My Dad died 34 years ago--I was 17. He died of colon cancer. It was the kind of tumor that caused no physical distress until the cancer had spread throughout his body. Diagnosed in May 1974, he was gone in September of the same year.
I did not have the opportunity to know my father as an adult. He was still just my Dad when he died, and for me there is much about him that is a mystery. But this year I dug into letters he wrote home from WWII. He flew troop carrier in the Pacific Theater of Operations. Because he was support personnel and not on the front lines, he was able to keep the letters his family sent to him, and they kept everything he sent home. So we have both sides of the correspondence--some 550 letters in all.
Dad also wrote a brief but comprehensive account of his war service. He recounts, on 47 sheets of paper in his beautiful penmanship, everything that happened from shipping out of San Francisco in July of 1944 to his time in Japan post-surrender, up to about November 1945. He is only 19 when the letters begin; younger than my son who is now in college. And I am now the age that Dad was when he died. Strange places to exchange.
Here is tiny excerpt from his account of his service written after his return (he was probably 22 years old). Edits/comments in brackets are mine. The picture above is California's "desolate" [yup] Camp Stoneman. Tap it to enlarge; it's worth it.
July 6 [1944] Left Columbus, Miss. That afternoon somewhat bewildered, realizing that I was starting a trip that would end at New Guinea, Hawaii, Central Pacific, India, China, Australia, maybe even South America. That’s what we thought, all of us: Pownell, [on?] one the first ship[s] into Tokyo; Broadurst, killed in action; Perry, my roommate in advanced, cited by the president for a drop on Corregidor; Bjonebo, a good pilot and damned good man; Cromartie, couldn’t stand being away from home and cracked up; and White and Twardzick whom I never heard from. They went to an outfit in Australia.
We had quite a trip out to California and I spent my last stateside weekend in and around Los Angeles. Quite a time, it was an all out offensive. I arrived at Camp Stoneman, a desolate place with tar paper barracks. It was here I first realized that maybe it wasn’t going to a picnic. Here men were drinking and laughing and having one last fling. Here I met some more boys I was to fly with.
July 13 As we come out of the theater, we had been having an orientation lecture, we learned that we were alerted. That afternoon we packed all our bags and I took personal luggage into Pittsburg for shipment home. I could have called or sent a telegram saying I was leaving the next day but I was honest and abided by the rules.
July 14 We boarded the “River Queen” and started off, down the river. As the ship shoved off the band played “Over There.” I got a lump in my throat but I was too excited to feel sad. In San Francisco Bay we board the U.S.S. Exiria and the word got around from the ship personnel [that] our destination was eighteen days away and probably in New Guinea.
July 15 At 0800 we shoved off and passed under the Golden Gate Bridge and soon the old U.S.A. was out of sight and believe me every one watched it to the end. There was a blimp flying over us for two days.
We crossed the equator and went through the ceremony and ended up a fine looking bunch of hairless “Moes.” I tried a mustache but it wasn’t so hot. I gave that up immediately and tried to look as presentable as possible.
Rumor got spread about and we decided we would be a new squadron
formed and trained overseas. What were we going to fly? B-24s were out of the question, A-20s, no, we wouldn’t be that lucky, B-25 maybe, P-38s probably because we wouldn’t need much training. After all was surveyed we found that most of the engineering men had experience on P-47 so that was it. We knew that men and officers were on two ships, but the third was a mystery.Sansapor in Dutch New Guinea was invaded as we were coming over. That was the advanced base. We wondered what an invasion was like, what New Guinea was like, we wondered many things.
Right: 3 P-47s
3 comments:
He really did write beautifully. i would love to read more of his letters. I hope you put them up online!
Anne:
Wow, that's really wonderful.
We share a pretty common perspective about dad. I've always noted too that I didn't know him as an adult. Andy was 25 and actually working with him at the brick company while I was in eighth grade.
I don't know if I've ever said this to you, but one of the things I recall about that time was my naiveté. I knew the word cancer, but I always heard the word tumor when it came to the way the "grownups" talked about his health and never knew the connection until it became obvious.
Reading your post, I remain in awe of that generation and what they were faced with at such young ages. As you said, dad was 19 years old and shipping off to war after spending his teenage years in the great depression.
I shudder to think how I would have reacted in such circumstances, but was fortunate to grow up in a different era. An era I got to enjoy in large part because of their generation's work and sacrifice.
I'm sending this to KJ's mom and dad and a coworker of mine who is really connected to the military. He goes to Normandy every year.
And while visiting your blog, I noticed a tennis site you've linked that notes Carole Graebner died. I don't recall if I ever worked any of her matches at Woodstock. Something tells me I did because I remember her, but I could be wrong. I did work Clark Graebner matches. He scared the crap out of me; Bob Knight with specs and white shorts.
I met Stan Smith about ten years ago at a big youth tennis tournament we have yearly in Belton (45 miles from here) and talked at length about the Clay Courts Championships at Woodstock. Back when American tennis players weren't allergic to clay.
I worked matches for Smith, Cliff Richey and the full collection of the best women of the era. King, Court, Goolagong and Evert. I recall working a doubles match on Court 6 at Woodstock with Billie Jean. Walked back to the clubhouse with her just before dark and she was lecturing me on what to do with my life. I do recall one quote like it was yester...er...a few months ago: "Think big. Don't ever think little. No one ever got anywhere thinking little."
Great, great post. sorry it took until this afternoon to respond.
Thanks bro.
On Carole Graebner and tennis: I do not remember her, but like you I sure remember Clark. He was a really, really bad version of Clark Kent, I thought.
Those tennis championships were an unbelievable education and opportunity. You are so right about the stars of the women's tour at the time--the only one we missed was Martina Navratilova, and that was because she hadn't quite matured yet. Same with the men's tour (Guillermo Vilas and Ilie Nastase!!!!), including that unforgettable appearance by Arthur Ashe who had the gall to wear a pale pink shirt on a Woodstock tennis court. The crowd's hostility was unbelievable, as I recall.
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