Memoirs of Jerry Wilson

PRIMARY SCHOOL


School days, school days, good old fashion rule days, reading, writing, and arithmetic was taught to the tune of a hickory stick. These words from a popular song of the 1890’s were applicable during my primary schooling in the 1930’s. Time out did not come into vogue until half a century later.
All of my primary education took place in one room schools. All teachers were women, ranging in age from those just out of college to one lady with school age children. Except for the first school, all the others buildings were similar in design with white wood clapboard building approximately 25X40 feet, with three windows on each side, and one in the rear. Some had a single front door, and others had two doors about 16 feet apart. Inside, a raised platform eight feet deep occupied the area between the two doors. This was the center of learning. In addition to being the location of the teacher's desk, there was a large blackboard attached to the wall where we publicly displayed our mental agility. I still feel the embarrassment of standing before the entire student body, chalk in hand, struggling to solve a simple problem in arithmetic. My humiliation was in direct proportion to the number of little Einstein’s seated at their desks frantically waving their hands, and loudly whispering, “I can do it, I can do it.” I don’t know if the root of my dilemma was Dyslexia, a condition not recognized at that time, or plain stupid, the acceptable analysis. I prayed for something to happen which would divert everyone’s attention, but I had no such luck. In the middle of the room was a large cast iron pot belly stove. On the back wall were wooden pegs where we hung our coats and caps. Drinking water was kept in a five gallon stoneware container. The balance of the room was occupied by approximately 30 + desks of various sizes. Seldom was there an equal match of student to desired desk size. Occasionally two students shared a desk until one was available. Once a year, the wooden floor was sprayed with oil to keep down the dust. Outside was a very small playing field, a building for the storage of coal, and two pit toilets; one for the girls and the other for the boys. Toilet tissue was a Sears & Roebuck catalogue.
Teaching all subjects for grades one through eight, in a one room school, to 30+ students must have been a staggering challenge. Not to mention giving comfort to the young and maintaining order with the unruly. Discipline was never a big problem. Teachers were authorized to spank a student’s bottom with a wooden paddle, or lash the back and legs with a switch. Most parents had a rule, if you were punished at school, it would be duplicated when you got home. I must confess, a few times I went home with a rosy bottom, or welts on my back and legs. Was I punished when I got home? Sometimes, but generally Mother agreed with my logic, it was better to stand up to a bully and fight, than slink away and forever be taunted and abused.
September 1931, my formal education began in an unpainted one room building, constructed out of rough lumber by the Birch Valley Lumber Company. Located at the junction of Powell’s Creek and a narrow deep hallow called Rich Fork, it was called the Rich Fork school. The parents of all students were employed, directly or indirectly, by the lumber company to extract timber from the surrounding area of Powell’s Mountain, in Nicholas County, West Virginia. The County School System paid the salary of the young teacher, Juanita Brown. Except for the warmth of a coal stove and an outhouse, there were few amenities of necessity or comfort. Student enrollment was around 20, including my sister Mary, and brothers Hank and Emery.
The school day began with the pledge of allegiance to the Flag, followed by singing “My Country, Tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty, Of thee I sing, etc.” When I was older, it puzzled me as to why we didn’t sing the Star Spangled Banner. I believe the answer is one of two possibilities [1] The Star Spangled Banner was not designated the National Anthem by Congress until March 3 1931, and the teacher may not have been informed. Or [2] she was aware of the change, but did not want us to strain our young tender vocal cords, attempting to hit the high notes. After the opening exercise, Miss Brown inspected our hygiene habits. The Lifebuoy Soap Company had provided a chart to list the name of each pupil, followed by a number of columns, brush teeth, comb hair, clean finger nails, wash hands, face, and ears. Every function a student performed that morning was acknowledged with a gold star being placed in the proper column. To keep peer pressure on the wayward, the chart was posted for all to see. If a student had no missing stars at the end of the week, he or she was rewarded with a small cake of Lifebuoy soap. Red in color, it had a strong pungent odor of Lysol. The first grade reader was a book about Baby Ray, and his animals. He had a dog, a cat, and two cunning kitty cats. Either silently or orally I read, “Baby Ray had a dog, the dog was little. Baby Ray loved the little dog, the little dog loved Bay Ray,” and so forth. Also I remember a book about a little Black Bear called twinkly eyes. It was a cute cub that always got into mischief.
The route to school required walking on the railroad track a short distance, and through a pasture enclosed with a high split rail fence which confined a mean Billy Goat. During the summer, Emery and I would wait until he was a safe distance away, and then we would rush out onto the field, yell bah bah, shake our fist at the goat, and make a mad dash for the fence. The objective was to clear the top rail a second or two before the goat crashed head first into the bottom rail. We did not consider this to be teasing, but an exciting and spirited means of honing our racing skills. A couple of times the contest ended too close for comfort. On the way to or from school, if my safety appeared to be in jeopardy, I took the long route around the outside perimeter. One afternoon, taking the long way home, I saw in the distance a mouse running back and forth in a semi-circle. Quietly, I approached close enough to see a large black snake slowly crawling toward the mouse. Both were locked in eye contact. We had always been told not to look a snake in the eye or it would charm you. But no one ever explained what charmed meant. As the snake approached closer and closer, the semi-circle of the hypnotized mouse became smaller and smaller. Ultimately the mouse became the snake’s dinner. So take heed and never, never, look a snake in the eye.
The Rich Fork School existed only one year. For the children who moved to a new logging site, a railroad box car was converted into a school, affectionately referred to as The Box Car Special. Those of us who remained, attended either The Powell’s Mountain School, on the top of the mountain, or the Grogg Spring School, located on a small plot of flat land further down the valley. Or as the locals would say, “down the holler.” Both schools were located about two miles from Richfork. To give you some concept of the terrain, Powell’s Mountain tops out at 2400 feet above sea level. Powell’s Creek, the drainage basin for the surrounding area, empties into Birch River where the elevation is 1000 feet. The distance between these two points, by the steep winding highway, [U S route 19] is five miles. We lived on the banks of Powell’s Creek, halfway up the valley where the elevation is approximately 1700 feet. There was no school bus to ride, so the choice was ours, climb the steep mountain in the morning, or the afternoon. The latter was more appealing. September 1932, a few weeks past my seventh birthday, I enrolled in the second grade at the Grogg Spring School.
Recently [1999] I was reading Angela’s Ashes, a book by Frank McCourt in which he told about his early life growing up in poverty in Ireland and the United States. In one story he used the word “Willie” as a euphemism for the male appendage. Immediately that word took me back 67 years to the second grade. Dressed in new Bib Overalls, Mother, a stickler for cleanliness, sent me off to school with firm instructions not to get my clothes dirty. Her oft repeated motto was, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.” I didn’t know any of the 25-30 students, but quickly made friends with a boy my age. I have long forgotten his name, so I shall call him Lee Roy. At the beginning of the lunch hour on the second day of school, a few girls in the third and fourth grade approached Lee Roy and me. Pointing to a cleared plateau on the side of the mountain, they suggested we go up there to get away from the bigger aggressive kids. Upon reaching the pasture our view of the school, and playground was completely obstructed by tall shrubs, briers, and vines growing along the fence row. Logically, if we couldn’t see the other children, they couldn’t see us. Instantly, the girls encircled Lee Roy and me. Jumping up and down, they began to chant, “Show us your Willie, show us your Willie, show us your Willie.” Each crescendo became an octave higher and louder. I had no idea what they were talking about. The only thing in my pockets was a few marbles. Proudly showing them my prized Aggie, disgustingly they shouted. “NO, Show us your Willie.” Lee Roy quickly became the center of attention. With his little Willie standing erect, as a king reviewing his domain, the girls began to dance, squeal, and giggle. Moving in for a closer examination, first one, and then another finger would reach out, and instantly jerk back as though a snake was ready to strike. Shortly they turned to me. There were no zippers in pants and overalls in that era, and to unbutton stiff unwashed denim took time. I was on the verge of success, when suddenly out of the bushes came the older kids running, screaming, and laughing. Down the mountain I ran as fast as I could go. At the bottom was a swamp filled with stagnant rust colored water and black mud. Three leaps into it, and I fell flat on my stomach. Lying there, a horrifying thought overcame me. How am I going to explain this to Mother! Wading into the deepest part of Powell’s Creek, feverishly I worked to wash the mud and stains out of my clothes. When the bell rang I returned to school, and sat soaking wet at my desk all afternoon. Minta Bowen, the teacher, pretended nothing unusual had occurred. Mother was busy canning when I arrived home. Quickly I changed clothes before she saw me. Did she ever notice my soiled clothing? If so she never mentioned it. What a relief, the world was lifted off my shoulders, and all the excuses I had fabricated to explain what happened vanished in thin air.
The boarding house of the Birch Valley Lumber Company consisted of three or four converted railroad box cars. One was the kitchen and dining area, another was a bunk house and two were living quarters for the operator. Mother had been running the boarding house for two or three years, so this was my home. The depth of the depression was growing. With 25% of the work force in the country out of work, the lumber industry was not spared. By the third week of September we were moved to a rail siding on Beaver Creek near Tioga. While there, everyone was talking about Hoover, Roosevelt, and the upcoming Presidential election. When we were established, Hank, Emery and I walked through the woods to the Beaver School. When cold weather set in, I did not have shoes and warm clothing to continue going to school. Bottom line, I missed an entire year. [I was not alone, many children, including my brother Emery could not attend school because of inadequate clothing or shoes] In December the Lumber Company moved us for the winter to a rail siding near the large saw mill in Tioga. In the spring of l933 they closed the boarding house and moved us into a house [tar paper shack] back on Powell’s Creek, near where we lived before. That fall I resumed the second grade at the Powell’s Mountain School. Again, for the lack of shoes I had to stay home when it started to snow. My teacher, Miss Bertha Bays went to the Red Cross in Summersville and obtained shoes for me. Her help and concern prevented me from being two year behind other students my age. For this I have been eternally grateful. In the fall of 1934, I returned to the Grogg Spring School for the third grade. This time the green pasture on the mountain side was physically and mentally off limits. The teacher was Ethel Frame. Only two events during the school year stand out in my mind. On the way to school one morning, Emery and I found some cigarettes and cigars alongside the road. Hiding them under overhanging rocks, we sneaked matches out of the house, and for a week or so enjoyed a few puffs on the way to and from school. I believe we chewed bark from the roots of the sassafras tree to assure no detectable tobacco odor was on our breath when we arrived home. Then there was the time a large caravan of Gypsies, traveling in horse drawn wagons, set up camp in a field beside the road. We had always heard that Gypsies were adept at two things. Stealing anything that was not nailed down, and kidnapping children. The thought of both terrified us. Fearful they may have seen us, we ran into the woods, and took a very long circuitous route home.
Returning to the Powell’s Mountain School in the fall of 1935, for the fourth grade, Miss Bays, again was my teacher. Before we moved in November to Harold hollow in Muddlety Valley, I received a penny pencil for reciting the multiplication table, from two through twelve, without a mistake. How is that for high stakes bribery?
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize when fresh cut lumber dries the boards shrink. To compensate for this, most of the houses built by the Birch Valley Lumber Company for their workmen were covered with roofing felt to make them half way habitable in cold weather. Thus the phrase, “tar paper shack” was appropriate. Unfortunately the old privately owned house we rented had no such barrier. The space between the boards on the outside walls often exceeded a quarter of an inch. One night the windblown snow covered the bed Hank and Emery were sleeping in. Hank developed pneumonia. Often delirious, he was ill for several weeks. He pulled through, but I feel sure it contributed to the need, ten years later, to remove half of his right lung. While there I saw my first movie, “Thoroughbreds Don’t Cry,” starring Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney. Recently I rented it, but it didn’t bring back the memories I thought it would.
Many students at the Harold School, taught by Mrs. McQueen, considered academic achievement secondary to physical confrontation. It was a great day in April 1936, when we moved to Little Creek, further up Muddlety Valley, to a house built on Grandmother’s farm by my brother Don. The name of the school-was Little Creek and the teacher, Mrs. Edna Groce. Academically and physically, three different schools in one school year were rough. A new kid in school is the answer to a bully’s dream, and I have battle scars today to prove it. A fight on the last day of school ended with the two of us sporting a black eye all summer. The irony was neither of us wanted to fight, but it was engineered and egged on by older boys who considered fighting a sport demonstrating manhood.
Located less than half a mile from home, I fondly remember my four years at the Little Creek School. Gone was the agony and fright of walking into a strange new school. [Grade 5/7 1936/39, Teacher, Miss Alma Groce--- Grade 8 1939/40 Teacher, Miss Mary Louise Gawthrop.]
Muddlety Creek from its headwaters until it empties into Gauley River below Summersville, is probably 18 miles long. By the time it reached the Little Creek School its rapid decline in elevation began to level off. As the slower flowing water made its way through the serpentine twists and turns of the river, numerous pools were created. Some reaching a depth of six or more feet. A pool, approximately 100 feet long, and four feet deep was located a short distance behind the school. Hidden from view by brush growing along the creek bank, and large trees whose branches frequently met in mid stream, it was an ideal place for fishing and swimming. A long standing ritual was to go swimming on the first day of March. Come lunch time, all the brave, and not necessary the smartest boys, headed for the swimming hole. No bathing suits, this was skinny dipping. I assure you the water in a mountain stream at this time of the year is extremely cold, but if you didn’t dive in you were considered a sissy, and no one wanted that distinction As we laughed, yelled, and splashed water on each other, a prankster would sneak around and hide our clothes. When the dastardly deed was discovered, you have never heard such yelling and screaming. We could only stay in the cold water a short period of time before we had to come out and hide behind the bushes, and weeds. Someone near the school would start yelling. “The girls are coming, the girls are coming.” No fate would be more humiliating than to be seen by the girls. After much pleading, begging, and bribing our clothes were returned, but not before the shirt sleeves and pants' legs had been tied into hard knots. A more enjoyable event took place later in the spring when a fish, we called a sucker came up river to spawn. Rafts were constructed by lashing together boards, railroad ties, and other floating objects we could confiscate. With a long piece of thin copper wire we made a snare. Slowly and carefully, drifting the raft over a school of fish eating off the river bottom, the wire loop was carefully worked around one’s head. This took time, patience, skill and a tremendous amount of luck, but at the crucial moment, with a quick firm pull of the wire you had snared a fish. While the number of fish caught may have been meager, and our studies and homework neglected, we certainly had a lot of innocent fun. In addition to fishing, the raft was also used to transport the more adventuresome students across the river to school.
The job of janitor was generally given to a boy in the 8th grade. For the school year 1939/40 I was given the coveted assignment. What were my duties as janitor? In the morning I filled the water cooler with fresh drinking water from a nearby home or spring, and put the flag up. In cold weather I always had the building nice and warm before the students and teacher arrived. To maintain the temperature at a constant level, periodically, throughout the day I added coal to the fire. After school I swept the floor, straighten the desks, washed the blackboard, dusted the erasers, and fixed the fire so that it would slowly burn all night, thus ensuring a hot bed of embers in the morning. If it should snow I kept all pathways shoveled. The pay was 20 cents a day. My first purchase was a green plaid wool jacket with my initials on the zipper. A flannel lined cotton jacket was all that I had ever owned, so you can imagine how much I enjoyed the warmth of wool.
All teachers were capable, understanding, supportive, and did many things to make our life pleasant. If we had done our homework, and gave the teacher no problem, they frequently rewarded us by reading a chapter or two from Huckleberry Finn, Call of the Wild, Uncle Remus or some other exciting story. Oh how we sat in our seats, tense, and frozen with fear as the main character faced impossible challenges. And, how thrilled and excited we became when they escaped, survived or whatever. There was always a Christmas tree decorated with ornaments made by the children. One year I spent hours walking up and down the mountains looking for a perfectly shaped tree. Suddenly there it was the top of a tall hemlock tree. It was so well received, that it became the standard by which future trees were measured. Looking back I think about how foolish I was to climb that tall tree alone. If I had fallen and killed myself, it is doubtful anyone would have found me, and today my bones would be buried under a mound of leaves and moss. Every student had a part in the Christmas program before Santa arrived to give each student a candy cane. Occasionally he may have given an orange or an apple. Our teachers were truly unsung heroes. In addition to giving us an education they were caring and concerned about their students. Out of their meager salary there was a Christmas gift under the tree for every student. For some it was the only gift they received that year.
Every school had a library. Well we called it that, but in reality it was a small book case that held 15 or 20 books. The School System periodically rotated books among the schools, and the teachers, if they wished could go to the Board of Education, and choose their own selection. Among the books Mary Louise Gawthrop chose, two stand out in my mind. Along by Admiral Richard D Byrd, who established Little America in the Antarctic in 1929, and spent the winter there along in 1934/5. Byrd was amazed that the food he left, from the previous expedition, was in the same condition as he left it. So any time you buy frozen food, you should thank Admiral Byrd. The second book was titled, Behave Yourself. This book thoroughly covered manners, etiquette, and social graces. Anyone who had read and absorbed its contents would not be intimidated, as to which fork or spoon, to use at a five course dinner. Or upon being introduced to a stranger, who should be the first to extend their hand. As any good teacher should do, she was helping to prepare us for the big world beyond Muddlety Valley.
I will always cherish the experience and education I received in the one room school. No way do I feel educationally deprived. As early as the first or second grade, I was fascinated when Geography was being discussed by students in the higher grades. Instead of concentrating on my own assignments, I would listen and dream of what it must be like to see The Great Wall of China, The Pyramids of Egypt, and The Taj Mahal of India. Or a city like Jerusalem, Paris, Rome, London and other fascinating places in the world. Most of those dreams have become a reality. Hopefully with good health more dreams will be fulfilled.
I started to school when the depression was at its peak and millions were living in poverty. Throughout my Primary and High School years I never lived in a house that had electricity, running water, indoor plumbing, central heat etc. Homework was done on the kitchen table by the light of an oil lamp. My economic situation was not unusual. President Eisenhower perhaps expressed it best when he said he never felt economically deprived growing up, because everyone around him was poor.

