Still 5’ 8½” tall, I weighed 123 pounds when I was processed through
the Dallas induction center, which was located in a downtown building that had
housed a Hudson automobile dealership in pre-war days. The induction physical exam and subsequent
processing culminated with my being sworn into the United States Navy, along
with several dozen other young men from the highways and byways of North Texas.
We slept overnight at the induction center, boarded a troop train bound
for San Diego the next day (January 24, 1945), then traveled a zigzag route to
the west coast – southwest from Dallas to Brownwood, northwest to Sweetwater
and Amarillo, then westward to Los Angeles, all via Santa Fe Railway routes; I
don’t remember the name of the rail line we traveled the last segment of our
trip (along the coast from Los Angeles to San Diego). I enjoyed the journey, for everything from Brownwood on was new
to me; we crossed high plains and deserts, and saw parts of the lower Rockies
in a light snowfall. I was fed well,
had a comfortable top bunk in a triple-decker troop-sleeper, and could read, play
games, or watch scenery to pass the time.
I was
fortunate in getting a top bunk, for it was usable as a bed at all times,
whereas the middle and lower bunks were designed to provide daytime seating;
the middle bunks were hinged on one side, so they could be swung into a
vertical position against bottom bunks during daytime, making a couch (sort of). Top bunks were left undisturbed, so their
occupants could nap (or read in a reclining position) any time they desired; I
rocked along in great comfort – napping or reading when I chose.
I managed
to get a top bunk on two subsequent trips (San Diego to Chicago/Chicago to
Gulfport), so I thoroughly enjoyed my trips on troop trains.
Our easy living ended soon after a bus delivered us from San Diego’s
railway station to the Naval Training Center, where we were greeted with
raucous “You’ll be sorry!” jeers from earlier inductees working near the
entrance. The jeers didn’t disturb me,
for I figured boot camp wouldn’t be unbearable if those ahead still had enough
spirit to “hooraw” the new guys.
Nevertheless, I was about to become little more than a serial number
(981-33-68, USNR).
A Navy barber started the process.
A few quick passes of clippers shortened hair on top to less than one
inch, then closer passes around sides and back produced a white-sidewalled
“boot” look; we already looked more alike, even in our civvies.
Unfortunately, several guys flunked the physical examination which
followed, so had to return home – but without hair. Failing the physical at that late stage would have been bad enough,
but the embarrassment of those who failed had to have been compounded by the
“boot” haircut. I wondered then, and
still do, why haircuts preceded physical examinations.
Initial processing included a series of
shots, assignment of a company number, issuance of uniforms and other Navy
gear, plus preparation of civilian clothing for shipment home. When all was in order, we were installed in
Camp Decatur, ready to begin training.
More
shots, usually several at a time, followed as boot training progressed. A few guys passed out, either from fear of
needles or in reaction to their contents; most of us just had sore arms, but
some had fever and had to stay in their bunks for a day.
Medical
treatment also included a dental checkup; mine revealed a need for seven
fillings. A Navy dentist from Oklahoma
drilled and filled those cavities in twenty-eight minutes; he claimed his feat
was a personal record, timewise.
My Seaman First Class rating annoyed the two platoon commanders in the
company to which I was assigned, for they held only Seaman Second ratings. My higher rank really meant nothing,
however, except for more money on payday, because I still had to follow the
orders of the platoon commanders, call them “Mister,” and do exactly as
apprentice seamen did.
◊◊◊
Boot training required many hours of close-order marching. My position in my platoon (toward the back,
because I was one of the shorter members) allowed me to see all that went on up
front as my platoon commander, a good-looking Louisianan named Boudreaux, drilled us. One day when we were still learning the
basics of marching, he issued a rapid-fire series of “To the rear, march!”
commands. Some of the taller sailors up
front began bumping head-on into each other, and we at the rear broke into
laughter. Mr. Boudreaux halted the
platoon, called the laughers from our places in the ranks, and ordered us to
double-time around the platoon as we marched back to our barracks. I didn’t really mind; running was no problem
for me at that stage of life.
Training was rigorous. Rifle
exercises were tiring, and some parts of obstacle courses weren’t easy. Among conditioning exercises, I did best at
sit-ups; I also did well at foot races, although I broke no records while
running dashes in heavy, high-top work shoes.
