A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO MY ARTICLE – A Tale Worth Telling
By Melinda Jo Ray
I just found this article written about fifteen years ago- floating around in my computer. I took a look, and since I wrote it for a relatively small audience back when, I thought it would be fun to share it with this group. Enjoy!
At the time this was written, I had the enormous pleasure of visiting with some friends of mine. I met them even MORE years ago when we were all singing in the same church choir here in Granbury. Phil and Dixie were a good deal older than I, members – like my parents and grandparents – of that stalwart group of folks referred to now as “The Greatest Generation”. At the time of the interview, I was working on an article on Memorial Day for the newsletter of a local group. Because Phil was a veteran of World War II, he was high on my list of folks I might talk to. But as I visited with my two friends, I kept hearing echoes of other stories told me by my mother and other friends of that age, and that little voice inside that speaks sometimes let me know that there was something bigger here than “just” a typical back in the day article.
Phil and Dixie and others of their era tell us through their stories and the examples set by their lives tales we would do well to listen to. Other cultures, throughout the world and throughout history, have often taught the young to revere the oldest, most experienced members of society. Their words are sought after and listened to and honored. Somehow, in America, we have often forgotten the value of that idea, and that is sad. – Because these folks have things to share that we need to hear.
When I first called to see if we could visit, I was a little apprehensive. I hadn’t seen these folks in a while, and Phil, especially, at age 93, is getting on in years. I wondered – would he feel like talking to me, would his memory be good, would he even want to share his story? Boy was I in for a surprise! I only hope that I am halfway as much of a go-getter NOW as Phil was at 93! What a joy to interview! He and Dixie both were full of details and enthusiasm and ideas! And after 2 cups of coffee and over an hour of great conversation, they escorted me to the back side of their property, a couple of hundred yards away, and showed me Phil’s workshop/garage, where he still worked almost daily on his FIVE antique cars! (That’s a whole other article!!)
But – back to the subject at hand – the World War II era. Throughout the years of the 1930’s, while America was mired in the worst economic depression ever known, the fires of war were being kindled in places all around the globe. By 1940 it was obvious what was coming. In 1941, a call was issued by the American Legion for all local outposts (over 10,000 of them) to ask for a registration of local World War (I) veterans. Most of these men were beyond the age of active combat service. But they were asked to sign up, giving their name, age, and areas of experience and expertise. It would be them who answered the call to teach and train quickly a new generation of warriors to once again fight for freedom and who would remain on the front lines at home as members of local Civil Defense units. The notice to Hood County Legionnaires was issued in the local newspaper on February 20, 1941. Less than a year later those former soldiers from all across the country found themselves on the job, teaching new, raw recruits.
Phil was one of those new recruits. He was an Agriculture major at Rutgers University when war was declared after Pearl Harbor was attacked in December of 1941. He and most of his friends went together to sign up for the Army Air Corps. Their motivation was a mixture of patriotism and pragmatism. They wanted to serve but also knew that if they volunteered, they could pick what branch of the military they were assigned to, whereas draftees had to go into whichever branch they were told to. “In those days, we all wanted to be pilots,” said Phil. “That was the glamour job, so that’s what we all signed up for. But of course we couldn’t ALL be pilots in the end. But we all got to fly. See, nowadays, with our computerized fighter planes, you’ve got one man – one plane and a computer. But back then… flying was a cooperative effort. It took nine men to fly a B29!” He went on to describe the teamwork and skills needed to fly just one aircraft… and my mind boggled.
This was a different world. One that lasted well into my lifetime – when scientists and pilots and engineers of that same generation sent men to the moon, using pencils and paper and slide rules, and humongous computers dumber than the most primitive cell phone. Phil described the cross-training among the five officers who made up the flight crew and the four enlisted men who manned the guns on what was then the most sophisticated aircraft ever built. All of the flight crew had some training as pilots. All the pilots and the navigator had some training on the mechanics of the plane that were monitored by the flight engineers, and they all had to know something about navigation using only landmarks and a compass by day and a sextant and the stars at night. Phil’s specialty became navigation. These young men, often with less than two months of training in the beginning, flew aircraft all over the world, across vast oceans, in all kinds of weather conditions, with navigators using only the centuries old practice of measurements off of three stars or points of land, and time flown. To be a navigator required knowledge of mathematics, geometry, astronomy, geography, and the ability to do mental calculations with lighting speed and accuracy, often while being shot at and or tossed about in a violent thunderstorm. Pilots flew planes with few if any automated features. A steady hand, a keen eye, and the ability to think and act quickly in 3 dimensions were everyday requirements. The flight engineers kept all systems operational using only the simplest of gauges and line of sight observation, and all had to ready to take over the others’ positions at a moment’s notice. The gunners had their marksmanship tested moment by moment, as they used only human eyesight and reflexes to aim and fire a variety of weapons from one bouncing moving platform at other bouncing moving platforms!
The young men in each of those planes formed a bond of trust and teamwork with each other that transcended military rank and civilian background. Their first job was to look out for each other- they were- each of them, by necessity, their brothers’ keeper! They were also their mother’s sons, their fathers’ heirs, their wives’ and girlfriends’ beloveds, and their children’s fathers. Thus, the determination to support their efforts and each other became a way of life among the civilians back home.