HIGH SCHOOL MEMORIES


September 1940, I entered my freshman year at Nicholas County High School in Summersville, West Virginia, a town of approximately 1500. [1990 census listed slightly over 2900] Arising early in the morning, I and other students of Muddlety Valley walked three miles to catch a school bus for the ten mile ride to school. The bus driver was a fair but stern individual who didn’t cut any slack for those arriving late at the bus stop. You may have been fifty yards away, but he would not wait. His reasoning, if he waited for every straggler the bus would arrive long after the first class had begun. Definitely he didn’t tolerate any foolishness or loud talking. On more than one occasion a problem student was evicted miles from home, to make it the best way he could.
The dirt road up Muddlety Valley had only two conditions; choking dust when dry and sticky clay mud, knee deep when wet. In the winter the ruts were so deep that an automobile could go a great distance without anyone touching the steering wheel. Thank goodness, “wind chill index” had not become part of our vocabulary. So off we trudged into the snow, sleet, and wind without the benefit of knowing how miserable we were supposed to be. One morning, with the temperature near zero, the biting wind quickly turned our faces bright red. Then our breath began to crystallized, covering our head, ears and surrounding area with a billowing layer of white frost. Everyone on the school bus said we looked like Santa Clause. That afternoon a neighbor, Mr. Gawthrop, met us at the bus with a horse and sleigh. Bundled up amid warm blankets, we had a beautiful and joyous ride home. High water over the road was the only deterrent that may have prevented us from reaching the bus. If that occurred, I do not remember it. Fall was my favorite time of the year. Warm balmy days, a bright blue sky, and the surrounding mountains cloaked in an array of brilliant colored leaves, were in the words of a popular song by John Denver, Almost Heaven, West Virginia.
Participation in extra curricular activities presented a real challenge for the students who rode a bus. Prudent judgment dictated- don’t participate-play it safe and take the school bus home. With gasoline and tires being rationed fewer cars were on the road, which made hitch hiking unreliable Being a believer in the old adage, “if there is a will there is a way” I played the Sousaphone in the Band for three years, acted in two plays, helped construct, and paint stage sets, and was active in a couple of clubs. If I didn’t have a ride home when the activities were over, the kind Lady Manager of the Rader Hotel permitted me sit in the lobby until she locked the doors at eleven o’clock. An Uncle, living near me, working in Summersville got off at midnight. After completing my home work, I would leave the nice warm hotel, locate his car parked on the street, stretch out on the back seat, and freeze for an hour. This arrangement worked fine until the evening of the final dress rehearsal for a play I was in. Unfortunately my Uncle didn’t work that day. Around 10:30pm, confident someone would pick me up, I started walking the 13 miles home. The few cars that came along whizzed by as though I was invisible. Hungry, discouraged, and exhausted, I crawled into bed around at 2:00 in the morning. Sleeping late was out of the question. We were scheduled to give a morning and afternoon performance for the students who road buses, and an evening performance for students and citizens living in the immediate area. I played the part of a Father whose hair was beginning to turn gray. My wife had suggested that I have a private talk with our young daughter, who was madly in love with a boy. The scene called for me to get up from my comfortable chair, light my pipe, and after a few casual puffs, dispense Fatherly words of wisdom. For the student shows everything went well, but for the evening performance the pipe became entangled in the pocket of my coat, A seasoned actor would have nixed the pipe routine, but I was determined to follow the script. The longer I fumbled for that #%* pipe, the more visibly upset, and nervous I became. By the time I had retrieved it, my hands were shaking so badly each time I struck a match the flame went out. Naturally the audience enjoyed the unplanned humor, but I immediately determined the stage was not for me.
Mr. A. A. Bryant, and Mr. Malcolm taught several courses in modern and scientific methods of agriculture. I don’t believe there was any restriction prohibiting girls attending, but only boys were enrolled in the program. Although not mandatory, everyone enrolled in a course was eligible to join The Future Farmers of America, a National Organization. The school sponsored a Chapter, and. I was President for a year and Parliamentarian for two. The dictionary describes a Parliamentarian as an expert in the rules and procedures that govern proceedings of deliberative assemblies, and other organizations. Unfortunately 99 % of the members of most organizations have little interest in learning parliamentary rules. I may not always agree with his political philosophy but, I am amused when Senator Byrd from West Virginia, a nationally recognized Parliamentarian brings deliberations in the United States Senate to a screeching halt by insisting parliamentary rules be adhered to. I may not have achieved the status of expert, but I was fairly knowledgeable of Robert’s Rules of Order. When deliberations become emotional and tempers heated, a Parliamentarian cannot be thin skinned. Verbal abuse is an occupational hazard, and on more than one occasion it was suggested I spend eternity in a warmer climate.
New members joining the FFA were subjected to initiation rites. By current standards they were very mild, but on one occasion a minor problem developed. Each candidate was required to enter the room blind folded, and take a drink from a container. In reality it was a child’s potty containing orange soda diluted to a nice amber color. Broken pieces of a Baby Ruth candy bar were stirred in for realism. You would have to agree, a very innocent prank. However, one boy after removing the blind fold, looked into the potty and threw up. He refused to believe our explanation of its contents, and the next morning his parents came to see the Principal. The potty initiation was scrapped forever.
Each spring the National Office announced a broad subject for a public speaking contest. In l943 I was one of four participants at Nicholas High. My subject was Food for War. Winning first place meant I would represent the school at the regional contest. The next day I spoke before the entire student body [450] Picture in your mind how thrilled and excited they were, waiting with baited breath to catch every syllable of my pronouncements. More realistic they were probably bored. At least I didn’t see anyone sleeping.
The morning of the regional contest, I awoke with the dreadful feeling it was not going to be my day. Looking in the mirror I realized I had the Mumps. Pondering my dilemma I noticed by pulling my shirt collar high, the swelling was hardly visible. Without saying a word to anyone except Mother, I went to Beckley determined to convince the judges that I had the answers and solutions for the subject under consideration. Apparently they agreed with my position by awarding me first place and the opportunity to compete in the State contest at Jackson’s Mill.
Jackson’s Mill, the State 4-H Camp, got its name because Stonewall Jackson’s Grandfather, Uncle or some relative had a farm, and a grist mill there in the early 1800’s. It was here little Stonewall spent a number of his boyhood summers. It is a beautiful place with many large stone lodges, rustic log cabins and conference facilities. The dining hall is a replica of Mt. Vernon. I fondly remember it for the abundance of excellent food served family style, and the tradition of finishing the evening meal with a large bowl of home made ice cream. In addition we enjoyed a variety of educational activities, organized sports and nightly campfires with lectures, plays and singing. The evening program closed with singing, the State Song- Oh those West Virginia Hills, how majestic and how grand, etc. Sleeping accommodations were ten to fifteen cots or bunks per room. With all the horse play and foolishness that took place, there was little time for sleeping. It was a fun place to go.
What about the speaking contest? W-E-L-L, I didn’t come in first. As a matter of fact I didn’t place second or third. Since they didn’t announce forth, fifth or sixth place I was somewhere among them. Was I hurt or disappointed? Definitely not, I was happy to be free to enjoy myself. Unfortunately it was short lived. The following day, rushing from the outdoor swimming pool, I started to cross the road when my wet feet slipped on the grass. With no protection except bathing trunks, I plunged head long across the paved highway on my chest, stomach and legs. Initially the pain was secondary to the humiliation and embarrassment I felt as people rushed to help. The front of my body was a combination of raw flesh, blood, dirt and gravel. [I still have scars from that episode] When I arrived at the dispensary, the Nurse having changed from her white starched uniform was dressed ready to go home. The disgusted look she gave me telegraphed what she was thinking. “ Two minutes and I would have been out of here, and now I will spend an hour cleaning and bandaging the wounds of this dumb kid.” Horror of Horrors, without compassion or understanding, in a firm commanding voice, she said, “TAKE OFF THAT BATHING SUIT.” I died a thousand deaths, but not from the injuries.
Weekly throughout 1942 & 43 men were called to active military service. This created a tremendous reduction in manpower needed for industry, business, and other activities on the home front. Women quickly became a significant part of the work force. They became mechanics, welders, riveters, assembly line workers and a thousand other jobs. Working around the clock along side of men, they produced planes, ships, tanks and other items essential to the war. The rapid build up of the armed forces also created a wide gap in the average age of the civilian male population. [Under 18 or over the hill] A popular song at the time expressed the lament of a young lady desiring a date. Mournfully she sang, “They are either to young or to old--they are either to gray or to grassy green.”
Primary school children were called upon to do their part for the war effort. Example, for making life vests they collected the white silky fibers from the pods of the milkweed plant. Older students were excused from school, [full and/or half days] to helped farmers plant and harvest crops. Shortly after the beginning of the fall semester Mr. Malcolm instructed his students to bring old clothes the next day for working on a farm. As the bus departed, everyone was in a high state of anxiety as to what tasks we may be assigned. There was a lot of laughter, kidding, and joking as to who would get the job of cleaning manure out of the barn, or other unpleasant tasks. Upon arrival some boys were assigned to repair fences, others to dig potatoes, shuck corn, etc. I along with three older boys was assigned to work with a kind, pleasant old gentleman. Our job was to castrate Pigs. No they were not cute little piglets as featured in a Walt Disney movie. These were barnyard wise adolescents who had no intention of giving up their birth right without a battle. The procedure-One boy would grab a pig. As it squealed, kicked and screamed the other boys moved in, grabbed a leg and flipped the pig on its back. As we firmly spread the legs apart the old farmer assumed the role of surgeon. With his sharp pocket knife he quickly relieved the poor animal of his manhood. Or should I say his pig-hood? There was no bullet to bite, no anesthesia, no stitches. Two quick cuts, throw disinfectant into the incision, and let him go. And did he go there was no hanging around. When the last pig scampered away we were a muddy, bloody mess. After a brief wash up we returned to the school gym for a shower and a change of clothes. Joining our fellow students for the last class of the day, they imagined we had been out having fun, while they were studying Latin, Shakespeare, Algebra and other interesting subjects. Little did they know the extent of my patriotic duty, Castrating Pigs.

Within a few weeks of this youthful and carefree escapade, I turned to more serious things in life. October 16, 1943 I joined the United States Marine Corps.

Before leaving my High School Days, I must pay tribute to my English Teacher, Miss. Elizabeth Stevenson. An old maid, perhaps in her 50’s, she would never have won a beauty contest. But, daily she encouraged all students to achieve their maximum potential; to dream the impossible dream. She was demanding, but in a helpful and constructive way. Without a doubt she had the most positive and lasting influence on me of any teacher. One of my regrets in life is I never kept in touch to thank her for her tremendous guidance and direction.

Her legacy

THE ELIZABETH STEVENSON PUBLIC LIBRARY.
Summersville, West Virginia





My brother in law John Gawthrop, had Miss. Stevenson for Senior English eight years after I was her student. This is the assignment she gave for the school year 1951/2 as recorded in his mother’s diary
300 pages on short stories by best authors
300 pages on classic novels
300 pages of drama
250 pages of essay, formal and informal
300 pages on travel 300 pages of biography
300 pages of autobiography
5000 lines of poetry
One magazine article each week-36 for the year on unsolved problems

Everyone knows the younger generation never had it as tough as the one before them; If John was assigned 300 pages I was probably given 450, and less time to complete the work.