While tough, Navy boot camp was easier than Army or Marine basic
training; we trained hard each day, but slept inside each night, on beds. Food was plentiful and pretty good, except
for the scrambled eggs served for breakfast (I discovered, when my company was
assigned kitchen duty, that the grainy scrambled eggs were a mixture of dried
and fresh eggs).
Kitchen
duty included post-meal cleanup, during which concrete floors were hosed down
and mopped, leaving surfaces very slick.
I slipped as I carried an on-edge stack of trays across the wet surface
one morning, and the tray edges lacerated the fingers of my left hand when it
and the trays hit the floor. The injury
wasn’t serious, and the fingers healed quickly, but within two years small
warts covered the laceration sites, apparently having “spread” from a
big “seed wart” that I’d had on the ring finger of my right hand for several
years.
Mornings were chilly in late January and early February. We started most days with wool jerseys under
our shirts, but came out of them before noon; temperatures were usually
pleasant by lunchtime.
One day, as we stood outside the mess hall after
lunch, waiting to return to the grind, one of the fellows pointed to the sky and
exclaimed, “Look at that plane!” as its left wing broke away from the
fuselage. The pilot ejected from the
tumbling aircraft, opened his parachute, and landed on top of a downtown
building, breaking one of his legs. The
fuselage, however, struck a Navy B-24 awaiting clearance to take off at the end
of an airport runway, killing all eleven occupants.
The aircraft disintegration and subsequent tragedy on the ground
dwarfed all unpleasantries of boot life; nevertheless, at some point I set my
impressions of boot camp to verse, describing them in a poem I sent home to my
parents. My mother saved the poem,
entitled “THE NAVY DAY,” and kept it among others of my youthful efforts
at rhyming, all found in her lock box after her death October 7, 2000; it read
as follows:
The lights come on, the guard
yells out,
“It’s time to hit the deck!”
I turn o’er once and make a face,
“He ruined my dream; Oh! Heck!”
Sleepily I pull on my clothes,
Those leggings are so mean;
And getting up at five o’clock
Is the silliest thing I’ve seen.
After morning chow is done,
And the boys have had their
smokes,
We settle down to another day
Of lots of work and jokes—on us.
First we have a lecture
On how to row the boats,
And after I have rowed a while
I’d rather be riding goats.
Now we get to march a while
And round and round we go;
That guy that drills us all the
time
Oh! he just loves us so - ???
Again we get to go to chow,
The time we love the best;
But we’ve still half a day to go
Before we get to rest.
At last the day is over,
With calisthenics done;
At last we’ll get to go to chow,
And then to bed we’ll run.
After
three weeks in Camp Decatur, my company moved to Camp Lawrence. The Spanish-style masonry buildings in Camp
Lawrence were the nicest looking military facilities I’ve ever seen. Curved archways reminded me of Spanish
haciendas and imparted a look of permanence, rather than the typical
temporary-looking plainness of WWII military facilities; I assume the buildings
must have been constructed in pre-war times for permanent use by a peacetime
Navy.
Soon after my company moved to Camp Lawrence I developed an extremely
sore throat during a day at the Camp Elliott firing range, so reported to sick
bay that evening. Scarlet fever was the diagnosis; an epidemic was raging
through the naval training center. I
was sent directly to the scarlet fever ward; I never saw any member of my
original company again, except for the man who packed my gear and brought it to
me (at a different company) when I returned to regular duty.
Most scarlet fever patients received a shot of penicillin in the
posterior every four hours. A Navy
nurse hit the swinging doors yelling, “Sunny side up, everyone!,” then proceeded through
the ward puncturing bared bottoms. One
nurse was a model of efficiency; she slapped the targeted portion of a victim’s
anatomy several times, then, on the final slap, with fingers splayed, slammed the
needle in the space between her ring and middle fingers. The procedure looked dangerous, and one
couldn’t resist watching to see whether she might mistakenly jab herself
instead of a sick sailor; that didn’t happen while I was in the ward.
I avoided the needle
treatment, for I was selected as a test case for a new sulfa drug taken
orally. I responded well, and was out
of bed after a week; most guys receiving penicillin were confined about three
weeks. (I learned several years later
that I’m allergic to penicillin, so my problems might well have been
exacerbated had I received penicillin instead of sulfa.)