At this point in the conversation Phil and Dixie and I diverted from the military focus for a time and regaled each other with stories about the home front. They told of years of rationing and shortages and moving from place to place as Phil’s base of operations changed. And that brought into focus tales from my own family about the war years right here in Hood County, how every element of the community was focused on the cooperative effort to support the war effort and look after each other here at home.
Times were hard, and the sacrifices asked of the home front population were huge! We marveled as we recalled what they had experienced, and I had heard about the spirit of cooperation in those days. I remembered my mother talking of those childhood years and saying, “Even us kids knew that it was us or them. We knew that if our country was going to survive, we had to all work together. We didn’t worry about who was rich and who was poor, or what church people went to, or whatever. We were all in this together, and we had to help our country and support our troops, or Evil would win, and it would be a horrible thing.” When I repeated this to Phil and Dixie, they agreed emphatically, and said that was absolutely the way most everyone felt, for four long years of war, and beyond.
Civilian sacrifices were demanded that seem impossible today. Rationing was implemented on almost all products. It wasn’t voluntary; it was required by the federal government for the good of the nation. Can we even imagine the outcry over such a program today? Butter, sugar, coffee, shoes, tires, gas, cars, and nylon hose- all these and countless other items were on the list. Ration books were issued monthly to every adult citizen. People who needed a new car could sign up for a car lottery at the beginning of the year in the county where they lived. One year in Hood County the local car dealers were told they could sell 100 cars. Over 400 people signed up for the lottery. Names were drawn and winning tickets given out. The other 300 people had to try again next year.
Once a person’s ration tickets were used for a particular item, it was illegal for that person to be sold any more of that product until the next month’s booklet was issued. But neighbors helped each other. My grandparents’ garage, next to their house in Cresson, burned in December of 1942 – literally days after they moved here from Kansas. The local people from the Cresson area turned out in the middle of the night to help put out the blaze. They contained and put out the fire and saved the house, but the detached garage was a total loss. My grandparents’ only car and my grandfather’s work boots were lost in the fire. My grandmother had just used their shoe ration tickets for school shoes for my mother and her sister. The morning after the fire was a Sunday. When they opened their door to leave to walk to church, they found an envelope tacked to the door. In the envelope was a winning car lottery ticket and ration tickets for a pair of work boots. Upon their arrival at community church in Cresson, where they learned all denominations attended with a different preacher each Sunday, my grandfather began to ask around, saying he wanted to find the benefactor and make arrangements to pay off the debt owed over time. My nine-year-old mother was standing next to him and always remembered George Glasscock’s answer. “Now, Mr. Bole, don’t you worry about that. Here in Hood County, we take care of our own.” She always said, no matter where she lived in her life after that, she always thought of Hood County as Home.
The memories of those years stayed with that generation for a lifetime. Newspapers of the day were filled with reports of War Bond Drives, and Collections for the Army Widows and Orphans fund. Young and old alike are exhorted to bring their scrap metal and old tires to be recycled for the war effort. Forty years later, my mother still had the habit of saving used aluminum foil and foil gum wrappers in a big ball to be recycled. Efforts to raise dollars and materials were turned into community projects and get-togethers. Housewives left their homes to work in factories and munitions plants, and men with specific skills remained home as civilian workers in essential industries like oil and gas, agriculture, and structural engineering for the river authorities.
When the was over a very long four years later, a weary yet grateful nation buried its dead, gave thanks for survival, and welcomed its troops home. But war has a price and an aftermath, and once again my visit with Phil and Dixie had a surprise in store. What, Phil asked me, do you think happens to all the stuff-the ships, the planes, the tanks, the jeeps, and the weapons – when the war is over? There was a moment of silence, then another. “Well,” I said, “I guess I don’t know. I never really thought about that part of it.” He nodded. “Most people don’t!” And so he began the part of the World War II story I had never heard before- the story of the Sunset Project.
After the war was over, on all islands all across the Pacific, and all those countries all over Europe, there were planes, and tanks, and jeeps, and weapons- many of them older outdated models that had seen less and less use as technology progressed during the war. Also, there were scores and scores of them- many more than would ever be needed during peacetime. Well, we couldn’t just walk away and leave them to clutter up the world. Also, some held technology with secrets that still needed to be kept. So, before letting all its manpower go, the U.S. military had one more HUGE job to do- to gather up all that material, and bring it home- either to be reused, recycled, or destroyed. The operation to do that was known as The Sunset Project and it lasted for almost five years. Phil’s final years of military service were spent bringing B29 bombers – the workhorse planes of the early war in the Pacific, home to the U.S. to be burned by the hundreds on airbases across the western United States. The columns of smoke of the Sunset Project marked the end of a remarkable era in American history.
Phil and Dixie and I all agreed that all war and its causes were terrible things indeed, and we talked about the fallacy of romanticizing or glamourizing those times. But we also spoke of the lessons to be learned, not about global politics or international affairs, but about teamwork, can-do optimism, the value of and willingness to do hard work, the importance of community and looking out for one another, and the drawing together and unification of a nation. Those are lessons worth talking about and if you’re lucky enough to have a member of that generation still alive in your family and able to share their memories that greatest generation still living them – right here in Granbury and Hood County. If you are lucky enough to know any of them, seek them out and make time to hear their stories. Who knows? Their tales might spark an idea or two about how to navigate the challenges of our own era. – I know this one does, even a decade and a half after the telling! Thanks, Phil and Dixie, for sharing your story!