BOOT CAMP

As the clock in the tower of the Charleston, West Virginia Railway Station slowly approached midnight, November 1, 1943, I walked to the far end of the platform, searching the darkness for a glimmer of the head light of The C & O Passenger Train, The Fast Flying Virginian, due any minute to take me on the first leg of a journey, to the much feared, and world renown, Marine Corps Boot Camp on Parris Island, South Carolina. Despite having a reputation of being difficult, both physically and mentally, I was eager to give it my best shot. Mother’s brother, who died in World War I, John Henry Shaver trained there in 1917. Brother's Hank and Ford, although not at the same time, went through basic training in 1940, and Emery completed his training a few weeks before I enlisted. With that record staring me in the face, what greater motivation was needed to prove that I was equal to the test.
Promptly on schedule, the large steam engine roared into the station. This would be my first journey outside of the state, as well as my first ride on a passenger train. Before I could find an empty seat, the train, amid a billowing cloud of black smoke and white steam, slowly pulled out of the station. Winding our way eastward through the scenic New River Gorge, the hypnotic rhythm of the sound, from the wheels racing over the joints in the rails, lulled me into a sound sleep. When breakfast was announced, I was among the first to be seated. Entering the dinning car I was awe stricken. Tables set up with white clothes and napkins, gleaming china, sparkling water glasses, polished silverware, shining coffee pots, and a vase with fresh flowers. Seated with a civilian and two military men, a polite waiter, dressed in a white shirt, black trousers, and a bow tie took our orders. Within minutes I was served a delicious breakfast. Sitting by a wide window eating breakfast, watching the country side rolled by, I kept saying to myself, this can’t be real, Only the rich can afford such elegance. The climax occurred when we had finished eating. Four small cut glass bowls, with an inch of water in the bottom, were placed on the table. I was puzzled as to their purpose, but rather than say or do something which may embarrass me, I waited to see what others did. No one paid particular attention to the bowls but continued their conversations. Gradually, first one and then another would casually dip their fingers into the water, rub the palm of their hands, and dry them on their napkin. Finger bowls; my perception of the big world beyond Muddlety Valley was expanding rapidly. Before I had arrived in Richmond Virginia, the lyrics of a popular song from World War One, took on a whole new dimension. “How are you going to keep them down on the farm after they have seen Par-rie."
Arriving at the Cary Street Station in Richmond around eight o’clock, we were offered the use of the YMCA swimming pool. With no women, around we dived in with bathing suits provided by Mother Nature. Our departure, from the Broad Street Station wasn’t scheduled until 10:30 P. M, which meant we had a lot of time to kill. Heeding Miss Stevenson’s advice, when traveling, take advantage of every opportunity to learn about the history, culture, and the people, my first stop was the Capital designed by Thomas Jefferson. It is the oldest Capital in the United States. However since Richmond was abandoned near the end of the Civil War, the honor of the oldest Capital in continuous use goes to Maryland. Refreshments were served in the Executive Mansion by The Daughters of the Confederacy. Their gracious manner and soft southern accent, made every one feel as though they were an honored guest. The large ornate Sterling Tea Service they were using had been buried during the siege and evacuation of the city. At the Valentine Museum, I walked into a dimly lit room with dark purple velvet drapes across the back wall. There a very realistic life size marble sculpture of General Robert E. Lee, lying in a coffin, was on display. No color in his face, and his hands were cold as stone. I briefly paid my respects, and went to the Poe Museum. Edgar Allen was two years old when his actress mother died in a theater fire in Richmond. A local family by the name of Poe adopted him. After a tour of the Church where Henry Clay declared, “Give me liberty or give me death,” I joined the other for lunch.
The lunch voucher each received from the Marine Recruiter was worth a dollar. A bottle of coke cost five cents, and a hot dog with every thing on it was around fifteen cents. Four vouchers would have adequately covered the cost of the entire lunch, but the cashier demanded a voucher from each. He refused to give us the difference in cash, stating the government prohibited giving money for vouchers, or any unused portion of a voucher. We protested long and loud but to no avail. You know who pocketed the two dollars, despite his claim that he would charge the government only four dollars, and return two vouchers. What kind of conscious did he have to cheat the government, and at the same time deprive us of a little pleasure. Our vision of contributing the two dollars to some worthy cause, like a game of pool, vanished in thin air. From that time forward the cost of a meal came within a cent or two of the voucher.
The Atlantic Coast Line coaches were extremely crowded, and I thought I may have to stand all night. Within an hour, a sailor responding to the pain and discomfort of mother nature, abandoned his floor space, between the wall and the first seat I was fortunate to be close enough to grab it. Tired from a busy day I slept until I heard the conductor announcing, “Yemassee, South Carolina, everyone for Parris Island, next stop.” Stepping off of the train, a Marine Sergeant told me, and several hundred other recruits, to stand by for another train that would take us the last 25 miles to Port Royal. As we waited, several barefoot Negro children began to dance, accompanied by an elderly grandfather playing a harmonica. The enthusiasm, and energy of their performance, prompted a generous number of coins being tossed at their dusty feet. I had never seen such poverty before.
The only access to Parris Island is by a causeway from Beauford, or by water from Port Royal. On Wednesday morning, November 3, 1943, from a crowded open coal barge, I got my first glimpse of the much maligned and glorified United States Marine Corps Boot Camp. When we arrived at the dock, there was no Band to greet us, only Drill Instructors. The serious, dour expression on each face was of little comfort to the tired motley group assembling before them. Our official welcome went something like this. “Some of You People are chewing gum!!, GET RID OF IT it.!! Don’t throw it on the deck!!, It’s your gum!!, GET RID OF IT!!”
First stop, the barber shop where the initial transformation, from a civilian to a Marine takes place. To be a boot camp barber, speed is the only requirement. In thirty seconds, or less, my head looked like a peeled onion. Some wise guy protested, stating he wanted to keep his hair. Patiently the barber responded, “I have no objection, here take this paper bag to put it in.” I expect this scene was played out daily. Shorn of hair, it was on to the delousing center. From the pungent odor and stinging sensation, I am confident the soap was half creosote Naked as a Jay-Bird, we proceeded for a short arm inspection. The details are censored, but the purpose was to determine if anyone had a common venereal disease. Next it was on for clothing from baskets labeled as to size, and the number of items to take. I picked up socks, and continued on for boxer shorts [called skivvies] undershirts, pants, shirts, sun helmet, ties, belt, handkerchiefs, boots, dungarees, and a cap. With my arms and hands loaded, a corporal handing out galvanized buckets yelled, CATCH. Instantly the bucket slammed into my chest. Clothes flew in every direction. More stunned than hurt, it took a few seconds to realize what happened. A recruit behind me, thinking it was funny started to laugh. Two Drill Instructors orally jumped all over him with a barrage of unmerciful statements. Gathering my clothing, and stuffing them into a laundry bag, I began to fill the bucket with a bar of sand, laundry and face soap, tooth paste and brush, a plastic double edge razor, razor blades, shaving cream, towels, a lock with two keys, scrub brush, clothes' line, and strings for tying laundry on the line.[ this was war time -clothes' pins were scarce] I have probably forgotten many things, but one item we did not receive was a comb. At the end of the line, Gunny Sergeant Lew Diamond, probably 70 years old and a Marine Corps icon, was verifying we had collected everything. In a loud booming voice he yelled at a recruit. “Where in the hell are your socks.” When the naked recruit bent over the basket to collect them, Diamond gave him a swift kick in the rear. This time you didn’t hear a snicker. Marines are fast learners.
After getting dressed we were assigned to platoons. None of the five from Charleston were in my platoon, and I never saw them again. With a loaded bucket in one hand, and a stuffed laundry bag in the other, platoon number- --[ I forget ] departed for the barracks that would be our home for the next four weeks. It was a steam heated, two stories wooden building, made in the shape of an H. Upper and lower squad rooms were on the outside perimeter. In the center section were the toilet and shower facilities, as well as offices and quarters for the Drill Instructors. Total capacity, over 300 men. Our squad room was on the first floor, and I was fortunate to get a top bunk located near the door. This enabled me to make a quick exit when the Drill Instructor stuck his head in the door and yelled, “ON THE DOUBLE, FALL OUT, all I want to see is ass holes and heels.” You should have seen the mad scramble as everyone rushed for the door.
Some recruits were quartered in metal Quonset huts or large 12 man tents, both heated with coal burning stoves. The tents were fine in warm weather, as the sides could be rolled up to provide fresh air, but when the weather turned cold they were miserable. The smoke pipe extended outside through a hole in the roof. This required the occupants to be constantly alert that the fire did not over heat the pipe, and set the tent on fire. An adequate number of barrels and buckets of water were strategically placed throughout the area to put out a fire, and dampen the adjacent tents. Occasionally a tent would catch on fire, but regardless of how quickly it was extinguished, the contents were soaked. The large metal bath houses were always cold. The wash and showers' facilities were adequate but the toilets were one degree above a straddle trench. Made from galvanized culvert pipe, cut in half length wise, and covered with a wide board with conveniently spaced holes. As to privacy, forget it. Not a priority item in the Marine Corps. By the way this communal arrangement was utilized in ancient Greece.
It was late in the day when I marched to the Chow hall for my first dinner. Chow means to eat or place to eat, and probably has been used from the time Marines served in China centuries ago. Returning to the squad room, we received two sheets, a pillow case, and a Marine Forest Green blanket. The next hour was spent learning the art of making a sack (bed) by squaring the corners of the sheets, and stretching the blanket so tight, and smooth, that a quarter tossed on it would bounce. When a bed failed to meet the test, the Drill Instructor threw everything on the floor, and the recruit continued the process until it passed. The last program before lights out was learning to store all your possessions in a large wooden foot locker. Locker inspections were frequent, and unannounced. Should a locker fail to meet the standard, the unlucky person may have been required to scrub the entire squad room with a tooth brush. In order to make the task as unpleasant as possible, it was done after taps with the lights out. Water could only be carried in the lid of a shoe polish can. Anyone who lost his locker key had to hoist the heavy locker high over his head, run around the barracks several times yelling, “I am a yard-bird from Yemassee, I have lost my locker key-Look at me! Look at me! LOOK AT ME! Yard-bird was a term applied to any one who didn’t measure up the standard at the time. You may be outstanding in one thing, and a yard-bird in another.
My first breakfast was quite an experience. Passing through the chow line, I was given scrambled eggs, beacon, toast, fried potatoes, and a white grainy substance I had never seen before. It was tasteless. Disposing of the soiled tray, a cook yelled. “Why didn’t you eat your grits?" I told him I didn’t like it. Grabbing me by an ear he pointed to a large sign that read. Take all you want but eat all you take. Without waiting for me to explain that I hadn’t asked for it, he said, “I want to see you here this evening at 1900. You are going to ride the range. That means you will scrub every range in the kitchen with steel wool until it looks brand new.” That afternoon, when the DI was going over the training schedule for the evening, I explained that I had to ride the range and would not be in attendance. He exploded, demanding a full description of the person who gave me the order. Then addressing all, he said, “As long as you are in boot camp, you will take orders from no one except me. Is that clear?.” In a loud voice we responded, “Yes Sir!” If the range was cleaned that night it wasn’t by me.
In less than a week we were well established into a routine of The Drill Instructor jarring us awake at 0445 yelling, HIT THE DECK. Shaved, showered, and the sack made, it was outside at 0520 for a period of rigorous calisthenics, followed by a run across the drill field and back. In the darkness, a few of us upon reaching the middle of the field would lie down, and rest until the others returned. Joining the group, we completed the race staggering, and panting as though we were exhausted. One morning, lying there peacefully gazing at the stars, imagine our shock and surprise, when a booming voice nearby yelled, “What in the Hell do you think you are doing! Get out of here! Like a covey of quail we scattered in all directions.
Before breakfast we had scrubbed and swabbed the deck,[floor] cleaned the head, and once a week, weather permitting, put our mattress outside on a rack to sun. By 0700 we were on the drill field. Forward marching, rip marching, up and down, back and forth, across the field and back again. On the double, forty inches back to breast, chin up, and shoulders back. By the numbers, by the hour, by the mile we marched to the rhythmic chant of the Drill Instructor. “Awn awp reep--reep fawya laf---lef right lef, platoooon halt, fooorwarrrrd, damit! don’t lean. How many times do I have to tell you knuckle heads? DON’T anticipate a command!! Foooorward march, awn awp reep -reep fawya left- Platooon Halt. Left Fayh.- your other left stupid. By and by we were all moving in unison. Well almost everyone. I was the point man of the lead column. [4 columns of 18=72 a platoon,] During a long drilling session, the DI called halt. I was standing rigidly at attention waiting for the next command, when suddenly Wham, Bang, Crash. I saw stars, and thought I had been struck by a bolt of lightning. With his swagger stick, the DI had come down full force on the top of my helmet.[ A swagger stick is about 18 inches long and perhaps one half inch in diameter] Standing nose to nose, he screamed, G-- D--- you Wilson, slow down!!! You are running the ass off of the yard-birds at the end of the line. In order to keep up, the short legged fellows were taking three steps, to my one long West Virginia stride. In addition to being the tallest I was also the skinniest. My nick name was soup bone.
Performing the manual of arms, the DI’s demanded to hear a loud sharp crack as the palm of the hand, hit the leather sling on the rifle. If they were not satisfied, we would kneel down, hold the rifle between our legs, and smack the drill field, pretending we were doing patty cakes. Woe to the person, who let his rifle fall. The punishment, sleep with it for one week. In another platoon, a recruit couldn’t take this, and other aspects of the training. One afternoon he was so distraught that he stabbed himself several times in the chest with his bayonet. Each stab hit a rib, but he was determined to accomplish his objective. Holding the point of the bayonet between his ribs, he ran lunging against the wall. I happened to be at the dispensary when the ambulance brought him in, and was “volunteered” to help carry and place him on a marble slab in the morgue. Thousands of men buckled down and gave it their best. Sadly, a few just buckled, he being one.
The rifle was treated with utmost respect and care, for some day it may be the determining factor, as to whether you lived or died. In addition to spending hours keeping it clean we had to place it under a blanket, take it apart, hold up each piece and name it. Then reassemble the rifle under the blanket. Calling your rifle a gun was a cardinal sin that prompted swift and humiliating punishment. Marching around the outside perimeter of the barracks, the offender alternately pointed to his rifle, and to his ugh- - - ugh--private parts, and proclaimed in a booming voice, “THIS is my RIFLE and THIS is my GUN--THIS is for SHOOTING and THIS is for FUN."
Every morning the DI announced, “All sick, lame, lazy, and half crazy, fall out for the dispensary.” There were a few cases of genuine sickness, and some blistered feet requiring attention, but the Navy Medical Corpsmen were wise to the lazy. Looking over the faker, the corpsman would make a few sympathetic comments, and direct the recruit down the hall to the last door on the left. Opening the door he was handed a mop and bucket and firmly instructed to swab the deck [floor] of the entire building.
In boot camp, a recruit was not permitted outside of the barracks alone, except to go to Church on Sunday. Or be the fortunate individual designated to gather the outgoing mail, and deposit it in the mail box at the end of the street. It is amazing the small things a person will covet. No convict released from prison, felt the joy of freedom more than a recruit walking alone to the mail box.
Behind the barracks were several large cement tables, equipped with hot and cold water. After soaking our dirty clothes in the handy galvanized bucket, we placed them on a table to be scrubbed, and rinsed. With the help of a buddy we wrung the water out by hand, and hung the clothes on the line to dry. This was a relaxing period. We laughed, talked, socialized and griped. But nothing lifted the spirits like mail call. Anxious, and excited as a six year old on Christmas morning, everyone waited for his name to be call. And oh how disappointed you were when it wasn’t. Anyone whose name was difficult to pronounce, like Puszczewicz, was called Murphy. All mail for the Murphy’s went into one pile for them to sort out. Periodically some fellow would receive a Dear John Letter. A wife, or girl friend was in love with someone else, and the marriage or friendship was over. The joy and happiness of receiving a letter quickly turned into sadness and depression.
Somewhere in the first few weeks, I went to see the DI about some issue. Concentrating on the proper procedure to follow when speaking to him, or an officer, I approached within two paces, saluted, and said, “Private Wilson requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor.” Pow he hit me in the pit of the stomach with his fist. As I reeled back he asked, “What did you say?” Saluting I repeated, “Private Wilson requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor.” Again he let me have it, but this time much harder. Doubling over in pain, I remembered the crucial word. Assuming my position of two paces, I saluted and said, “SIR, Private Wilson requests permission to speak to the Drill Instructor.” His response; “Permission Granted.” A colleague at the Federal Reserve Bank while going through boot camp in 1955, had the same experience.
Pierre, a filthy slob never took a shower. Consequently, after a week he was quite odoriferous. One evening while we were lining up in formation to go to chow, five fellows bunking near Pierre, threw him in the shower. Removing his clothes, they proceeded to give him a good scrubbing with a laundry brush, and sand soap, and give him that fresh clean feeling; they applied a liberal amount of shaving lotion containing a high level of alcohol. Pierre went into convolutions, and those responsible did a disappearing act in record time. Upon our return from chow, Pierre looked like he had a severe case of sunburn. To this day, I believe the whole event had the sanction of the DI’s. They expressed shock and anger and made a superficial attempt to determine those responsible, but from that day forward Pierre took a daily shower.
With about half of our training completed we packed our possessions into sea bags and stacked them in front of the barracks to be transported by truck to the rifle range. Hot, dirty and thirsty, we marched with rifles, belts and bayonets. As we approached the range, the first thing we saw was a Flanders Field of white crosses. No they were not graves of boots who fell by the wayside. They were practice targets. Thousands- row upon row of practice targets. A small white post with two white crossbars, and on each crossbar, two small black bully’s eyes. For the first week or so, we spent hours learning the fundamentals of firing the rifle by simulation. Better known as: SNAPPING IN. With the rifle sling stretched tightly across my left arm, I strained and quivered as I attempted to draw a bead, on a one inch black dot that seemed to dance thirty yards away. Keeping the top edge of the sight blade in the middle of the peep-sight, and the black dot resting on the blade tip at six o’clock was the key to success. Thousands of hours were spent snapping in on knot holes, rat holes, targets and anything you could draw a sight on. Every boot had but one ambition. To qualify. Life hung on three words. MARKSMAN, SHARPSHOOTER AND EXPERT.
Like million of other things in this country, the M-1 was designed for people who are right handed, but I am left handed. It was ironic that Germany developed a rifle, with a curved barrel, which would shoot around the corner of a building, but the United States could not modify the M-1 to accommodate the lefties. The switch over did not enhance my training. I shall never forget my first shot. Stretched out on the ground in a prone position, I was carefully lining up my sights on the target, when a 50mm cannon went off beside me. Or so I thought, actually the fellow on my left had fired his first round. Startled, I jumped about three inches off of the ground, while at the same time jerking the trigger. The bullet headed into orbit, and the recoil felt as though I had been kicked in the shoulder by a Missouri mule. It took some time before I was comfortable firing the rifle, and qualification day was fast approaching. Marine marksmanship is a weighty tradition, and the coaches taught it as an art. In addition the number of recruits under their training that qualified had a significant bearing on their performance evaluation. The all important day arrived. My coach was as apprehensive as I was, about my ability to qualify. Being a pro, he had mastered all the motivation techniques, and knew which one to utilize for the occasion. Waiting for the command to begin firing, I received his final words of encouragement. “Damn you Wilson. If you don’t qualify, I am going to kick you square in the ass.” HALLELUJAH, I made Marksman
Christmas eve 1943, I had the duty, in our Quonset hut, to maintain the fire in the stove from eight until midnight [2000 -2400]. After taps, the glowing fire illuminated the entire hut, and no. one was in the mood for sleep. Eventually the conversation centered on home and family. I felt no sadness, but the two married fellows with children were really down. One started to sing, “Nights are long since you went away, I think of you all through the day, My Buddy, My Buddy, No Buddy quite so true. Miss your voice, the touch of your hand, just long to know that you understand, My Buddy, My Buddy, Your Buddy misses you”. When he finished you could have heard a pin drop. All conversation ceased. As the others drifted off to sleep, I sat watching the dying embers cast an array of shadows, and pondered where I may be Christmas eve- 1944.
For those who could not swim, evening hours at the range were spent in the swimming pool, learning to reach a level of proficiency for survival. About dark you would hear a chorus of quack, quack, quack coming up the road. In the middle of the street would be three or four platoons. However they were not standing upright with rifles on their shoulders, but in a squat position holding their ankles. Every time the left foot came down, they would yell quack, quack, quack. While it may have been more humiliating, their learning experience was not as traumatic as mine. Several older boys tossed me into the middle of Muddlety River, yelling Sink or swim.
I could write pages about working the “butts," the term for the abutments thrown up under the targets to protect the men from thousands of bullets, whining at 2,650 feet per second, only inches above their head. If you could not, without instruction, pull down a target, locate 16 scattered bullets holes at a glance, put spotters in all holes with a single motion, run the target back up, wave various colored disks above the butts 16 times, pull the target down, paste up 16 separate holes with 16 bits of paper, all within a fraction of 14 seconds -then you were a knucklehead, a stumblebum and other indignities the sergeant was bawling at you. Without question, working the butts is the most hectic of all boot camp chores. While I was at the range it snowed for the first time in 26 years, and everything closed down for three days. To supplement a shortage of blankets, we were temporarily issued a second overcoat. The day the range reopened I had the misfortunate of working the butts. It was so cold the glue froze before we finished pasting a target
Leaving the range we returned to our old barracks, but this time our squad room was on the second floor. One morning, looking out the window I noticed the water level behind the barracks was very high. No marsh, no mud flats. My experience in West Virginia told me, rivers only rose to flood level following a prolonged rain. I was puzzled, and commented to the fellow standing near me. “Look how high the water is. I didn’t hear it raining last night, did you”? He started to laugh, saying, “The tide is in.” Out of frustration our Drill Instructor would threaten to march us into the swampy mud-flats, but common sense prevailed. He never carried out the threat. Ironically a few years later a Drill Instructor marched his platoon into the area where I was looking. Several boots were trampled, and drowned.
As a platoon we had been together for over eight weeks, and now we were in our final formation for the graduation parade. The Commanding General and Senior Officers were in the reviewing stand. Occasionally, a platoon passing in review stopped to receive an award, or promote a recruit to Private First Class for his performance and leadership ability, [their words not mine] Although everyone felt our platoon had done a creditable job no one believed it was good enough to justify recognition. Consequently, when the Drill Instructor called us to a Halt, the question in everyone’s mind was, Why? Then the Company Captain announced, “Private Wilson step forward.” I could not believe what I heard. Stepping forward I saluted. He said, “Congratulations Private First Class Wilson, keep up the good work.” I responded, “Thank you Sir!” saluted, and returned to the platoon. Back at the barracks, everyone, without a trace of envy or disappointment offered their congratulations. In all honesty I felt there were others who were more deserving; especially a couple fellows who made Expert or Sharpshooter.
The big happy day for leaving, which we had so eagerly looked forward to, was tinged with sadness. Everyone, including the Drill Instructors felt nostalgic when the time came to say goodbye. Adding to the drama was the suspense of waiting to receive orders for the next assignment. I was vaguely aware the Marine Corps operated special schools for Aviation, Paymaster, Radar, Cooks and Bakers, etc., but no one had the slightest hint, as to what duty he would draw. Everyone was reconciled that his assignment would be the Fleet Marine Force, which at that very moment was wading ashore in the Pacific, wrestling islands from the Japanese. Since names were called in alphabetical order, I had the opportunity to watch the facial expressions as most opened their orders. A few shouted with glee, others cursed, some looked disappointed, and some showing no expression, turned and walked away. Eventually I received my orders; “Report no later than 2200, January 15, l944, to the Field Music School, Parris Island, South Carolina. I am confident I had a puzzled expression on my face. I did not have the slightest idea what my assignment entailed. Nor did I make an effort to find out. Number one priority was to go home wearing the uniform of a United States Marine. I had met the challenge, and then some. With a Private First Class stripe on my sleeve and a Marksman’s metal on my chest, who could ask for anything more.
I arrived on Parris Island by barge and left in a big open cattle truck. Riding across the causeway we met incoming trucks loaded with new recruits. As they passed we waved and yelled, “YOU WILL BE S-O-R-R-Y” It was all in fun. For me it was a great experience. We were a platoon of 72 individuals [mostly young boys my age] from every state east of the Mississippi. We came from a wide economic, ethnic, social, educational and religious background, and in all shapes, sizes and temperament. It made no difference if you were the son on a lawyer or a ditch digger, a maid or a wealthy matron. Class distinction did not mean a thing. You were judged solely on merit and contribution.
As I write about these experiences of more than half a century ago, perhaps some of the fellows from the old platoon are telling their children or grand children about their days on Parris Island; and, how they ran their ass off trying to keep up with a tall skinny kid from the mountains of West Virginia.
While in boot camp, I bought a book entitled, “Boot--The Making of a Marine.” I loaned it to a colleague who never returned it. For more than forty years I longed for that book. On one occasion I went to the Library Congress to review their copy. For Christmas 1998, my Son Andy gave me a copy he located through the internet. I have never received a gift I cherish more.