Even though well after a week, I was quarantined for two more weeks,
during which I performed housekeeping tasks, distributed meal trays to those
still abed, and helped clean up after mealtimes.
When I returned to training routines (after being released from scarlet
fever detention) I was assigned to a company in Camp Farragut, so I wound up
spending time in all three camps (Decatur/Farragut/Lawrence) instead of only two
of the three, as most “boots” did.
After finishing my scheduled six weeks of boot training, I received a
leave of about two weeks; travel (long train rides to and from Fort
Worth in chair cars) used about half of the leave. My time back in Texas was split between home, visits with Hood
County relatives, and a short trip to Brownwood to see HPC friends. My return trip to San Diego included a
layover of several hours in Amarillo, during which I visited with Leroy
Goodwin, a gunsmith and my dad’s favorite cousin.
Mentioning Leroy reminds me to tell about
his dad, Uncle Hugh Goodwin, my grandmother Miller’s brother. Uncle Hugh had moved his family from Hood
County to Amarillo around 1920. His wife,
Leroy’s mother, died within a few years after their move, and Uncle Hugh was a
widower for over twenty years until 1942 when, at age sixty-two, he married an
eighteen year old young lady; even though forty-four years younger, she died
five years earlier than he, after having produced three children as his “second
family.” Some of Uncle Hugh’s
grandchildren from his first marriage were grown when he remarried, thus his
second batch of children had grown nieces and nephews when they arrived in this
world. The generational relationships
were unusual, but not as convoluted as the one described in the old novelty
song written by Moe Jaffe and Dwight Latham, “I’m My Own Grandpa:”
Many
many years ago
When
I was twenty three,
I
got married to a widow
Who
was pretty as could be.
This
widow had a grown-up daughter
Who
had hair of red.
My
father fell in love with her,
And
soon the two were wed.
This
made my dad my son-in-law
And
changed my very life.
My
daughter was my mother,
For
she was my father's wife.
To
complicate the matters worse,
Although
it brought me joy,
I
soon became the father
Of
a bouncing baby boy.
My
little baby then became
A
brother-in-law to dad.
And
so became my uncle,
Though
it made me very sad.
For
if he was my uncle,
Then
that also made him brother
To
the widow's grown-up daughter
Who,
of course, was my step-mother.
Father's
wife then had a son,
Who
kept them on the run.
And
he became my grandson,
For
he was my daughter's son.
My
wife is now my mother's mother
And
it makes me blue.
Because,
although she is my wife,
She's
my grandmother too.
If
my wife is my grandmother,
Then
I am her grandchild.
And
every time I think of it,
It
simply drives me wild.
For
now I have become
The
strangest case you ever saw.
As
the husband of my grandmother,
I
am my own grandpa!
After visiting for a couple of hours at Leroy’s combination home and
gun shop, I returned to the depot in time to catch the Santa Fe Chief for the Amarillo
to Los Angeles leg of my journey back to duty.
The Chief was delayed by a wreck (of another train) in Arizona, causing
me to miss my connection to San Diego, resulting in another, but unscheduled,
layover of several hours in Los Angeles.
I was traveling with Terry Maxwell (another Poly High ex who had also
been home on boot leave), so we decided to use the layover time in (1) seeing
the Hollywood Canteen (made famous by movies and in popular music) and (2) watching a
live radio broadcast of “The Eddie Cantor Show.” (Harry VonZelle was the announcer for the
Cantor show; his career as an MC lasted past the heyday of network radio and
well into the television era.)
My leave time expired before I arrived back in San Diego. The penalty for late return was temporary
loss of liberty privileges, which bothered me little, for I hadn’t left the
training center but once during boot camp, and had little desire to leave again
before moving on to my next assignment.
◊◊◊
I spent a week or ten days in the Recruit Transfer Unit, working
in warehouses and standing nighttime watches while I waited for transfer to
that next assignment. We who were
destined for electronics training were eventually placed aboard troop-sleepers bound for Chicago; the
train was routed through San Antonio, the destination of several cars loaded
with Army Air Force personnel.
I learned, during our stopover in San Antonio, that President Franklin
Delano Roosevelt had died on April 12, while we were en route from San Diego;
Vice-President Harry S. Truman had become president as we traveled.
