for beating me?” Hobie buried his face in Duke’s neck, breathing in his warm dustiness. If only Hobie could bottle this smell and keep it on his shelf, like Dad’s Barbasol.

  “Fetch!” Hobie cranked back his arm and chucked the ball. Again and again. No matter how far Hobie threw it, Duke snagged the ball before it hit the ground. It was like he had wings.

  “The Army sure could use a dog like Duke.” Mr. Gilbert stepped down from his front porch next door, pipe in hand. “My nephew sent his dog, and now he’s guarding a munitions plant.”

  Hobie had heard about people doing that. There was even a song called “The K-9 Corps” playing on the radio lately: “From the kennels of the country, from the homes and firesides, too, we have joined the canine army, our nation’s work to do.” Hobie turned off the radio when it came on.

  Duke nudged at his hands as if to say, “What are you waiting for? Throw the ball.” Hobie patted him. Just because Duke would make a good guard dog didn’t mean he should be one.

  “We all have to do our part.” Mr. Gilbert picked his newspaper up from the porch and tucked it under his arm.

  That was easy for him to say. He had a dumb old cat. Not a dog.

  “I think my mom needs me,” Hobie said. “See you later.”

  He climbed the steps with legs as wobbly as if he’d ridden his bike up Mt. Rainier. So what if Mr. Gilbert’s nephew donated his dog? Hobie was already doing his share. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d bought a comic book; he was spending all of his dimes on war stamps. K-9 Corps! Hobie yanked the door open, then let it slam shut.

  “Your show’s
almost on!” June said. “Mommy said Kitty and I could listen, too.” She held up the raggedy doll that she carried everywhere.

  Hobie didn’t really hear her; Mr. Gilbert’s words got in the way.

  A smooth radio announcer’s voice filled the room, which was warm and damp from the heat of Mom’s ironing. “For 1944, let’s all resolve: Eat a good breakfast and do a better job! And let crispy, toasty brown Grape-Nuts Flakes help make it easy for you.”

  June danced Kitty on Hobie’s head. “We like crispy, toasty brown Grape-Nuts Flakes, don’t you?”

  Hobie batted the doll away.

  “Mommy!” June cried.

  “Hobie, be kind to your sister.” Mom licked her fingers, the iron hissing as she tested it. “Remember what your father said.”

  How could Hobie forget? “You’re the captain of this family while I’m gone,” Dad had said. “I’m counting on you to step up and do what needs to be done.”

  Hobie had stepped up. He walked June to and from school every single day. He rode his bike to Lee’s Grocery whenever Mom needed something. He mowed the lawn all summer and raked leaves in the fall. But to Dad, being a captain was more than actions, it was attitude.

  He took a deep breath. “Sorry, June.”

  “Kitty forgives you.” June proved it by dancing the doll on Hobie’s knee.

  The announcer came back on again. “Presenting Hop Harrigan — America’s Ace of the Airways!”

  Hobie scooted closer to the radio. In yesterday’s episode, Hop got amnesia after a fight with some rotten Nazi spies. He’d been so confused, he didn’t even recognize his good old sidekick, Tank.

  Duke rested his head on Hobie’s leg as they all listened to the latest installment. Thankfully, Hop recovered in the nick of time, just as he was about to spill the location of the professor’s secret laboratory.

  “That was a swell one,” June announced. “Kitty’s favorite so far.”

  “Shh.” Hobie held his finger up to his lips. “There’s more.”

  “This is your announcer with an important message from Hop. In the radio audience today are twin brothers Mike and Spike Jankelson. These two young Americans have loaned their collie, Laddie, to Uncle Sam. Hop wants you listeners out there to know he sure is proud of these boys. And he wants to encourage every dog owner to consider following Spike and Mike’s lead —”

  Hobie snapped the radio off.

  “The show’s not over!” June fussed.

  “Pretty much.”

  “I wanted to hear the whole thing.”

  Hobie made a face. “Tune in tomorrow,” he said, mimicking the announcer.

  June flounced out of the room, taking Kitty with her.

  Mom set the iron down. She tipped her head toward the radio. “There are lots of ways to help. But you don’t have to do them all.” She winked. “I think that last rubber drive should’ve earned you a purple heart.”

  Hobie felt his face get hot, remembering. Scooter thought it was as funny as a Laurel and Hardy movie, but Hobie had nearly shriveled up like a slug when Mrs. Lee donated not one but two of her old girdles.

  He leaned his chin against the kitchen table. “Why did Dad enlist?” His head bounced up and down as he talked.

  Mom sat down next to him. “There’s no one answer. Mostly, he felt he could do something, make a difference.” She ruffled Hobie’s hair. “You and your dad are like two peas in a pod.” She bent over, kissed the top of his head, then went back to her ironing.

  Hobie’s head felt too heavy to lift off the table. He wasn’t like his father at all. Dad was brave. He did things, even if they were hard. Like taking the Lily Bess up to Alaska each summer. Or helping Uncle Tryg keep an eye on the Sasakis’ house after they got sent to those camps. Or leaving his family to fight in a war.

  Hobie wasn’t anything like that.

  Because, deep down, even though he knew it was the right thing, he didn’t think he could ever give Duke to the Army.

  Duke began to whine the minute Hobie bent down to tie his PF Flyers. “I wish you could come, too.” Hobie scratched behind Duke’s ears. “How about if I make it up to you with a bike ride after school?”

  Duke’s answer was to shake himself from tip to tail.