Today I refuse to loan two things- this book or my toothbrush.
.

THE BUGLER

Home for ten days, I enjoyed Mom’s love, affection and home cooked meals. Caught up on all of the local gossip, visited friends and relatives and returned to High School for a day. The students I ran around with three months earlier, now seemed childish and immature. Miss. Stevenson, a wonderful mentor insisted I talk to the class. She beamed, as I knew she would, when I told about things I had seen and done since I left them in October.
Returning to Parris Island on January 15, l944 I was no longer a Boot amid thousands. Awaiting the formation of a new class at the Field Music School, I was assigned to a staging company where everyone was between assignments. Some stayed only for a day and others a month or more. The atmosphere was very impersonal with little or no interaction, concern or trust between us. Feeling isolated and alone I yearned for the old days of Boot Camp where a strong bond of unity and camaraderie existed. On my second day someone stole the Marksman’s metal I had sweated blood to win. I could imagine such a thing happening in the Army or the Navy, but the thought of a fellow marine stealing from another was incomprehensible. Oh how naive and trusting I was at eighteen. There was no time for leisure. All day long I unload and stored tons of clothing, shoes, ammunition, food, etc. It was welcomed news when I was told to report to the Naval Hospital for a tonsillectomy. No explanation for the necessity but I was more than happy to comply. A Corpsman told me to sit in a chair, lean back and opened my mouth wide so he could inject a pain killing drug into each tonsil. During the operation I was very much aware of the Surgeon cutting through cartilage and tissue. Operating time was less than eight minutes. Assigned to a ward I laid down to sleep. I have no idea how long it was before waking with blood gushed from my mouth. An alarm immediately brought two Nurses to my bedside. Attempting to locate the origin of the bleeding the Surgeon began swabbing the raw incisions. By this time the numbness had worn off. With each swipe fainted. Frustrated he angrily exclaimed, “Damn it why did I ever enter this profession anyway!” With everything under control I spent the next three days recuperating, and falling desperately in love with a beautiful sympathetic nurse. Being a Naval Officer she never acknowledged my infatuation. Sadly I left the hospital with a sore throat and a broken heart.
What is a Field Musician? Before the modern age of communication, the most effective way a Military Commander could direct troops over a wide area was by the use of a bugler. Have you ever watched a movie with the cavalry rushing into battle and the bugler sounding Charge? 1
As a salute to the men and women who have sounded taps, and other military calls over two centuries, the Visitors Center in Arlington National Cemetery opened an exhibit in May 1999 entitled, “Taps -The Military Bugle in History and Ceremony.”
“Perhaps the most haunting and emotional 24 notes in American Music is Taps. It came out of the Civil War, when Union General Daniel Butterfield, camping with his brigade at Harrison’s Landing Virginia, in the summer of 1862, asked his bugler, Oliver Wilcox Norton, to try a new tune which he had scratched out on an envelope. Butterfield knew the tune from his days before the war as a Colonel in the New York militia. The tune was a “Tattoo”, a bugle call composed in 1832, by Winfield Scott to alert troops to prepare for bedtime roll call. Known as the ‘Scott Tattoo,’ the last five and a half measurers are distinctly taps. Norton worked out the call with Butterfield, and sounded it that night. Norton later wrote. “The music was beautiful on that still summer night, and was heard far beyond the limits of our brigade. Its strains are melancholy, yet full of rest and peace. Its echoes linger in the heart long after its tones have ceased to vibrate in the air. Shortly after the Butterfield-Norton collaboration, a captain in the Union artillery ordered it played for the burial of a cannoneer. In 1891-Taps became mandatory for military funerals”
The Field Music School was under the command of Master Sergeant La Mar. Later he became Director of the Marine Band in Washington D C. Commonly referred to as the President’s Band it has a long illustrious history of famous directors. John Philip Sousa was an apprentice in the Band at the age of 13, and became director at 26. He composed many marches, including Stars and Stripes Forever and Semper Fedelis. [always faithful] No Marine Corps parade would be complete without both being played. He also developed the Sousaphone, the big wrap around flared bell instrument you see in every parade. I played one in High School.
Unlike a trumpet a bugle has no valves or moving slide like a trombone. The sound of every note is determined by the position of the lips, the tongue and air pressure. If you have ever gone to the race track or watched horse racing on television, you must be familiar with the call heard 10 minutes before the race begins. The name- First Call. Its’ purpose is an alert that another call or activity will follow. First Call is played ten minutes before Reveille. I referred to it as the military snooze button. When reveille is sounded both feet had better hit the deck.
We were required to learn approximately 50 calls. Frequently the instructor would walk by and say “sound pay day” or one of the many other calls. To help remember a call we associated it with a ditty or words we added to the music. For reveille it was. “ I can’t get them up, I can’t get them up, I can’t get them in the morning, and so forth.” For Liberty, when you may leave a ship or base, the prompter was, “Who’s going ashore, who’s going ashore, who’s got the price of a two bit whore.” I can’t remember the purpose of a difficult call, but the ditty went, “Who in the hell can hit high C, I know damned well I can.” In addition to bugle calls we learned the musical score of many marches.
A day at the music school was not devoted entirely to the bugle. We also learned to play many drum rolls. The drum instructor, in addition to being neurotic, was sadistic. If he wasn’t pleased with your performance, his standard punishment was to grab a drum stick and give you a hard whack across the back of your hand. I received my share of bruises, but never the brunt of his vicious wrath. On more than one occasion he would grab a slow learner by his shirt collar or hair and sling him across the room with such force the poor devil would bounce off the opposite wall. He was one mean #8&@*#
After passing all proficiency tests for the bugle and drums, I became a bugler in the Parris Island Drum and Bugle Corps. The Post Band did not share quarters with the Field Music School; consequently our only interaction occurred during the weekly dress parades. Everyone loves the excitement, color and pageantry of the parade. It never failed to draw a big crowd. The Drum and Bugle Corps uniform was more colorful than the Band. A red banner, with a yellow Marine Corps Insignia hung beneath every highly polished brass bugles. Across our chest was a black leather strap attached to a pouch on our left hip that also bore a Marine insignia. We left no doubt in anyone’s mind which branch of the service we represented. The down side of all the glitz and glamour was the hours, and I mean hours, spent keeping uniforms, shoes and other equipment shined, pressed and polished. Standing on the hot paved drill field, with a surface temperature in excess of 140 degrees was agony. My feet felt as though they were being parboiled in my shoes. Frequently after a parade I returned to the barracks with raw feet soaked in bloody socks.
What did we do for recreation? There was always the canteen for enlisted men, [non-commissioned] which we called the slop chute. It was here I was introduced to the delicacy of pickled pig’s feet. The latest movies were free, and weather permitting, it was more comfortable to attend the outdoor theater where we would spread out a blanket on the ground and scoop up a mound of sand for a pillow, verses the indoor theater where officers sat in padded seats while enlisted personnel sat on benches without a back support.
One Sunday a friend and I took a rowboat across Port Royal Sound to a deserted island. It may have been Hilton Head. After an enjoyable afternoon exploring and relaxing, we started back. Regardless of how hard we rowed, we were going out instead of in. Panic was starting to set in when a Coast Guard boat came to our rescue. Pulling along aside they instructed us to come aboard. Securing a towline to the boat they headed for the pier. The Captain said he had been observing us through binoculars and could see we were in trouble. There has never been any doubt in my mind if Coast Guard had not come to our rescue we would have spend the night or eternity in the Atlantic Ocean.
Weekends were free and a favorite place to spend it was Folly’s Beach, the Coney Island of the South outside of Charleston, South Carolina. I squandered many hours there at the amusement park Every three months I was eligible for a 72 hour pass good from 4:00 pm [1600] on Friday until the same time on Monday. However, travel was restricted to a specific number of miles. Florence South Carolina was the northern limit. My sister Mary had been recruited, along with thousands of other Secretaries, to work in Washington, D C. Mother and my eldest sister Delphia made plans to visit her. Although D.C. was 400 miles beyond where I was supposed to go, I was confident I could make the round trip within the allotted time. A train ticket was impossible to get but a friend put me wise to a sure method of getting aboard. It was dark when the train for New York pulled into Yemassee Station. I, along with several other service men made a bee line for the Baggage Car. Slipping $10.00 into the extended hand of the Baggage Conductor he pulled me aboard. Except for a small desk lamp, the Baggage Car was dark as a dungeon. Grouping around in the dark I stretched out on large wooden box about 30 inches wide and seven feet long and went to sleep. Only when waking at daylight did I become aware the box contained the body of a dead man being shipped north for burial. Arriving in Washington, a near by hotel let me use a recently vacated guest room to shave, shower and change clothes. This courtesy to military personnel was a common practice during the war. The fresh towels they gave me were heated. Never before, and rarely since, have I experienced the luxury of heated towels
Of my $54.00 month pay, I had the Marine Corps send $30.00 to Mother. Postage, movies and laundry were free, and the Post Exchange prices were much cheaper than civilian stores. I could always afford the necessities, but there were opportunities to earn extra income. The laundry did a creditable job, but to look really sharp it was time to get out the iron. Shirts were pressed with three creases in the back and two in front. Trousers were creased as sharp as a razor. Several of the affluent, or lazy, would pay me 50 cents to press a uniform from the laundry. If a uniform had to be washed, starched, dried, and pressed, the price was $2.50. Every Marine, one days out of boot camp would try and make their khaki’s appear as though they had been worn a long time. In other words, to look like and old timers and not a green horn. I became the resident expert bleaching khakis in Clorox to achieving the desired look. Only recruits and nerds wore loose fitting shirts. Consequently a seamstress near a Marine Base made comfortable living altering shirts to fit skin tight. Why? Vanity; To maximize the He-Man Physique.
Beauford, South Carolina, a historical town near by was a good place for a few hours of liberty. One Saturday I took a WAVE, [female Navy] to town for dinner. Looking over the menu she ordered fried shrimp. I had never eaten shrimp, so I said make it two. When asked what we wanted to drink, she ordered wine. With my Baptist upbringing, I had never drunk wine. You can see she was more worldly wise than I, and probably in more ways than one. This began to look like sophisticated living. Although I knew I was being tempted by the devil and would be punished, I also ordered wine. After a relaxing dinner, we took the last bus back to the island. Naturally it was packed and we had to stand. Bouncing along on a hot stuffy crowed bus, the fried shrimp and wine started churning in my stomach. Every mile we traveled the sicker I became. Unless I could get fresh air, the possibility of avoiding a terrible incident appeared hopeless. By some miracle I made it to the first stop on the island. Abandoning my date I bolted for the door. Safe at last, I was confident the cool fresh air and long walk was all I needed to make it safely to the barracks. But it was not to be. With the first rays of the morning sun glistened in my eyes, slowly I raised my aching head. Where am I, I moaned. Much to my dismay and horror, I was lying in the middle of the parade ground. All night long both ends had worked overtime. What a mess! From the top of my head to the bottom of my shoes not one square inch had been spared. Fortunately, Sunday morning everyone slept late. Cautiously and quietly I sneaked into the barracks, jumped into the shower, clothes, shoes and all. Since no one saw me in such a predicament, I suppose you could say I received my punishment with compassion. What about the WAVE? No further contact by either party.
While on maneuvers in the boondocks during the last week of July, I was notified there was a telephone call for me in the Captain’s tent. Instantly I assumed something terrible had occurred at home. What other reason would justify tracking me down in the field? Scared and apprehensive I picked up the field phone. Sergeant La Mar came on the line, telling me there was an opening for a Field Musician in the Panama Canal Zone, and I had first preference should I want it Without evaluating the pro’s and con’s I accepted immediately.
Returning to the Music School I packed my sea bag, including my wool winter uniform and overcoat, and left for the Naval Air Station in Norfolk Virginia. While there I had my 19th birthday. Some of the fellows in the barracks insisted I celebrate the occasion by joining them to see a stage show in Norfolk. Arriving at the theater, the big bold letters on the marquee read, “One week only! Salome and her dance of the seven veils.” As the theater lights began to dim the stage curtain slowly rose, revealing Salome standing tall and regal in her costume of long sheer colorful veils. Slowly in step with the music she began to glide and twirl across the stage. The billowing veils trailing her outstretched arms gave the illusion she was walking on air. Such grace and beauty, could this be ballet Miss Stevenson, my High School Teacher and mentor, so often raved about? Suddenly the volume and tempo of the music began to increase. Salome in time with the music began to skip, jump and gyrate back and forth across the stage. A heavy beat of the bass drum emphasized every risqué movement. Tossing first one veil, then another, and another into the air they floated like fallen leaves gracefully ascending and descending in the breeze. Salome, true to the spirit the show must go on, maintained her composure- dignity, and modesty with one remaining veil until the curtain came down.