The trip from San Diego to Chicago lasted from Tuesday evening until
Saturday evening. I saw East Texas,
Arkansas, Missouri, and Illinois for the first time on the ride from San
Antonio to Chicago.
Arkansas
impressed me as one big swamp, for much rain had fallen before we came along,
and was still falling as we traveled through, so we saw water in all directions;
the rail line running from southwest to northeast was across relatively flat
land, so we saw little of the hilly portions of the state.
Some military personnel complained about traveling on “square-wheeled”
troop-sleepers, but I thought
cross-country train rides on those sleepers were fun; I had again selected a
top bunk, so I could nap any time I wanted.
Each sleeper unit had a galley, where Navy cooks prepared our meals, so
one developed a good appetite as cooking aromas drifted through the car.
The Navy’s pre-radio school was located in Chicago’s Hugh B. Manley High
School, leased by the Navy for
wartime use. It was a “live-in” setup;
we were in the building most of the twenty-four hours of each day – for
classes, meals, and sleeping. The
gymnasium, with neat rows of triple-decker bunks, was our barracks; true to
form, I selected a top bunk.
Classes, which started soon after breakfast each weekday and ran into
the evenings Monday through Friday and until noon on Saturday, were punctuated
by meals and daily breaks for either marching on neighborhood streets or
swimming in the school’s indoor pool. I
didn’t enjoy the swim days, although the water was heated to a bearable
temperature; I’ve always preferred swimming in warmer water and weather.
Much of pre-radio school, which lasted four weeks, was a review of
electrical theory I had learned in high school and college physics classes,
thus was fairly easy for me. The
hands-on things we did, such as assembling radios, were new to me; I had never
before soldered electronic parts into radio circuitry, although I had watched
Steve Fry doing so during my days working at Mr. Gilliam’s radio shop in
Brownwood. I discovered that soldering
neatly wasn’t as easy as it looked.
We had Saturday afternoons and Sundays free, so I usually donned my
dress blues and walked to the elevated railway stop a few blocks away, boarded
a car, and rode to “The Loop” downtown.
I seldom, if ever, went alone; other guys also wanted to get away from
the grind and see what the town offered:
·
Chicago folks treated military personnel well; servicemen’s
centers served free hot dogs, doughnuts, and coffee, and professional
entertainment was provided on weekends.
I saw Stan Kenton’s orchestra one Sunday afternoon; I also saw a
minstrel show, something I had heard about but never seen.
·
I ran into Ernie Martin, a fellow seventh-grader
when we both lived in La Feria, while at a downtown service center one
Saturday. Ernie was in the same
training program as I, but was several months ahead of me, in advanced
electronics school at the Great Lakes Naval Training Center. [Ernie had requested Great Lakes for his
advanced training because his home was in the Midwest (his seventh grade year
was the only one he had spent in Texas).
I, of course, when time came to express a choice of advanced training
schools, requested Corpus Christi, because it was “home country” for me.] We saw each other once or twice more before
I left Chicago.
·
I visited Chicago’s Second Baptist Church several times;
its pastor was the first Baptist minister I ever saw in a clerical robe. One Sunday evening he asked each serviceman
to stand up, identify himself, and tell his home state, then said to the two of
us from Texas, “I’ll bet you are either Baptists or Methodists.” He was correct.
War in the European theater ended during the month I spent in Chicago
(May 8, 1945 was V-E Day); the shore patrol cleared downtown of military
personnel when the announcement was made, lest we should tear up the place in
celebration.
The month in pre-radio school passed quickly, and we who successfully
completed the program were sent southward to Gulfport, Mississippi on another
“square-wheeled troop-sleeper.”
Primary electronics school was tough. We delved
deeply into theory; many mathematical calculations were required, so I acquired
a nice K & E log-log duplex slide rule to assist in doing them. (Electronic calculators have made such
calculations easier, faster, and more accurate for modern students, but the
slide rule was invaluable back then.)
Classes started early each morning and ran until late evening, with
breaks for meals and an afternoon Physical Education period.
Classes
met in Quonset huts, which grew quite warm in Gulfport’s summer heat. Most of the guys developed heat rashes,
which were exacerbated by the wool Navy-issue swimsuits we wore while doing
afternoon calisthenics; just remembering those P.E. periods makes me itch.
