William Kienzle - The Greatest Evil

1953

It was the middle of July, but Bob Koesler was shivering.

He tugged at his sweatshirt. Still it did not cover his swim trunks. He pulled the bulky towel more tightly about his neck. That didn’t help; the towel was wet. He hugged himself as he shifted from one foot to the other. There was no getting away from it: He was freezing.

He probably would get out of this alive. But he didn’t have to like it.

His discomfort was by no means unique. This was the ninth consecutive summer he’d been a counselor at Camp Ozanam.

O-Z, as it was more casually known, was financed and run by the St. Vincent de Paul Society. Catholic parishes affiliated with S.V.deP. were given tickets to distribute to financially distressed boys. The only expenditure for each camper for the entire two weeks’ stay-there were five such tours each summer-was the five-dollar round-trip discount bus fare from Detroit.

O-Z was located some thirty miles north of Port Huron. It helps to know that Michigan is mitten-shaped. The camp sat just south of the thumb’s knuckle. The western border was U.S. 25, the extension of Gratiot Avenue, which began in downtown Detroit.

Its eastern border was mighty Lake Huron. And that is where Bob Koesler was at the moment: shivering atop a diving tower in Lake Huron about thirty-five yards from the shore.

No diving would be permitted today; the water was too rough. Near gale force winds blew from the north. Ordinarily frigid; the water this day was only relatively bearable. Thus counselors having beach or even water duty were less tested. The genuine torture was reserved for the poor wretches on the towers: They had to swim to their stations.

Which Koesler had done. After all these summers at camp, the maneuver was well practiced: He wrapped towel and sweatshirt around his left arm, then sidestroked, with his right arm and the scissors kick.

Once safely atop the tower, the lifeguard would dry himself, then use the towel and sweatshirt for as much warmth as they would afford. But the combination of water and wind-chill factor regularly challenged the counselor’s immune system.

A casual observer-or trained philosopher-might ask why: Why program a swim in such challenging conditions?

Answers might range from, Because the lake is there; or, Such challenges make men (or kill in the attempt); or, Because a consensus-to swim or not to swim-could not be arrived at.

Probably the last reason came closest to a truer explanation. If the campers-all two hundred of them-were assembled on the beach and not one of them wanted to enter that threatening water, undoubtedly the swim would be canceled. But with two hundred boys, there were always a few who were impervious to cold water. And if those foolhardy souls chose to swim, then counselors would necessarily play lifeguard.

Safety, especially water safety, was given high priority at camp. The swimming perimeters were clearly defined. Each swimmer was assigned a buddy who had to stay nearby; each was responsible for the other. Periodic buddy checks took place: At the head beachman’s signal, each and every camper in the water had to stand silently holding his buddy’s hand aloft.

Koesler had played lifeguard so many times the routine was now automatic. Perhaps that was a contributing reason why he did nothing but watch as a developing situation called for action.

Due to the weather, few boys were in the water this morning. But a solitary lad was trying to swim out to Koesler’s post. He was supposed to have a buddy in order to even enter the swim area. But no kid was within the prescribed proximity. Where was his buddy? In trouble?

That question, however, did not even occur to Bob Koesler; he was too interested in what was happening to the camper who was trying to reach his platform.

This lad, fighting his way through the water, arms flailing, legs thrashing, head turning from side to side with mouth and nostrils held above water level, was not a class swimmer under the best of circumstances. And these were nowhere near the best of circumstances. As the waves washed over him, the dogged boy continued his flailing struggle. And, as might be expected, in his attempts to gulp down air, he instead swallowed water. And then, also to be expected, he panicked.

Koesler watched as the boy repeatedly disappeared beneath the waves-where, presumably, he bounced off the lake bottom-broke the surface, coughed, momentarily gulped air, then disappeared and eventually reappeared again … but always a little nearer the tower.

What was remarkable-and memorable-was the fact that throughout this episode, not once did it occur to Koesler that he should go get the boy.

Such an action was, after all, Koesler’s responsibility. A swimmer was in trouble. Koesler should have blown his whistle-the signal for just such an emergency as this. The swim would have been halted and immediate steps taken to help the camper. This would involve Koesler’s dropping towel and sweatshirt and diving into the water.

Of course he’d have to do that at the end of the swim period in any case. But this was not the end. If he dove in now, he would, after rescuing the kid, have to climb back on the tower. Once again he would have to battle the renewed wet cold. And, after all, the camper was making progress: With each submerging, the lad was getting nearer the tower.

As luck-or the power of prayer-had it, the swimmer reached the tower, somewhat the worse for a near-death experience. At which point Koesler spotted the missing buddy: He was swimming-much more easily than his pal-toward the tower.

With the two youngsters now hanging on to the platform, Koesler crouched down and assured them that it would be much easier going in to shore than it had been coming out.

In time, the two pushed off and made their way with, instead of against, the waves.

Only then did Koesler reflect on what had just happened.

That, he concluded was dumb. In time-and particularly because it had ended well, it would be funny. But for now he was guilty of an insensitive and derelict reaction to a potentially dangerous emergency.

Of course, he told himself, he had not taken his eyes off the swimmer. If there had been an immediate problem, the lifeguard would have acted at once. Nevertheless, he should have been in the water, supporting the youngster.

The two buddies made it to shore without further incident. For them there were no aftereffects. Not so for Koesler, who was left with a troubled conscience. But he had little time to mull over his actions: A whistle sounded, short and sharp. It emanated not from the head beachman’s tower on shore, but from a nearby tower in the water.

Koesler turned to see fellow counselor Pat McNiff dive. Without hesitation, Koesler dropped towel and sweatshirt and dove in the general direction McNiff had taken.

A few strokes and a couple of thrusting kicks brought Koesler to the side of a camper who was almost literally scared stiff. Koesler was joined by McNiff and Vince Delvecchio, the third counselor on tower duty.

The water, at this point, was some five-and-a-half-feet deep. Since Koesler and Delvecchio were a few inches over six feet tall, the two were able to stand on the bottom and, allowing for the waves to wash over them, still support the camper, who was frightened but otherwise unharmed.

McNiff, considerably shorter than the other two, was treading water. Suddenly the light dawned. “Are you guys standing on the bottom?” There was rancor in McNiff’s tone.

“Uh-huh,” Koesler and Delvecchio chorused.

“Shit!” McNiff turned and swam back to his tower, there to brood over a cruel fate, not to mention genetic codes, that decreed each individual’s height and build.