Sunday August 20 1944 I boarded the USS Adair for the Panama Canal Zone.


PANAMA CANAL

On September 13, 1513 the Spanish explorer Balboa led a company of men across a hot, hostile, disease infested jungle in what is today Panama, to become the first European to gaze upon the Pacific Ocean. Contrary to what I was taught in elementary school, Balboa did not “discover” the Pacific, but merely followed a band of natives who knew about the large body of water. Over the next four hundred years serious consideration was given to the construction of an inter-oceanic canal across the isthmus. Numerous surveys were made by the Spanish in the 16th and 17th century, and much later Franklin, Jefferson, Henry Clay and others became strong advocates for a canal in Central America. In the mean time, the isthmus became the major point for overland transport of men and material, between Colon on the Atlantic, and Panama City on the Pacific. In 1855, five years after construction began, a railroad across the isthmus was completed at a cost of $8,000,000. Although the construction time and expense was far in excess of the original estimate of two years and $1,350,000, the railroad was an instant financial bonanza. Profit the first year exceed seven million dollars. No one knows how many laborers died of cholera, dysentery, smallpox, malaria and yellow fever in building the railroad, but six thousand has been given as a reasonable figure. Some believe the number may have been twice that amount.
Bolstered by his achievement of completing the l03 mile Suez Canal-connecting the Mediterranean and Red seas, Ferdinand de Lesseps-a Frenchman, was prevailed upon to construct a canal across the Isthmus of Panama. Estimated construction time was 12 years, at a cost of 1,200,000.000 francs. Construction began February 22, 1870 and by February 1889, over 1,000,000,000 francs had been spent on a canal less than 15 miles in length. The company was bankrupt and all operations ceased. Twenty two thousand, including de Lessee’s wife and daughter, died from malaria, tuberculosis or yellow fever.
After the battleship Maine blew up in Havana harbor in 1898, Assistant Secretary of the Navy, Theodore Roosevelt immediately dispatched the battleship Oregon from San Francisco to the Caribbean. Sixty seven days later, the Oregon arrived in time to play a role in the Battle of Santiago Bay. The ship had traveled a distance of 12,000 miles, compared to some 4,000 had there been a canal in Central America. The Colombian government was receptive to the United States interest in completing the canal, but would not agree to our demand for complete sovereignty over the canal, for 99 years after construction was completed
William McKinley, President of the United States was assassinated September 14, 1901 and Vice President Theodore Roosevelt, the hero of the Spanish American War, assumed the office. He was a mover and a shaker. As one historian stated, “all the world was spinning and Roosevelt was the spinner.” To achieve his objective for a canal, Roosevelt used a different tactic. Panama, the northern most state in Columbia, had been pushing independence for many years. While we may not have openly encouraged a revolution, we assured its success by imposing a Naval blockade, preventing Colombian troops, sent to put down the rebellion, from landing. Panama declared its independence from Columbia On November 3, 1903, and on November the sixth, Roosevelt recognized the new government. A treaty between the United States, and The Republic of Panama was signed November 18,1903, granting the United States complete sovereignty over a ten mile wide zone in perpetuity.[forever] In 1921 the United States paid Columbia an indemnity of $25,000,000 for the loss of Panama. Before I left in 1946 young Panamanians attempted to fly their flag in the Canal Zone. The nationalistic movement continued until April 18, 1978, when the United States Senate approved a new treaty, providing for a gradual take over of the Canal Zone, the operation and maintenance of the canal, and the withdrawal of U. S. troops by midnight December 31, 1999. In the interim U. S. payments would be substantially increased. In a subsequent treaty, permanent neutrality of the canal was guaranteed.
Although the United States was granted sovereignty over the Canal Zone in 1903, private financing to construct a canal could not be raised. After considerable debate, Congress authorized the United States Army Corps of Engineers to do the job. Construction began in 1907, and on August 15, 1914, the canal officially opened. Expenditures totaled $352,000,000, a sum hard to imagine at that time. A total death, from accident and disease, was around 6,500. While in Cuba, the U S Army Medical Corps had isolated the mosquito that carried Yellow fever. Before work began on the canal, it had succeeded in identifying specie of mosquito that carried malaria. Eliminating the mosquitos’ breeding grounds, and improved living and sanitation conditions were major factors contributing to the low death rate.
Because of the unique configuration of the Isthmus, the canal does not run from east to west, but from Colon on the north to Panama City on the south. Strange as it may seem, Panama City on the Pacific is 27 miles east of Colon on the Atlantic. This first hit me one morning as I watched the sun rise over the Pacific. You probably are shaking your head, and muttering. “What on earth had he been drinking? The sun rising over the Pacific Ocean. Impossible!” Don’t jump to conclusions. The strongest thing I drank in Panama was fresh milk from a coconut. Another interesting fact, the Canal Zone is east of Florida, and Panama is bordered on the west by Costa Rica, not the north, and on the east by Columbia, not the south.
The USS Adair [APA-91] was designed to unloaded cargo and troops directly over the side into landing crafts. It was constructed at the Bethlehem-Sparrows Point Shipyard in Baltimore Maryland, and commissioned on July 15, l944. 473 feet and 1 inch long, and 66 feet wide, it was capable of transporting 1,544 troops, plus a crew of 555 men. After a brief shakedown, it left Norfolk on August 21, 1944, heavily loaded with ammunition, bombs, weapons and landing crafts to ferry troops and supplies ashore. Ultimate destination was the central and western Pacific. There was less than 400 Army and Marine passengers aboard four ships were in the convoy, plus two destroyers on submarine patrol. Naval ships are constructed with numerous compartments, each sealed with air tight hatches [doors]. The purpose, should one or more compartments become flooded, the ship would not sink as long as there was sufficient buoyancy in the sealed compartments to keep it afloat. We were assigned to a forward compartment, one level down, designed to hold 440 fully equipped combat troops. It was a huge room filled with steel posts welded to the deck and the ceiling, on which row upon row of bunks, four high, were hinged back to back. The front of each bunk was suspended by chains at the head and foot. When not in use, the bunk could be folded up to increase aisle space. Stretched canvas served for the mattress, and your neighbor on the post side, was only 4 inches away. Vertical spacing between the bunks was no more than 24 inches, with the bottom bunk only 3 or 4 inches off of the deck. Lighting was sufficient to navigate the numerous isles, but not enough for reading, except for the lucky few who occupied a top bunk. Partitioned off along the entire length on one side of the compartment were the toilet facilities. This was no luxury liners.
Tables in the chow hall were designed to ride up and down when the ship was in rough water. Your tray full of food stayed on the table, but it was not much fun watching it constantly rise above your head and down to your lap every few minutes. August is not the ideal time of the year to be on a troop ship in the Caribbean. We hadn’t been out in the ocean very long, before swells from a distant hurricane made the ship pitch and roll. We could see the spinning screw of an adjacent ship, as it was lifted out of the water and the enormous spray when the bow plunged into the trough. It didn’t take long before many, including a few of the crew, were sea sick. I was so sick that I prayed to die. Honestly I did. Please Lord; just put me out of my misery. The next morning I found a solution for my sickness. Upon deck, I noticed the funnel (Smoke stack) was enclosed by a metal jacket with a couple openings. Climbing up to see what was beyond them, I was overjoyed to feel a constant cool breeze blowing through. Since my prayers to die had not been granted, surely I was being given an alternative. The space between the funnel and the jacket was wide enough to comfortably stay hidden for forty days and forty nights. Crawling inside, I spent a relaxing day until 1700, when I noticed everyone assembling on deck. This could mean only one thing, Man overboard; and, when the roll call was completed, who would be the missing person? You guessed it. Instantly the sickness and everything else was forgotten. With a heart racing at 300 beats a minute, I joined the stragglers to hear, “You are assembled here for a Life Boat drill”. Did I return to my hideout? No way-I was too chicken.
One morning around 2:00am, a sailor on the bridge had to go to the head. [Bathroom] Reasoning, since it was dark, and no one would be the wiser, he stepped to the railing. It so happened, directly below was the radar installation with all its high voltage equipment. Since water is a conductor of electricity, sparks began to fly. No, he wasn’t electrocuted, but the rumor was, no little children would be calling him Daddy.
The small one man brig,[jail] looked as though it was a converted paint locker For some minor offense, a sailor had been given three days of solitary confinement. No food, except bread and water, and the only reading material, a Bible. Marines were assigned Guard Duty to ensure the punishment was carried out. He had to be the most likable man in the entire crew. Fellow sailors, constantly passing by the bars of his doorway, would stop and joke with the prisoner, or bring food, and reading material. If we challenged them, and I emphasize if, they would respond, “awe come on, are you going to be a P----? He didn’t do anything wrong! You are here for only three days, and he is our buddy for the duration. Don’t try to be a hard A--!” Really he was a likable guy, and you couldn’t help but be amused and enjoy their conversations, and antics.
The ship’s armament consisted of two five inch cannons, four 40mm, and eighteen 20mm guns. At least once a day, and a couple times at night there would be a submarine alert. Immediately we made a mad dash to our compartment, and quickly closed and bolted the hatch. A cannon was mounted directly over our head, and when it fired the lights momentarily went out. Those few seconds seemed like an eternity. You could cut the tension with a knife. Were we under attack? Would the ship be blown sky high? If we were hit, would our compartment stay afloat? How long would it take to get us out? On and on our imagine ran wild. When the all clear sounded, we were told no submarines had been sighted; it was just a practice drill. No one believed that explanation. Common sense told us, with so many ships converging into a narrow lane to enter the Panama Canal; we were in a prime area for submarine activity.
On the morning of August 25, 1944, all was quiet. There was no noise or vibration from the engine room. No forward motion of the ship. Going up on deck, as far as I could see was a jungle of dark green mountains, against a bright blue sky. We were outside the entrance to Colon harbor, waiting for the submarine nets to be lowered. To prevent a submarine from attempting to sneak in under a ship, the nets were lowered only enough for the ship to clear them. We did not stop in Colon, but proceeded to the entrance of the first of three sets of locks. All locks were constructed with parallel chambers to accommodate two ships at one time. They may be going in the same or opposite direction. Each chamber is 1,000 feet long and 110 feet wide. Three chambers and twenty six [26] million gallons of fresh water was used to lift us 85 feet from the Atlantic Ocean to Gatun Lake. Proceeding through the lake, we passed through the Gillard Cut, where 96 million cubic yards of hard rock and earth, of the continental divide, was removed. Near the end of the journey, another 26 million gallon of fresh water was used, in two separate sets of locks and three chambers, to lower us to the Pacific Ocean. Hard to believe that 52 million gallon of fresh water, enough to supply a city of 350,000 for one day, is used to transit one ship through the canal. Gatun, Madden and Miraflores lakes were capable of holding a sufficient supply of water to accommodate the demand during the dry season. The average annual rainfall of 128 inches, on the Atlantic side of the Continental divide, is almost double the 68 inches that falls on the Pacific side. During our decent through the Miraflores locks, I recognized a soldier, John Harrison Groves, who had attended high school with me. We briefly talked few minutes, and later he came to visit me. Eight hours after entering the canal, the Adair docked in Balboa. Embarking, a Marine driver took me across the canal to Marine Headquarters on Rodman Naval Base.
Permit me to digress for a moment. Over the years I had often wondered what happened to the Adair after I got off. A research of Navy records, indicate she was assigned to the 7th Fleet in the southwestern Pacific. “Among many of her duties, she took part in the landing of troops and material for the invasion of the Philippines. The Adair came through unscathed, but a companion ship suffered a damaging kamikaze crash. During the invasion of Okinawa the Adair, and her companions arrived off the objective before sunrise on D day April 1, 1945. They began unloading equipment and disembarking troops at dawn. A shore battery opened fire on the transports, but heavy ships of the gunfire support group quickly silenced it, permitting the unloading to continue during daylight hours. Nightly, the Adair and other transports retired to a safer area at sea to the west of Okinawa. Air alerts continued throughout a five day period, but the Adair escaped direct attack. The Adair earned two battle stars during World War 11. After the war she carried occupational troops to Korea, and replacement troops to Tientsin and Shanghai China, bringing back returning veterans. She arrived in Norfolk, VA, on March 8, 1946, placed out of commission. She was delivered on May 3, 1946 to the Maritime Commission’s War Shipping Administration for disposal. In 1947 she was sold to American Export Lines, refitted for mercantile service, and served as the SS Express for over two decades. Her name disappeared from mercantile listings in 1970” And now for the rest of the story.
Panama has two seasons. Wet, from mid May until mid December, and Dry, from mid December to mid May. During the wet season, it rains several times a day, and the heat and humidity is unbelievable. Wearing a rubberized poncho to keep dry, was like being in a steam bath. Jungle rot, a fungus was the scourge of daily life. You never got rid of it, but showering twice a day, abundant use of medicated powders, and a variety of ointments kept it under control. Shoes would mold over a 24 hour period. Our winter clothing was kept in electrical heated storage lockers to keep them from molding. The dry season was delightful, with low humidity, lots of sunshine, and very little fungus and mold.
My first assignment was with the Transit Guard Detachment on the Atlantic side of the canal. Our barracks, on the banks of the old French canal, were within walking distance of Cristobal in the Canal Zone, and Colon in the Republic of Panama. The physical division between the two was a railroad track, however the political, social, economic, and culture differences were worlds apart. The Panamanian ethnic groups are, Mestizo 70% [a person of mixed European and native Indian ancestry], west Indian 14%, Caucasian 10% and native Indian 6%. The wealthy and educated, a very small percent of the population were mostly Spanish. They lived in beautiful homes, had large land holdings etc., while the masses lived in poverty. Regardless of their differences, they were united in their resentment of us calling ourselves Americans. Loudly and angrily they would exclaim, “You are a North American, I am a Central American!-Everyone between the north and south pole is an American! Stop calling yourself Americans. With an encounter like that, the best thing to do was not say anything and head in the opposite direction. A rigid caste system in the canal zone began with the canal’s construction. Unskilled laborers, recruited mainly from the West Indies Islands in the Caribbean, were paid with Panamanian silver Balboa dollars. United States Citizens, which made up the management, and skilled personnel were paid in U. S. Dollars backed with gold. The class distinction between Gold and Silver, based on citizenship rather than race applied to all facets of life. Churches, Schools, Movies, Restaurants, Playgrounds etc. In the Train Stations, waiting rooms, water fountains, and toilet facilities were designated. Gold, and Silver. For a Panamanian, being discriminated against in the Canal Zone, was a bitter pill to swallow. The Soldiers, Sailors, and Marines who protected the canal were considered somewhere in between. They were tolerated, but it was rare for young women from canal zone families to date military men, and then only with Officers.
The security of the Panama Canal Zone during World War II was paramount. It was reported to be the most heavily fortified possession we owned. In addition many measurers were taken to prevent acts of sabotage which could interrupt the operation of the Canal. Except for United States Navy Vessels, every ship transiting the Canal, had on board two sailors, and four or eight Marines The number of Marines depended upon the size of the ship. The British Navy, which for centuries ruled the waves, deeply resented American Guards aboard their ships. At times they could be quite testy. When a ship was cleared to enter Colon harbor, we receive a call for a guard detail. At the Harbor Master’s Pier, we joined the two sailors and a Canal Pilot to be taken by launch, to the ship. Once aboard, the Pilot, a sailor and a Marine went to the bridge. The Pilot took command of the ship. Constantly, he instructed the sailor at the wheel, on the direction and speed of the ship as it proceeded through the canal The responsibility of the Marine was to keep others off. A Marine was assigned to the bow, and another back aft. Their responsibility was to make sure no one was out on deck when the ship was in or near the locks. The fourth Marine was in the radio room to prevent the transmission of restricted messages. The second sailor was assigned to the Engine Room to observe, that the instructions, telegraphed from the bridge were complied with. Generally a day trip was completed in about eight hours. Night time took ten to twelve. Guards who were not laying over to take a ship back the next day, returned to Cristobal on the fastest trains in the world. Coast to coast in 90 minutes. [Approximately 50 miles] The coaches were reconditioned in 1924. I will never forget my first trip, when the conductor came through and lit the hanging oil lamps.