Except for heat rash and the boredom of
nighttime watches (which usually involved walking around a warehouse carrying
an unloaded rifle, and always meant loss of needed sleep), I enjoyed my three
months in Gulfport.
We had Saturday afternoons and Sundays off; summer weekends were usually
pleasurable:
·
We swam in
the Gulf of Mexico, among thousands (millions?) of stinging jellyfish; fortunately, I never came into contact
with any of them.
·
I liked the downtown service center, which was manned by
local volunteers. I most enjoyed
standing around the piano and singing popular songs of that era; a talented
accompanist was nearly always on hand.
(I never hear “Sentimental Journey” without thinking of the Gulfport
servicemen’s center. I suppose I’m
old-fashioned and prejudiced in favor of music of my youth, but I think those
songs we played and sung during WW II were about as good as popular music can
get.)
·
I usually attended Sunday morning worship activities at
Gulfport’s First Baptist Church, rather than at the base chapel. Bruce Linderman, a Mormon friend from Salt
Lake City, often went with me. He
became quite friendly with a young lady at the church, and was usually invited
to Sunday lunch with her family. I
don’t know whether anything ever came of their friendship and Sunday afternoons
together, for Bruce and I went separate ways upon leaving Gulfport; he went to
Treasure Island, California and I went to Corpus Christi.
After spending Sunday mornings in town,
with breakfast and lunch sandwiched around morning worship at First Baptist
Church, followed by afternoons at the service center, I’d return to the base
for Sunday evening vespers at the base chapel.
The head chaplain was Commander Edgar, who had been pastor of La Feria’s
Presbyterian church when I lived there, and with whose two boys I had
played. I visited with the Commander
for a few minutes one Sunday evening after vespers; he was the highest-ranking
officer I ever talked with while in the Navy.
◊◊◊
Primary electronics school, lasting three months, was
followed by advanced training at either Corpus Christi, Great Lakes Naval
Training Center, or Treasure Island. We
could express our choice of schools, but all didn’t get their choices, for more
guys wanted Treasure Island (i.e., California) than could be accommodated at
that facility, so some had to accept assignment to Corpus Christi or Great
Lakes. I asked for Corpus Christi, so
was granted my choice.
Our train ride from Gulfport to Corpus was by Pullman car,
a new (and singular) experience for me. We had a layover in Houston, so several of us strolled around
downtown, during which walk I ran into Betty Lue Sharp, a local girl with whom
I had started college in Brownwood.
Our destination was Ward Island, on the south side of
Corpus Christi Bay between town and “main base” (the Naval Air Station). The city is located on the western side of
the Bay, so Ward Island and the NAS are east (and slightly south) of town. The highway from town to main base traversed
the bay (north) side of Ward Island; the Navy’s aircraft electronics training
center, for which I was headed, occupied the rest of the island. Short bridges at the ends of the island
connected it and (1) the mainland to the west and (2) main base to the east.
[Ward
Island reverted to civilian use after WW II ended, when Texas Baptists
established Corpus Christi University, but CCU ultimately became a part of the
Texas A & M system. Nearly everything
about the island has changed as the university has grown to accommodate 8,000
students; the only thing I recognized from 1945-46 when I visited the island in
the early ‘90s was the swimming pool.]
Training at Ward Island lasted twenty-six weeks and included the study
of all airborne radio and radar gear used by the Navy. Students’ time was split between classroom
and lab; we studied theory in classrooms, then worked on the gear in the labs,
usually hunting instructor-devised “bugs” which caused equipment failure. Successful completion of the twenty-six
weeks resulted in receipt of an Aircraft Electronics Technicians Mate (AETM) rating.
A new class started each week.
My class began a day or two after reaching Ward Island in late July or
early August, 1945 – shortly before President Truman ordered the dropping of
atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasake, which resulted
in Japan’s decision to surrender, thereby ending WWII fighting (August 15, 1945
was V-J Day). Our military began
discharging its forces soon after the unconditional surrenders of Axis forces
in Europe and Asia, using a point system based on seniority and time spent
overseas to establish discharge priorities; those with the most points were
discharged first.