  “Don’t forget it’s Monday!” Mom called down the hall. “Stamp day.”

  Hobie reached for his piggy bank and jiggled out a dime to buy another stamp. So far, he’d pasted nine dollars and forty cents’ worth of them in his Victory book. Every week, Mrs. Thornton told the class how proud she was of the way they were buying stamps in honor of their country. But Hobie wasn’t buying them for his country. He was buying them for Dad and everything he was doing. Thinking about that made Hobie shake out a second dime to take to school.

  Duke followed Hobie to the front door, looking as innocent as a baby lamb, but Hobie was wise to his tricks. The minute Hobie opened the front door, Duke would try to squeeze through. Hobie held up his palm, signaling for Duke to sit. “Stay,” he added.

  Duke sat. He stayed.

  He whined.

  “I don’t see why Duke can’t come with us.” June buttoned up her coat. “He minds better than any of the boys in my class. Smells better, too.”

  “June Margaret!” Mom scolded. “Ladies do not say such things.”

  “It’s true.” June swung her book bag.

  Hobie tucked his books under his arm. “Bye, Mom.”

  Even before the door closed behind them, Hobie heard Duke’s nails scrabbling against the linoleum. A second later, Duke’s black nose was pressed against the front room window, right next to the blue star service flag hanging there for Dad.

  “Be good,” Hobie called to him. “I’ll be home soon.”

  “Miriam thinks Duke is smarter than Lassie,” June said. “I said he’s smarter than Lassie and Toto and Fala, all rolled into one.”

  “He is arf-fully smart,” Hobie joked. He paused as they turned down the sidewalk, trying to forget that conversation with Mr. Gilbert.

  June struck a he-man pose. “And I bet he’s even braver than Rin Tin Tin.” She tilted her head back and howled like a wolf.

  Hobie didn’t want to talk about Duke anymore. “You better practice your words,” he said. “You don’t want Miriam to win the spelling ribbon, do you?”

  June stamped her foot. “No, I don’t!” She hopped over a puddle and began reciting. She finished the last word on her weekly list as they arrived at school.

  “B-e-a-r, bear.” June clapped her hands. “There. I’m going to get one hundred percent on the test!”

  “Well, I’m going to get two hundred percent!” Miriam marched up to June, her hands on her hips.

  “Three hundred percent!” June stuck out her tongue for emphasis.

  Hobie pointed to the first-grade classroom. “Don’t be late.”

  The two spelling rivals jockeyed for position, each trying to beat the other inside.

  Down the hall, Hobie started into his own classroom. Then he stopped. There was something new, and it wasn’t just that poster.

  Someone was sitting at Scooter’s desk. A kid whose ears stuck out in a friendly way.

  “Hey,” said Hobie.

  “Hey,” said the kid.

  The final bell rang.

  Mrs. Thornton looked out at her students. “Catherine? Will you lead us in the pledge of allegiance?”

  “All rise,” Catherine commanded. She stood at the front of the room, towering over everyone, even Mitch Mitchell. “With liberty and justice for all,” she finished up before the rest of the students.

  “For all,” echoed the class.

  “Before we do our Victory stamps, I’d like to introduce you to someone.” Mrs. Thornton waved the new boy to the front. “This is Max Klein.”

  Other teachers might tell the new kid to say something about himself, but Mrs. Thornton was nicer than that. She studied each row of students. “I know without asking that each and every one of you will make Max feel welcome.” Was i
t his imagination, or did Mrs. Thornton’s gaze linger a bit longer on Hobie than on anyone else? He sat up straighter.

  Max took his seat again quickly and began tapping the heels of his shoes against the chair legs. With shoes being rationed along with so many other things, most everyone was crunched into sneakers or oxfords at least one size too small. Kicking your foot back into your heels eased the pinching. Hobie had figured that out, too.

  “I know you young citizens are eager to buy your war stamps,” said Mrs. Thornton. “Form a line behind Catherine.”

  When it was his turn, Hobie slid his two dimes across Mrs. Thornton’s desk and she slid two stamps back. “I’m so proud of you. You’re halfway to a war bond.”

  Hobie’s cheeks didn’t cool down until Mrs. Thornton announced that it was time for science. “Please take out your textbooks,” she said.

  Hobie pulled out his book, glancing toward the new kid. A Green Lantern comic peeked out from underneath a composition book in his desk. Hobie smiled.

  Mrs. Thornton asked Catherine and Marty to pass out work sheets. “Do your best to fill in the answers on your own,” she said. “We’ll go over them together before recess.”

  Hobie wrote his name at the top of the work sheet. He could tell from the first question that he should have done his science reading over vacation. He filled in all the blanks he could, then looked around the room. Most everyone else was still scribbling away. He’d better look busy, too. He drew a doodle on the page, lightly. It looked sort of like a shield. Like the one Captain America used. He added a few more lines.

  “You’re a good artist,” Max whispered.

  “Thanks,” Hobie whispered back; then he put his arm up to block his drawing. If Max could see, so could anyone. Like Mrs. Thornton.

  Hobie hunched over, adding a big star right in the center of the shield. Now it was practically like the one in the comics.

  “Is everyone just about finished?” asked Mrs. Thornton. A few kids groaned. “Okay,” she said. “One more minute.”

  Hobie flashed the finished work of art at Max, earning a thumbs-up. He admired it once more himself and then set to work with the eraser end of his pencil. Mrs. Thornton would never know.