Transferring from a launch to a moving ship, or vise versa, in rough water was a nightmare. With the launch pitching and rolling, perfect timing was required to grab the swaying Jacob’s ladder, and climb aboard. One night, just as a guard made his grab, the launch pitched back. The guard fell over board and drowned. Sometimes, due to the delayed of a ship entering the harbor, or no Pilot available, there would be a long wait on the pier. Sitting under the hot sun, with nothing to do quite boring. One day, the two sailors started horsing around to see who was faster on the draw. After several draws, one accidentally loaded a round in the chamber of his 45, pulled the trigger and killed his partner.
After a short period of time around the Transit Guards, I acquired a limited vocabulary of Spanish. [Including X rated phrases of barracks lingo]. Believing my career would be enhanced if I was proficient in the language, I requested, and was granted, a transfer to Headquarters at Rodman Naval Station. My objective was to enroll in Spanish 101 at the community college in Balboa. I didn’t realize Headquarters was several miles on the opposite side of the canal from Balboa. The Corps didn’t provide any transportation, so getting to and from class was a challenge. After a couple of weeks of being late for class, and the emphasis Headquarters placed on training, I put Spanish 101 on the back burner. An example of training. With a full pack, jump from a 30 foot platform into a swimming pool. After hitting the water, get rid of the pack, take off your trousers, tie a knot in the end of each leg, and throw the trousers over your head. If you had done all of this without drowning, the trouser legs were full of air. Tightly pull the belt, and you have a float. After the air escapes, simply repeated the process. During The Desert Storm War, a sailor in the Persian Gulf fell overboard, and kept himself afloat for three by this method. I was never thrilled about jumping off of the platform to begin with, but doing it with a full pack, which I got rid of as soon as I hit the water, was beyond my sense of logic. The fire drill was something I really dreaded. After receiving gas masks and canisters of oxygen, we were locked in a compartment similar to that on a ship. A fire was ignited to fill the room with smoke. At the first whiff of smoke, we put on our mask, securely tighten the canister, and remained locked in the chamber for 10 minutes. You may call me a prophet of doom, but I always had a horrible feeling the canister may not be fully charged, or the mask would not fit properly.
Maneuvers in the jungle! As a member of team A, I was to evade being taken hostage by team B. Climbing up into a large tree, I hid among the dense foliage as several members of team B walked around below. After they left, I sat in the tree smug and proud for not being captured. But when I started down I saw a huge boa constrictor on the ground crawling in my direction. It must have been 15 feet long. I was petrified. Not having any concept of the sensory perception of snakes, I was confident it had detected my scent, and was on its way after me. My fear and apprehension was short lived as it slowly continued its journey down the hill. I assume it did not consider a stinking, hot, sweaty Marine an appetizing meal.
The Administration building was vacant between the hours of 2200 and 0730. For security, the Field Musician, on duty, was required to sleep in the building. One morning around 0200, I heard a rattling of the door to my room. Thinking someone was trying to scare me, I jumped out of bed, threw open the door, but all I observed was the chandelier in the hallway, swinging back and forth. In a split second I was out of the building. That was my first, and hopefully last, experience with an earthquake.
Every letter mailed home was censored, and for some it became a game of trying to send letters without being read and approved. A boy flew home for his Mothers’ funeral, and five of his friends, including the aide to the Commanding Officer, gave him a batch of letters to be mailed in the States. When kind hearted Joe arrival in Miami, a customs agent discovered the letters, and notified the Military Authorities. We never learned what happened to Joe, but the letter writers were court marshaled. The letters written by the aide to the Colonel were very explicit regarding his dislike and contempt of his Commanding Officer. He received four years in the brig, but the Admiral, in reviewing the trial, cut the time in half. Everyone laughed and said the Admiral probably had the same opinion of the Colonel. In regard to the other four, they received less than two years. Every day the prisoners, under the watchful eye of guards armed with shot guns were taken outside to performed a variety of duties The Sgt. of the Guard and I shared an office in the building that housed the Brig. One afternoon as the returning prisoners were filing through the door, a deafening explosion occurred outside. A guard had failed to verify there was no shell in the chamber of his gun. Pulling the trigger the shot blasted a large hole in the sidewalk outside the window where I was sitting. For failing to follow established procedures, the guard was court marshaled, and he became a prisoner. Prison chaser was the leased desired job in the Corps.
April 1945, I was assignment to Naval Headquarters of the Caribbean Command. Some felt intimidated by the presence of so many high ranking officers, but I always found them to be considerate and understanding. It was a small base, perhaps no more than twenty five acres. Located on the banks of the canal, adjacent to Fort Amador and the Balboa Yacht Club, which was taken over by the military. Prior to the war it was the watering hole for the society crowd of Panama City and the Canal Zone. Our barracks stood two feet off of the ground with wide wrap around screened in porches. Two persons shared a room with only openings for windows and doors. This concept of open space maximized the circulation of air, which in turn reduced the problem of mildew and mold. Rick Adams, from Alabama, and I shared a room overlooking the Canal. We had a ring side seat to observe ships going to or from the Pacific. I shall never forget the arrival of the Aircraft Carrier Franklin on its way to New York. Thousands of spectators lined the banks of the canal to cheer the blackened, twisted ship, and its heroic crew. The following is quoted from naval records. “Before dawn on 19 March 1945, the Franklin had maneuvered closer to the Japanese mainland than any other US Carrier to launched a fighter sweep against Honshu, and later a strike against shipping in Kobe Harbor. Suddenly, a single enemy plane pierced the cloud cover, and made a low level run, to drop two semi-armored piercing bombs. One struck the flight deck centerline, igniting fires thorough the second and third decks, knocking out the combat information center. The second hit aft, tearing through two decks, fanning fires which triggered ammunition, bombs and rockets. The Franklin, within 50 miles of the Japanese mainland lay dead in the water. She took a 13 degree starboard list, lost all radio communications, and broiled under the heat from the enveloping fires. Many of the crew were blown overboard, driven off by fire, killed or wounded. The 106 Officers and 604 enlisted men who voluntarily remained aboard, saved their ship through sheer valor and tenacity. The casualties totaled 724 killed and 265 wounded; and would have far exceeded this number, except for the heroic work of many survivors who directed fire fighting and rescue parties, and led men below to wet down magazines that threatened to explode, as well as to discover 300 men trapped in a blackened mess compartment, leading the group to safety. The Santa Fe rendered vital assistance in rescuing crewmen from the sea, and took off numerous wounded from the Franklin. The Carrier was taken in tow by the Pittsburgh until she managed to churn up speed to 14 knots, and proceed to Pearl Harbor where a cleanup job permitted her to sail under her own power through the Panama Canal arriving at the Brooklyn, N. Y. Naval yard 28 April 1945. She received four battle stars.”
When the Franklin docked in Balboa, sections of the ship were still so hot no one could enter. A survivor of this terrible tragedy, after spending an evening in the bars of Panama City, returned to the ship drunk. Staggering up the gang plank, he fell overboard, hit his head on a timber in the water, and died instantly. I met a survivor of the Franklin in 1976. He told me the men who volunteered to stay on the Franklin were members of a club, sanctioned by the Navy. The men who were blown off, or ordered to abandon ship as he was, were not permitted membership in this exclusive club. He was very bitter at the Navy and was engaged in a lifetime avocation of trying to force Navy to drop the exclusion. I doubt if he will be successful.
Permit me one last story regarding a ship. To the Victor go the Spoils is an old adage of warfare. When Stalin of Russia, Churchill of Great Britain, and President Truman met in Potsdam, outside of Berlin in late July 1945, among the loot to be divided, was the German Heavy Cruiser Prinz Eugen, a small scale version of the Battleship Bismarck. Churchill did not want it, we did not need it, but rather than let it fall into Russian hands, we took possession. It was commissioned into the U. S. Navy on January 5, 1946, as the USS Prinz Eugen.
Staffed primarily by a German crew, she passed through the Panama Canal in March 1946, on the way to the Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands. I thought she was the most magnificent ship I had ever seen. The Balboa press described her "as graceful, beautiful, and as sleek and cavalier a ship that ever sailed the seas.” It was not only her beauty that captivated everyone, but also her accomplishments against impossible odds. She and her crew were admired by friend and foe. In May 1941, the Prinz Eugen and the Bismarck were spotted in the harbor of Bergen Norway. On the 20th, the two warships, shadowed by pursuing British forces, made their famous breakout into the North Atlantic. On May 24th, the Germans sank the Battleship Hood, but in an ensuing battle the British sank the Bismarck on May 27th. The Prinz Eugen escaped, and was not seen again until February l942, when she, along with the Battleships Shornhorst and Gneisenau were found hiding in the harbor of Brest, France. British aerial bombardments badly damaged the Prinz Eugen, and killed fifty-two crewmen. Then for several days, a heavy fog prevented the British from moving in for the kill. In near zero visibility, The Prinz Eugen and the two Battleships, came out of Brest harbor under full power, and dashed up the English Channel to safety in the Baltic Sea. The Prinz Eugen later provided support for German Troops retreating from Russia, and on May 7, 1945, surrendered to the British in Copenhagen, Denmark. At the Bikini Atoll she, and 90 other ships of every size and description, were used to determine the effect the Atomic Bomb would have on ships at sea today the Prinz Eugen lies upside down in the water. Only the bottom of her hull and propeller are visible.
Contrary to what you may think, I did not spend all of my time watching ships. Raymond Dolce from Upper Darby Pennsylvania was my alternate as Field Musician of the Day, which covered a twenty four hour period. On our off day, we were given other duties, including the playing of taps for funerals. Twice I played at sea, about 8-10 miles out, where the body was placed in a weighted canvas bag and dropped overboard. Imagine trying to play taps on a launch as it bobbed up and down in the water. There is one funeral I shall never forget. The body of a young man was found floating in the canal. He was completely nude except for a blue shirt, comparable to those issued by the Navy. It would take weeks before finger prints could determine his identity, and based solely on the blue shirt, the Navy assumed the responsibility for his burial. I had just returned from having my eyes examined, when I was told to report for the funeral. The pupils of my eyes were still dilated, and to protect them from the bright sun, I asked permission to leave my dark sun glasses on during the ceremony. The Naval Officer in charge would not consider it. I can still picture myself standing at the head of the grave playing taps, with my eyes squinted shut, and tears streaming down my cheeks.
For me, the playing of taps, the last bugle call at night, was more than a signal for lights out. The message I tried to communicate was one of relaxation and solitude. A time, at the close of a busy day, to reflect and meditate on those things we hold most personal. At Naval Headquarters, in order to maximize the range and clarity of each note, I played standing in the middle of a large open field. Frequently a Naval Officer or a Soldier from near-by Fort Amador would appear out of the darkness. After complementing me, practically everyone concluded their conversation with “I have often wondered, who is that musician playing taps so beautifully” At a funeral I considered taps to be symbolic to the finality of life, and the beginning of eternal sleep.
The Navy and the Marine Corps consider the raising and lowering of the colors [the United States Flag] a sacred ritual, to be carried out with reverence and dignity. Shortly before eight bells [navy time] a six man color guard and I, dressed in freshly pressed uniforms and polished shoes, marched to the Mast [flagpole] in front of the Administration building. Faithfully trailing along were several dogs, mascots from our base and Fort Amador. On the dot of 0800 the color guard snapped to attention, presented arms. As I played the appropriate call, the colors were briskly hoisted to the top of the mast. Military rule dictate that anyone within hearing distance must stop, face the colors, salute and stand at attention, until the last note is sounded. Anyone passing in a vehicle must stop, get out and do like wise The same respect and honor is followed for retreat at sundown. Retreat is played very slowly, and the colors must reach the hands of the receiver on the last note. This may sound simple, but when a strong breeze was blowing, a lot of coordination was required to bring it off successfully. Very formal, very impressive. and at times very hectic; But, occasionally there were humorous moments. For some reason the sound of a bugle affects a dog’s ears. The moment I would start to play, all the dogs set up a chorus of long mournful howls. The longer I played, the louder they howled, and if one barked they all barked. Dignity and reverence gave way to smiles or muted laughter. Every base I served on had a dog or two for a mascot. They were wonderful morale boosters.
After the Japanese surrendered on August 14 l945, life took on a more relaxed atmosphere. We were permitted the use of a vehicle, rifles and a generous supply of ammunition for hunting wild boar on the weekends. The elusive boar was no setting target. In fact, I never saw or heard one, but we surely had fun. However the Panamanian Government demanded we stop, Pronto. The natives felt they were under siege, and fearful of being shot. In addition, they claimed a vital source of their food supply was rapidly disappearing [More from fright than slaughter, I may add. Those rascals headed for the high grass when we came within a mile]
My buddy Sergeant Goshorne, bought a Motorcycle, and occasionally I would go with him to dinner in the famous Tivoli Hotel high on Ancon Hill. The view over looking Balboa and Panama City was magnificent. His philosophy was, not to eat frequently in ordinary restaurants, but save your money, and go occasionally to a first class place where the food, atmosphere, service, and surroundings were outstanding. There was one disadvantage of riding with him. While driving he smoked cigars. As we sped down the road, a constant stream of hot cigar ashes flew in my face. I always look as though I had chicken pox.
Eligibility for discharge depended upon a specific number of accumulated points given for each month of service, time in combat, hazardous duty and a number of other factors. By May 1946, I had reached the magic number. Like millions of other service personnel, all that mattered was getting home. I have no memories regarding my departure from the Canal Zone; or the boat trip to the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Except, when we sailed into New York Harbor, The Sergeant refused to let us go up deck, to see the Statue of Liberty. His priority was for us to gathered our gear, scrub down the compartment, and be rid of us when we docked. I spent the night at the Brooklyn Naval Yards, and boarded a train the following morning for Bambridge Naval Base, Port Deposit, Maryland. The discharge process took a couple of days, including a promotion to corporal, providing I signed on for a four year tour of duty. I respectfully declined for two reasons. First, I had no interest in a life where I would always be told, when and where I could go, how long I could stay, and the date and hour I must return. Second, and far more important, I had seen what an education could do for a person. In 1944, Congress passed an act, commonly referred to as the G I Bill of Rights. Among its many benefits was the payment of a subsidy for tuition, books, and living expenses to any veteran enrolled in an approved educational program. My goal to be enrolled in a College or University by September.
May 24,1946, I was discharged with the rank of corporal, and received accumulated pay of $133.37 and $19.40 representing travel allowance, at the rate of 5 cents a mile, from Bambridge, Maryland to Summersville, West Virginia. Why the promotion? I can only assume they considered me to be such a Gung Ho Marine that it was safe to put the paper work through before I had signed on the dotted line.
The locomotive engineers went on strike that afternoon, and I had to make the long arduous journey home by Greyhound Bus.