I was well down the discharge eligibility list, inasmuch as I’d been in
the Navy less than seven months when the war ended (and had spent no time
overseas), so I continued training – but its importance was diminished in my
mind, and my focus almost subconsciously shifted from (1) learning as much
about electronics as I could to (2) less serious matters. For example, I saw nearly every movie that
came to the base theater the first few months I was on Ward Island – probably
seeing more movies in two or three months than I have in the rest of the years
of my life combined.
The
theater building burned to the ground late one evening – eliminating a
comfortable, air-conditioned place to relax, where first-run movies were
shown. I didn’t see the movie that ran
the night of the fire (“Leave Her to Heaven,”
starring Gene Tierney, if I remember correctly), but some of the guys who saw
it joked that the movie may have provided the incendiary spark. I doubt that, for movies then were much
tamer than those of today, although “Leave Her to Heaven” may have been
suggestive of lifestyles that might land one in the fiery alternative to
heaven.
Much less enjoyable than the movies were late-night watches. I didn’t always see the value to the watches
I stood, particularly when they involved patrolling the area behind the Ship’s
Service (i.e., the PX in other branches of military service), with little but
trash barrels to guard.
◊◊◊
I spent most weekends away from Corpus Christi. I first went to La Feria, where I saw several
friends I hadn’t seen since 1942. I
spent one weekend in Laredo with the Amerines (my La Feria pastor and his
family, who had moved to another field of ministry) and a few weekends in San
Antonio, but, more often than not, I went to Brownwood.
I would
rush to the barracks after Friday afternoon classes ended, don my uniform,
catch a bus to downtown Corpus Christi, get on the road leading to San Antonio,
and lift my thumb to passing traffic.
I
regularly caught a ride with a construction worker who lived in San Antonio and
went home each weekend; he picked up all the hitchhiking sailors he saw, letting them ride in the bed of his pickup. He lived on the south side of San Antonio,
so, after arriving there I had to ride city buses across town to Five Points,
walk out on Fredericksburg road (US 87), and lift my thumb again. Sometimes rides from Five Points took me all
the way to Brownwood, but I was often dropped off at Brady in the wee hours of
Saturday morning by travelers going further northwest. Instead of trying to catch another ride at
that hour, I would wait for the six-o’clock bus to Brownwood, so I finally
reached my destination about the time my friends were arising for the day. (On those infrequent occasions when I wasn’t
stranded in Brady, and arrived in Brownwood during the wee hours, I would nudge
a friend – usually Truett Black – who would move over in his bed and let me crawl in for a few
hours of sleep.)
After
“hanging out” with college kids through the day, I sometimes had dates (usually
seeing movies at a downtown theater) on Saturday nights. On Sundays, Truett and I usually got our shoes
shined at a downtown stand, ate breakfast, then went to church; I’d eat lunch
at Howard Payne Hall, then hit the road for Corpus Christi, usually arriving
there around midnight.
Catching
rides was easy; I must have looked non-threatening in my uniform. I was worried a bit one time on a return
trip to Corpus Christi, when I was dropped off between Brownwood and Brady atop
a lonely hill. However, I waited only a
few minutes before being picked up by two sailors and their wives in an
Oldsmobile convertible; they were headed for the Corpus Christi Naval Air
Station, which meant they would pass right by the gate at Ward Island, where I
was stationed – which is where they dropped me off.
Would
I do all that hitchhiking back and forth between Corpus Christi and Brownwood if I had it to
do over again? No way! I have better sense now. But I enjoyed those weekends, and kept
repeating them.
I couldn’t go anywhere one weekend, when a hurricane with wind speeds reaching 105 miles per hour struck Corpus Christi
on a Friday, causing base personnel to be restricted to barracks until the
storm blew itself out sometime Sunday afternoon; snack foods and candy were
gone from vending machines by early Saturday, so we were famished before the
next chow call.
◊◊◊
I was called out of class on Friday afternoon, December 14, 1945 by a
representative from the chaplain’s office, was told my grandmother (I wasn’t
told which) had died, and given permission to go home for the weekend. I utilized the services of a “travel bureau” to go from Corpus
Christi to Fort Worth, then rode a bus to Granbury.
Travel
bureaus were wartime phenomena, supplementing routine commercial transportation
facilities (i.e., buses and railways), serving as travel agents, matching
persons needing intercity transportation with drivers who had space for riders
in their vehicles.