AND NOW FOR THE REST OF THE STORY


Over the past fifty plus years, I occasionally thought about returning to the Canal Zone. Then I began to fret, perhaps so many changes had taken place, I would be disappointed, and regret I went. But if I don’t go, I would probably spend the rest of my life regretting that decision. . On February 4, 1998, fifty four years after I arrived as a young nineteen year old Marine, my dear wife and I flew to Panama. For six days we had a marvelous time. From our hotel we had a beautiful view of Panama City and the Ocean. Believe it or not, the first morning, I was able to get Martha out of bed early enough to see the sun rising over the Pacific. Renting a car, We drove about 300 miles seeing sights and visiting places where my bases were located. It was a thrill to locate the fire tower and swimming pool, the source of so much misery and anxiety. The Marine Headquarters building, which I so quickly abandoned during the earthquake, is now a medical clinic. Twice we had lunch at the Balboa Yacht Club. Sadly it has lost its glamour, but there is talk of restoring it to its former glory. Many things have changed since I left [including my 28 inch waist] everything, except the operation of the canal has been turned over to Panama, and that will take place on December 31, 1999. No longer does a train run from Balboa to Christobal and Colon. Balboa where I spent a lot of time at the movies, cafeteria, community center etc. is being vandalized. The immaculate lawns and flower gardens no longer exist. On the positive side, I could not believe the transformation of Panama City, which calls itself El Hong Kong Latino Americano -translated-The Hong Kong of Latin America. All built, I presume with drug money. Colon has deteriorated to the point that Cruise ships no longer put into port. As the desk clerk at our hotel in Panama City said, “Seeing Colon today burns your heart out.”


JUDGMENT DAY

When I awoke Wednesday morning, August 18, l943, I had a date with destiny. World War II was raging in Europe and the Pacific with no sign of victory or defeat. To meet the manpower needs of the military, President Roosevelt had declared all males upon reaching their 18th birthday must register for the draft. Little did I realize when I left home to comply with the President’s directive I was starting on a journey that would significantly impact my life forever. Before six weeks elapsed I was notified by the draft board to report for a physical examination on Friday October 15, 1943. Shocked at being called before completing my Senior Year of High School, the Principal relieved my anxiety and concern by assuring me if I was inducted into military service my attendance and grades in the current semester were sufficient to meet the one and a half credits needed to graduate: However since diplomas for the class of l943 were awarded in May, I would be listed as a member of the class of 1944.
Mother did not go with me to Summersville where a bus was waiting to take about twenty-five draftees to Clarksburg. I understood and respected her preference to be home alone. I was the last and youngest of her five sons to go into military service for World War II. Mrs. Gawthrop, my future Mother in Law, in her diary for this date wrote. “Jerry left this morning for his physical examination and Emery his brother left for a Marine Air Base in California. This afternoon I went up to see their mother.” This was a most thoughtful and kind act of a neighbor to give comfort and support to someone alone in their hour of grief and sorrow.
The 110mile trip to Clarksburg on a two lane mountainous road was torture. Slowly the old bus spewing diesel fumes and black smoke crawled up the steep winding mountains. With no air conditioning we alternated between opening the windows and choking on the fumes, or closing them and suffering from the heat. Going down the mountain was a different story. The driver trying to make up for lost time rounded the sharp curves and horseshoe turns at break neck speed. As the centrifugal force tossed us from side to side, desperately we clung to the edge of the seat to keep from being tossed into the aisle. The pitching and tossing was a diversion from the apprehension and anxiety racing through our minds. I am sure every one came to the same conclusion. This is Judgment Day. For some, the ultimate result of the decision may be death on the battlefield.
Upon arrival at the Waldo Hotel, taken over by the military as an induction center, I joined about 200 other inductees. Stripping to our under shorts we proceeded through several phases of the physical examination. In perfect health I stood 73 inches tall, weight 135 pounds, fat content Zero. At the last cubical I was given a specimen bottle, instructed to take it into the bath room at the end of the hall, and when I came out give it to the man in a lab coat standing outside the door. Starting to enter the room I heard someone yell, “Get back in there and fill up that bottle.” Squeezing past me was a small, slightly bald headed man. As the door swung shut behind us he looked at me with pleading eyes and said, “I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with this bottle and I can’t do any more. Would you fill it for me?” Being a good Samaritan I granted his request. Thanking me he rushed out the door and I never saw him again. Who knows, he may have gone on to become a great war hero. If so, I am sure his citation made no mention of my contribution.
Those who passed the physical were asked. “Which branch of the service do you prefer, the Army or the Navy?” I stated neither I want the Marine Corps. With a high degree of disdain and bitterness in their voice they responded, “The Marine Corps is not an option! They choose you! You don’t choose them! I had never interpreted the word chosen to signify elitism as they inferred. At the time a colorful recruiting poster showed a young rugged Marine in Dress Uniform, and in bold type-THE FEW -THE PROUD-THE CHOSEN- A UNITED STATES MARINE. Not to be deterred, I explained that I had three brothers in the Marines, two were in Pearl Harbor when bombed, and I also wanted to be a Marine. They appeared to be sympathetic, which I didn’t take seriously after demanding, “What will it be the Army or the Navy?!” The thought of abandoning ship in the frozen North Atlantic, or some shark infested tropical ocean, did not appeal to me. With the heaviest of heart, and the lowest of spirit, I raised my right hand and was sworn into the Army. I suppose everything went blank after that as the next thing I remember was boarding a bus for Charleston, the Capital of West Virginia. We received no explanation as to why we were not sent home to await further orders as they instructed all the other fellows who passed the physical exam.
It was a long lonely trip. No gaiety, no laughter, no conversation, just dead silence. The bus was completely dark except for the exit lights. Bewildered and depressed I never felt so alone and dejected in my life. I awoke in the comfort and security of home and fifteen hours later, denied the Marine Corps I am in the Army. Around 10:30 PM we made a rest stop in a town about forty miles from Summersville. I knew Mother would be anxious to know what transpired, but since we didn’t have a phone I had no way to let her know. In retrospect it was a blessing rather than a curse. My unhappiness would have only added to her burden.
Arriving in Charleston after midnight, I slept on a canvas cot on the third floor [Attic] of a large house that had been a private home. In the morning a Marine recruiter came to interview six of us. I didn’t know what the other five were thinking but I could not fathom the purpose. I had been sworn into the Army and should be home getting ready for active duty. Eventually the recruiter called me into his office. It was evident from his questions and comments he was aware of what transpired the previous day. Addressing the chosen issue, he said the Marine Corps was established by the Continental Congress on November 10, 1775, making it the oldest military unit in the United States, and it has played a major role in every conflict since. The motto, Semper Fedelis -always faithful- has been a rally cry from the beginning. He went on to explain that the spirit, the enthusiasm, devotion and strong regard for the honor of the group, in other words the Esprit de Corps, can only come from within. That spirit and devotion would not be there if an individual were drafted into the Corps against his will. For this reason the Corps will always remain a small cohesive organization made up of dedicated men and women who consider it an honor to wear the uniform. He continued, “If you sincerely want to be a Marine, it can be arranged.” If this hadn’t happened to me I would be as skeptical as you believing that last statement. If proof is needed, my Marine Corps Discharge dated May 24 1946, reads in part….

“Inducted-Discharged and joined USMCR --16 Oct. 1943”


There was no direct bus service between Charleston and Summersville.
I don’t remember how I got home but psychologically I was on cloud nine


October 16th 1943 was Mother’s 60th Birthday

COLLEGE DAYS

In the pecking order of priorities, winning World War II took precedence over my high school education. Six weeks into my senior year I received a notice from Uncle Sam to report for military service, and by October 16, l943 I was in The United States Marine Corps. At the end of my junior year I needed l l/2 credit to graduate. As a patriotic gesture, the school considered my limited attendance and grades sufficient to earn the needed credits. A High School Diploma, in my name, was awarded, in absentia May 14, 1944.
All military personnel were encouraged to continue their educational goals through correspondent courses with the Armed Forces Institute in Washington, DC. The depth and variety of courses was extensive. All a person had to do was order a textbook, study at their own pace and complete examinations under the general observation of an officer. The completed examination was forwarded to Washington, DC to be graded and returned. Living in a military barracks is not the most conducive atmosphere for studying; however while on duty in Panama I ordered a few Law courses dealing with torts, contracts, and related subjects. Graded examinations along with appropriate comments were normally returned within three months. How many credit hours did I earn? Perhaps eight or ten. Not a tremendous accomplishment but it kept alive the dream of becoming a Lawyer originating from the days when my best friend and I sat spell bound on the back row in the County Court Room watching and listening to trial proceedings, and the various actions and reactions of the Lawyers. The Prosecuting Attorney was a character out of a Wild West movie. His tall thin gangling body, cloaked with a loose fitting shirt, tie and trousers, held up with wide suspenders gave him the appearance of a scarecrow. His trademark however, was a large wad of chewing tobacco protruding from his left cheek. Passionately packing back and forth before the jury, he would emphasize the evils of the crime or degree of punishment the defendant should receive by propelling a mouth full of tobacco juice ten feet across the room, hitting a brass spittoon dead center.
June 22, 1944 President Roosevelt signed into law one of the most important pieces of social legislation in American history. The Servicemen’s Readjustment Act, better known as the G I Bill of Rights. Some 7.8million World War II veterans [men & women] took advantage of its academic benefits as well as paying for on the job training programs. Also the act guaranteed loans for buying homes, farms and starting of businesses. This single act helped to create a well educated, well housed new American middle class whose buying patterns fueled the post war economy, and significantly influenced the social and political changes during the latter half of the twentieth century.
Service in the Marine Corps gave me a tremendous insight of the world beyond the mountains and narrow valleys of central West Virginia, where lumber and coal were the dominant industries. Also I became acutely aware that education was the gateway to a life beyond unskilled jobs and low paying wages
The war in Germany ended March 7th 1945. Five months later Japan capitulated on August 14, 1945. When I was discharged from the Marine Corps on May 15th 1946, a million and a half veterans were already enrolled, for the fall semester, in Colleges and Universities through out the United States. At such a late date I was extremely apprehensive of being accepted in any school. A Marine buddy was returning to Washington and Lee University in Lexington Virginia, and I had my heart set on joining him. Unfortunately being a State School they were only accepting applications from Virginia residents; however they held out a faint glimmer of hope. If all vacancies occurring during the first semester were not filled with state residents, then my application would be considered.

At 21 years of age I could not gamble on the uncertainty of a possible acceptance. Consequently my dream of a law degree from Washington & Lee University vanished in thin air.
My second choice, West Virginia Wesleyan a small Methodist College located in Buckhannon, West Virginia. Population-4000 [including the metropolitan area]. The school had an excellent academic reputation and its accreditation rating, and ratio of faculty holding Ph. D degrees exceeded the State University. From its origin in 1890 through 1945, yearly student enrollment may have reached 350. Friday, September 13th 1946 freshmen enrollment exceeded 500. I was one of the many veterans accounting for a large percent of the total.
With sufficient housing to accommodate only female students, the College sent out a plea to residents in and around Buckhannon requesting anyone with spare bedrooms to make them available through the College Admissions Office. I was assigned a room with the Shipman family who lived on a quiet tree lined street within walking distance to the College. After introductions, Mrs. Shipman, the landlady, stated three other boys had already arrived [she always referred to us as “her boys”] and my room would be the first door on the left at the head of the stairs. Opening the door I was surprised to see a man sitting at the desk smoking a pipe. By the khaki clothing he wore I realized he was an Army veteran. Pointing to the double bed, he said, “Which side do you want, the right or the left? Never in my wildest dream would I have expected this arrangement. Speechless, I stood there in shock and disbelief. My brother, who had brought me, was probable fifty miles down the road on his way home. Logistically- with no viable alternative I was trapped. I said to myself, if thousands of soldiers shared foxholes during World War II, certainly I could ride this out until other arrangements were made. I responded “The left”. Fortunately for me he could not adjust to academic life and dropped out of school within a couple of weeks. I had enough communal living in the Marine Corps to do me a lifetime. Sharing a room in a dormitory, a private home, or a fraternity house was out of the question. I continued to rent a room in private homes until graduation August27th, 1949. I have very fond memories of the year I lived with the Fisher family. They practically adopted me as a member of the family, and vise versa. Their kindness and generosity extended to the personal use of their automobile. Mr.& Mrs. Fisher, neither of whom drove, were well past middle age. Their son Saul was a student at the Julliard School of Music in New York City, and Helen, a vivacious high school sophomore was a big tease and a lot of fun. Assuming the protective role of big brother I let every boy she went out with know what the consequences would be if his behavior or intentions were anything but honorable.
Where did I eat? Here again the College could not accommodate the tremendous influx of students and the restaurants down town were too far away for breakfast or lunch. Many widows, seizing the opportunity to supplement their income, opened their homes as boarding establishments. All served an evening dinner and many served breakfast and lunch. The grape vine was constantly abuzz as to where you could get the best or cheapest meal. In order to save money I ate breakfast in my room. The menu never changed: hot tea or cocoa and two small powdered doughnuts. To heat water I would light a small can of sterno [canned heat] in a metal rack with a small aluminum pot on top. To this day I don’t want to look at another powdered doughnut. My favorite restaurant in town was The Commodore, [we called it the Commode Door] where a little innocent flirting with the waitress guaranteed generous portions of food
In my sophomore year I took a part time job as a door too door salesman for an Appliance Store. No salary, strictly commission, but I made out fairly well. This was the period after WWII when washers, dryers, Irons, furnaces, kitchen stoves, etc were back on the market to satisfy a huge pent up demand. I could have doubled my income if I had a car to canvas the outlying areas. Venturing beyond the city limits meant a long walk out, and long exhausting walk back.

[Diary 11/22/1944] Corporal Ken Adams entertained us today with exaggerated tales of his adventures and exploits in college. If only half of what he said was true, there is a lot more to college life than study and examinations: The day I enrolled in WVWC I resolved:
I will devote equal time and value to Academic Studies and Social Life

Two things I was completely unprepared for - House Mothers and Meet the Parents

Mrs. Ward, House Mother of Agnes Howard Hall, dormitory for freshman girls, ruled with an iron fist. Her number one objective was to return every girl home as pure and chaste as the day she left. Tall in stature, heavy in weight, her piercing blue eyes would penetrate to the very core of your conscience. From her office she had a commanding view of the parlor where escorts were required to meet and return his date. No exceptions. Should a boy momentarily rest a foot on the stairway to the bedrooms, ejection was swift and final. Agnes Howard Hall was her absolute domain: She could make the knees of the toughest Marine who fought on Iwo Jima turn to jelly. Rather than risk her wrath, I only dated girls who were sophomores and above.
Getting a date was never a concern. Perhaps the girls preferred dating older more mature veterans rather than a boy fresh out of high school. I had empathy for then as they stood around in small groups looking like young bucks relegated to the outer fringes of the herd.
The first girl I dated was delightful to be with. Six weeks into the relationship she invited me to go home with her for a weekend and meet her parents. Just the two of us walking alone in the woods, enjoying the beautiful foliage on a bright fall day was too tempting to pass up. Her parents instantly made me feel at ease. After dinner her father invited me to join him in the den. I was aware their only son was killed in Germany five days before the end of the war. Following a few pleasant remarks his conversation centered on how he had groomed his son to take over the business, their distress regarding the upcoming marriage of their son’s widow, and the current and future outlook for the business. This was deep stuff and I began to feel very uncomfortable. Also I had a distinct feeling I was being scrutinized as a possible candidate to fill a void. Becoming a son in law was not in my game plan. On friendly terms we drifted apart. When a subsequent date brought up going home to meet the parents I gracefully declined. Cheerfully she responded: “That’s ok, you will meet them next month on Parents Day.” Darn it trapped again!! For a Christmas program one year, a soprano sang “Oh Holy Night the stars were brightly shining”. I was immediately entranced with her voice, looks, poise and grace, and by the time the program was over, the stars I was seeing were in a different orbit than those in the sky. In other words I was smitten. On our third date she said, “Jerry I am sorry but I won’t be dating you an more, I am Jewish and my parents don’t approve.” To my every plea, her only response was, “Jerry you don’t understand”. I understood but didn’t want to accept it.
Thankfully I never kept a record of the hours spent at the Kollege Kitchen located a block or two off campus. It was a place where students hung out, had a soda, or a bite to eat [pizza was unknown] and spend hours on the dimly lit dance floor as the juke box played “Dance Ballerina Dance, Cuddle up a little closer honey mine” and other great tunes. If we weren’t dancing we played bridge. One day I drew eleven cards of the same suit. The chance of that is probably a million to one. A girl on the opposing team slammed her cards on the table and stormed out the door saying, “I quit. I don’t have a single point.” Was I upset with her? No way! She was my best dance partner. The Kollege Kitchen definitely stretched the boundaries in equality of time I tried to maintain between social life and academics.