I assumed the dead grandmother was Mama Miller, who had suffered a
serious stroke several years earlier, and didn’t learn I was wrong until I went
by the Granbury telephone office early on Saturday morning. I identified myself and asked the operator
if she knew anything about my grandmother’s funeral. She told me my Grandmother Grammer had died, her funeral had been the previous afternoon, and family
members were all in Tolar. I called
there, my parents came and picked me up, and I spent the rest of the weekend in
Tolar and Fort Worth.
I attended church and ate lunch with my parents on Sunday, hitchhiked
from Fort Worth to Austin, then rode a bus from Austin to Corpus Christi,
arriving very late at night (or, in fact, early morning). I had missed the funeral, but had at least
seen family and relatives.
◊◊◊
Weekends such as the one just described, plus the many I went to
Brownwood, did nothing to improve my classroom accomplishments, but I
ultimately finished the twenty-six weeks of training, received an AETM 3/C
rating, and became an instructor in the school I had just completed.
I was a
lab instructor, trying to help students learn the intricacies of the 13-channel
ARC-1 transceiver. The ARC-1 was about a foot square, nearly three feet long, and
quite heavy, but, for all practical purposes, did the same thing as today’s CB
radios that can be held in the palm of one’s hand. CBs are small because they utilize solid-state technology; the
ARC-1 technology involved vacuum tubes, condensers, resistors, mechanical
channel-changing gear, and a heavy power supply unit, all of which contributed
to its size and weight.
I enjoyed the months spent on the instruction staff, largely because
the chief petty officer (whose name I can’t recall) in charge of the ARC-1
training group loved to play basketball, as did several of us who worked for
him, so we played regularly at the base gym.
When I finally became eligible for discharge, I was sent to the
separation center at Camp Wallace, between Galveston and
Houston. I was separated from active
service on July 29, 1946, but signed up for four years in the inactive reserve
(to preserve my rating in event of recall during a national emergency). I had been on active duty for one year, six
months, and six days, during which I had gained about seventeen pounds, but
still had a 28-inch waistline and weighed only 140 pounds.
I managed
to keep those trim proportions until I was in my early thirties, when both
girth and weight began increasing because of an inactive life behind a
desk. My dress blue uniform, stored
in a cedar chest, is still in good condition, but added inches around chest and
waist mean I can no longer get in it.
The fact that I had gained enough weight while in the Navy to qualify
for Air Force training never crossed my mind when I was discharged; WWII had
ended, I had served my time, and was ready to return to civilian life. Still in uniform, however, I hitchhiked one
more time – toward home.
I am proud to have served in the military during World War II, and to
have been a member of the group Tom Brokaw has called “the greatest generation,”
although, as I said at the outset of these writings, I did nothing personally
that could have been called “great.”
All I can claim is willingness and readiness when my time came to serve,
to go wherever sent; I was fortunate in having been old enough to serve during
the war, yet young enough that it ended before I risked injury from hostile
forces.
I’ve heard
debates about whether or not WWII folks were really “The Greatest Generation,”
as proclaimed by Tom Brokaw. I suspect
that Mr. Brokaw, if questioned closely, might limit his terminology to the
twentieth century, for who could claim superiority to those late
eighteenth-century heroes who struggled for American independence and won the
Revolutionary War? Perhaps anyone of
any era who has been willing to risk his life for his country is one of
America’s “greatest,” but, if I had to vote for a group, I’d choose those who
fought for and won our independence – against great odds.
WWII
heroes were, firstly, those who made the supreme sacrifice, giving their lives
in the cause of freedom, and, secondly, those who suffered war’s horrors and
won the fight, then came home to (1) quietly build the greatest economy the
world has ever known and (2) assist both allies and former enemies in
rebuilding their devastated countries.
◊◊◊
One occasionally hears the question, “What
characterized the World War II generation that made it able to do what it did
during and after World War II?” A
common answer is, “They saw their duty and
did it.” That accurately describes what
they did, but doesn’t explain why they did it.
I think two common characteristics enabling them to go where “duty” led
were (1) their respect for authority
(God/parents/teachers/pastors/lawmen/officers) and (2) they didn’t question the
right of those in authority to exercise it, so were ready to unhesitatingly go
where authority directed them.