Major- Political Science ---Minor – Economics


When I started writing about Academics, little did I envision the number of hours I would devote to the subject. The challenge I faced was to create a degree of interest to hold the reader’s attention a few minutes before they decided to toss it aside as dull and boring.
Political Science, a social science, deals with the Political rather than the ethical, social, or economic relationships of society. It is concerned with the Making of governmental policies as distinguished from Administration of the policies. Its sphere of influence covers a wide range of policy issues on a local, county, regional, state, national or international level. I found it to be a fascinating interesting subject, especially during the period 1946-1950 when most nations were emerging from the destructive effects of World War II into a period of unparallel growth and development. Consider the tremendous impact Television alone has made in the daily life and political thinking of people irrespective of where they live. An event occurring any where in the world it is simultaneously broadcast around the globe and seen by billion’s of people.
Keeping in the bounds of Political Science and making of Governmental Policies, I look back to the spring of 1776 when our Founding Fathers, the Continental Congress, met in Philadelphia to vote on the question of Independence. Before taking a vote they appointed a committee to draft a declaration [or statement] explaining the rational for breaking away from the English Crown. Thomas Jefferson will forever be revered as the author of The Declaration of Independence; A masterpiece containing some of the most famous phases in American History. Jefferson drew heavily on the language and theories of English and Scottish enlightened thinkers; especially the concept of natural rights expressed in John Locke’s Second Treatise on Government, published in 1690. In today’s critical environment Jefferson would be accused of plagiarism. When he presented his draft, the Continental Congress made eighty-six changes eliminating 480 words in the document. Jefferson angrily declared the changes deplorable. A significant change, with far reaching implications was made when Benjamin Franklin replaced Jefferson’s religious phrasing, “we hold these truths to be Sacred and Undeniable that all men are created equal”, with the secular, “we hold these truths to be Self Evident that all men are created equal.”
Permit me to clarify a misconception. The Continental Congress adopted the act for Independence from the Crown on July 2, 1776. not July 4th. What took place two days later on July 4, 1776 was the adoption of the Declaration explaining the act. Don’t hold you breath awaiting July 2nd be declared Independence Day.
During the 1976 bicentennial I toured the home in Philadelphia where Jefferson lived and wrote the Declaration. On the walls of the reception hall was displayed a large replica of the original hand written draft, including the additions and deletions made by members of the Congress. I couldn’t resist pass up the opportunity to say to my boss, “Jimmie, seeing what they did to Jefferson’s writings, the next time you make changes in one of my reports I will say, you have put me in the same league with Thomas Jefferson.” I was too chicken to mention the anger Jefferson exhibited regarding the changes made to his hard work.
I am a firm believer an instructor is the heart and soul of learning. Fortunately, most of my Professors possessed the innate ability to express their thoughts and ideas in a clear concise manner. In addition they encouraged, challenged and motivated students to think and reason beyond the structured box. Dr. Marvin Downey, Professor of Political Science and Constitutional Law, was noted to be tough grader. An “A” was 96-100. [a narrow margin for error] In addition, on each paper he required a signed statement, “I did not give or receive aid on this examination”. His interesting and challenging lectures made an hour session seemed like fifteen minutes.
During the 1948 Presidential election, Dr. Downey encouraged every student, regardless of political persuasion, to become actively involved. President Harry S Truman, Democrat, was running against Republican Thomas Dewey and six lesser candidates, including South Carolina Senator Strom Thurman who bolted the Democratic Party and established the States Rights Party, better known as Dixiecrats. Buckhannon was a stronghold of Conservative Republicans. One day, three or four classmates and I, walking past the County Court House noticed a large 3x5 foot portrait of Thomas Dewey prominently displayed in an upstairs window. Proceeding inside we explained to the County Clerk that the Court House, supported by Democratic as well as Republican taxpayers was a public building; therefore in the spirit of fair and equal treatment of both candidates, a portrait of President Truman, of equal size must be displayed in the adjacent window. [our sanctimonious zeal to right a wrong overlooked the other six candidates] Threatening to have us evicted he sputtered and fumed for a half hour before assuring us the issue would be resolved. And it was, but not the way we anticipated. Dewey’s picture was removed. But we had the last laugh; when the electoral votes were tallied Truman received 303, Dewey 185 and Thurman 39. It is interesting to look back on that election. Truman was vilified as an inept country bumpkin whose talents were more attuned to that of a dogcatcher. Today he is recognized as one of the outstanding presidents.
For several years I kept in touch with Dr. Downey. On one occasion he related after his first day of teaching, his wife anxiously met him at the door to learn how his day had gone. He stated everything went well except there was a student who came to class carrying a copy of The World Almanac and was fearful this fellow may use it to challenge the accuracy of every statement he made. Smiling he looked at me and said, “But you never did”. I maintained an “A” average in every course he taught. With his encouragement, I seriously considered a career in some aspect of Foreign Service.
Shakespeare, a subject definitely not on my priority list was the only elective available one semester that would fit in my schedule, so you can well imagine the degree of enthusiasm I showed taking a seat for the first session. Dr. Samuel Small, a nationally recognized Shakespearian and author of many books and publications quickly showed me the follies of my ways. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute in his classroom. But I can’t say the same about Philosophy. My problem wasn’t the subject matter but Dr. Franquez’s very heavy Brazilian accent. I never understood more than two or three word out of ten he spoke.
In case you are wondering about my minor in economics, I share this irrefutable, unquestionable economic concept with you: “One persons’ expense is another persons’ income.”
Home was over 100 miles from school and to get there on weekends or between semesters I would hitch hike. No fear or concern, those were kinder gentler days. Standing by the roadside outside of town I simply raised my thumb to an approaching car. Within a few minutes someone would stop for me. Many salesmen going home after a long week on the road would ask me to drive while they stretched out on the back seat and sleep until reaching my destination or an intersection where they needed to turn for another route.
Bible was a required course, and to graduate from Wesleyan without being a student of Dr. Brown, a much beloved and respected professor was considered heresy. Unfortunately his classes were always booked to capacity before those with a last name beginning with - W- had an opportunity to register. Protesting, I received assurance of enrollment with Dr. Brown in the summer session, which meant getting my degree in August. After graduation my goal was to get a job and provide for Mother’s comfort and needs far beyond her 66 year. Sadly, Monday April l4th 1949, Mother died of a massive cerebral hemorrhage. Every plan and aspiration was turned upside down or lost in a maze of bewilderment. She was my emotional anchor and vise versa. With pride only a Mother possesses she had anxiously looked forward to see the awarding of my diploma.
Returning to school, the fellowship of friends and associates was a great comfort as I finished out the spring semester.
Summer school by its very nature is void of the comrade associated with typical college life. For this reason and the need to chart a new way of life after graduation, most of my waking hours were devoted to concerns of the future. Consequently my last semester at Wesleyan did not end on a high note. My sister Mary and husband living in New York City having no children urged me to come live with them and go to Graduate School at New York University. [until her death in 1994 she always introduced me as, “my baby brother-Jerry] I agonizing hour over the decision as it meant distancing any contact with an individual I began to consider much more than a friend. Someone I desperately wanted to attend my graduation but didn’t invite for fear she may not understand the significance of her presence, or the worse she may politely decline. Graduation Day, August 27, 1949, was not a happy day for me. To make matters worse, that night as I was leaving Buckhannon in my brothers’ car with Texas license plates, the City Police stopped me for speeding. This was before radar and I was the answer to their prayer. A young male driver, an old car crammed with three years of accumulation, and license plates of a distant state. Speeding was a phantom; I represented an opportunity for lining their pockets. At the Police station a large overbearing officer gave me an ultimatum, immediate payment of $100.00 in cash, or jail! Ordered to empty my pockets, my total wealth was $35.28.Only after they verified my name was among the graduates listed in the evening paper did they believe I was a Wesleyan student on his way home. Taking my $35.00, they handed me the car keys with this message. “Now Boy! The next time we catch you we won’t be this easy. Do you understand?” I received no written citation or receipt for the money? This was arrogant small town police preying on the innocent.
I have given Mike the Waltham watch I received as a graduation gift.
Without any restrictions, my application and transcript was accepted by NYU for September enrollment. Going to school in New York City opened a new and exciting world to me. Mary lived in the Bronx and the Graduate School, a thirty minute ride by subway, was on Washington Square in lower Manhattan at First Street and 5th Avenue, All of my classes were in the afternoon or night. To give Mary and Jack as much privacy as possible most of my studying was done in the New York Public Library at 5th Avenue & 42nd Street. Also it was here I poured over, and responded to the daily letters from West Virginia. The Library was not air-conditioned; consequently during hot weather all windows were open. Unfortunately the wide outside ledge of the windows was home for every pigeon on the island. The putrid odor of pigeon droppings, and turf battle noise by male pigeons defending their harem became an excuse for the hours I spent in Radio City Music Hall, Times Square, including midnight December 31st1949, Coney Island etc. For five cents, a ride on the Staten Island ferry provided a close up observation of the Statue of Liberty.
The first time I entered the classroom for Advanced Economics I wanted to immediately walk out. If the professor wasn’t the old Master Sergeant who refused to let us go up on deck to see the Statue Of Liberty when our troop ship pulled into New York harbor in May 1946, then he must be an identical twin. It was a case of mistaken identity. Talk about a psychological barrier, I was never comfortable in or enjoyed his class.

Be patient as I attempt to navigate between schooling and romance. At times the chronological order may become intertwined, reversed and confusing. Answering any guessing as to the person responsible for the many sleepless hours? The answer = Martha Jean Gawthrop Milam.
In the spring of 1939 the Gawthrop families purchased their present house [constructed in 1863] and farm about a mile from where I lived. Martha Jean was away in College and I didn’t meet her until she came home for the summer. She was tall, slim, with long black hair and very pretty. Also, she was very quiet and reserved. In every respect, she was a lady. In September she was employed to teach all eight grades, to eighteen students, in a one room school approximately twenty miles away. Considering the mountainous roads of the area and forthcoming winter ice and snow, rather than commute from home she obtained room and board with Mrs. Milam a widow, and her two sons, Robert a High School student, and Gilbert responsible for management of the large farm. Apparently farming or teaching was not 24/7 occupations. By June 1940, Gilbert and Martha Jean were married. When World War II broke out, rather than accept a deferment, Gilbert joined the Army Air Corps becoming the pilot of a large four engine B-24 Liberator Bomber. [16,000 were built] Six weeks after the birth of their son John Michael, Gilbert and crew of 9 were killed when their plane crashed into high mountainous peaks near Walla Walla Washington. The investigation analysis stated mechanical malfunction or failure was responsible for the crash, not pilot or navigational error. Martha Jean and Mike returned home. At the time I was in Panama and it wasn’t until the summer of 1947 I had any degree of contact with her. I first saw Mike in June at his Grandparents house. Without hesitation this cute two year old boy with a big smile on his face ran up to me saying, “Hi Man Hi Man”.
Between semesters that summer, Martha Jean and her blind friend Lila Brown, Lila’s younger sister Jewell, a senior in high school, and Bill a cousin were planning a trip to Virginia Beach. On the pretense that Bill didn’t want to be the only boy, they prevailed on me to go along. The real reason, a couple of matchmakers were trying to promote romantic interaction between Jewell and me. In my opinion Jewell was a spoiled brat with the build of a railroad boxcar and personality of a nerd. Constantly she complained. The sun was too hot, the water too cold, the sand burned her feet, the waves too rough etc. A positive aspect of the trip I became better acquainted with Martha Jean. In the summer of 1948, she Mike and I visited her sister, Joanne In Tennessee. There were other occasions when we were together, such as dances, movies etc. She was not a stranger to me.
I can’t give a definite time or date when Martha Jean took on a more dominant place in my daily psychic; But I know what kicked it into high gear! I say it was real, she says it was imaginary. Either way I began to detect strong vibrations that Ross Morgan, a teacher living near her residence was slowly but surely weaving a net to snare her. I said to myself, NO WAY will he be her Husband or Father of that precious boy. However, I had two big handicaps to overcome. First I assumed she may be interested in Ross, and second I had been accepted by NYU and would be leaving soon for New York. Talk about anxiety and apprehension! then as if by magic a bright light came on. An invitation to New York City for a weekend should achieve positive results. And it did. In mid November I met Martha Jean, chaperoned by Lila, at Pennsylvania Station. Lila, greeted me with, “Oh this is so wonderful and Jewell will be joining us from Philadelphia this afternoon.” My mental response is not printable. Totally ignoring Jewell, it was a wonderful, delightful weekend. What was the highlight? Sitting in the balcony of Carnegie Hall, holding her hand while the New York Philharmonic Orchestra played the compassionate and melancholy Pathetique Symphony by Tschaikowsky. It was like a scripted movie, soft melodious music, a dimly lit music hall and Martha Jean at my side. As the raging hormones surged through [my] [her] [our] veins, I knew this romance was on the right track. Oh, the magic of New York City.




Love & Marriage

The long anticipated day, Friday August 4, 1950, finally arrived. By 11:00 AM I finished my last and final examination for the semester, thus completing all required academic courses for a Master’s Degree. Awarding of the degree was contingent upon receipt and acceptance of a thesis, but that could wait. My number one objective was getting aboard a train for Baltimore where Martha Jean and Mike were waiting at her sister’s apartment. This was before Interstate Highways when driving 400 miles over narrow two lane roads from central West Virginia to Baltimore made for a long exhausting journey. Martha Jean and Mike spent the night of August 3rd in Winchester Virginia. The following day rather than risk arriving in Baltimore after the marriage license office was closed for the weekend, she stopped in Frederick Maryland, a town about fifty miles west of Baltimore and obtained the required documents. Our intent was to be married that night in Baltimore. After arriving at Mary Louis and brother in law Joe Gault’s apartment she was reading the fine print on the marriage license. It was not good! “Under the laws of the State of Maryland, the marriage ceremony must be performed in the county where the license was issued”. Needless to say this precipitated palpitations of the heart, and lengthy discussions on what to do. Mary Louise suggested, “Frederick is only 40miles away, why don’t you drive out there and be married today as you have planned?” To me that was a brilliant suggestion. Assuring us they wouldn’t be hurt and disappointed by missing the wedding, unaccompanied by friend or foe, we were married around 8:pm, August 4th l950, by Dr Hahn, in the parsonage of the Methodist Church of Frederick. After two or three day’s sight seeing in the Washington-Annapolis area we returned to Baltimore. Thanking Mary Louise and Joe for taking care of Mike, the three of us took off for New York City. With no job, no apartment and very little money, proudly I drove the 70 or 80 blocks up Fifth Avenue from New York University at 1st street to the northern end of Central Park. I wanted Martha Jean and Mike to experience the excitement of New York City, but also for all New Yorkers to see them, the prize I snatched from under Ross Morgan’s nose.
I have often wondered what must have gone through Mr.& Mrs. Gawthrop’s mind as they watched Martha Jean with Mike drive across the lane and down the road until the car disappeared around the curve at the far end of the meadow. For those who may cynically consider this a case of irresponsible blind love, I will let history be the judge. From my prospective it was Faith, Love Trust and Determination. Today, fifty five years later with Three Wonderful Sons, three Dearest Daughter in Law’s in the world, Eight Grand Children and Four Great Grand Children, who could ask for anything more. I realize all grandparents think they have the cutest, smartest grandchildren in the world. They are entitled to their opinions. What sets them apart from me is, they think it- I know it!!
What happened to academics? Despite good intentions, writing a thesis for NYU within the time frame didn’t materialize. If I had no conscious and was willing to spent $100 or more, I could have submitted a thesis and received a degree. In all of my classes there were men and women auditing the course, not for credit but as a business of writing theses. It was no secret, they passed out business cards and posted their name and fee structure on all bulletin boards. One fellow and I were in so many classes together we greeted each other on a first name basis.
In the mid 1960’s I was awarded a Masters Degree in Finance from The Stonier Graduate School of Banking, Rutgers University. I know of two articles in Financial Publications where data from my thesis was quoted. Professionally Rutgers was a plus that took three summer sessions, submission of a monthly problem, and defending a thesis before a three panel board. I have always regretted Rutgers prevented me from attending Mike’s High School Graduation.