Mother wore combat boots

         Good evening, 919 Gang. Our series of Memorial Day stories has drawn good reviews, and we have more first-rate accounts tonight.

          RONI GALGANO writes:

          Jack -- Please thank everyone for today's 919 Gang blog. That, and the rotating faces of recent fallen soldiers in today's LA Times online, have left me teary-eyed and at times blubbering aloud, so much and so often, that the cats have scrambled to duck and cover. May I add, my book club in now reading a damn good book: "Unbroken- A WWII Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption" by Laura Hillenbrand (author of "Seabiscuit"). Thanks.

          GINA LUBRANO writes:

          Each of those Memorial Day vignettes was wonderful in its own way. One of the best 919 reports ever. Good to have Bill Hodge back among us.

          DAVID COHEN writes:

          I don't know where I first heard, "Your mother wears combat boots!" -- but I used to be able to say, "Yes, she did, and we're all proud of her." It probably was 1944 when Rose Norwell and Milt Cohen met at a rear medical base in North Africa. She was a nurse, and he had an administrative role within the compound.
          They began spending time together and loved to tell the story of how they would find a bottle of wine, climb atop a huge haystack and watch the fireworks as the Germans bombed Bizerte about 10 miles away. They said the fireworks were spectacular. Once the two of them ran Rommel out of North Africa, the unit moved to Italy.
          They liked each other enough and decided to get married. They honeymooned in Sorrento at a lovely hotel atop the cliff overlooking the Bay of Naples. It wasn't much then, but now it is a 5-star gem called the Grand Vittoria. We had lunch there during a trip last fall -- lunch only, because I don't think we could afford to stay there. We did speak briefly with the desk clerk and were convinced that he might be old enough to have checked mom and dad in 66 years ago!
          After dad died in 2004, mom went back to Sorrento and visited the Grand Vittoria. She told the desk clerk her story and, within 15 minutes, the general manager of the hotel came over to her table at the restaurant and presented her with a bouquet of flowers. America still has many friends in Europe.
          Mom became pregnant with me and headed home before dad did. As mom's labor pains mounted, dad desperately tried to get back to New York for my birth, but he was a few hours too late. He showed up at the hospital in a dirty, wrinkled uniform and a three-day growth of beard, which made him a bit frightening to the staff, who were not going to let him in, much less hold me. He had planned to change into a clean, pressed uniform before going to the hospital, but when he unpacked the fresh duds, they no longer were fresh. In fact, they reeked of cognac; the special, pricy bottle he was bringing home to help celebrate my birth had broken during transit -- and his duffle bag and its contents were soaked in alcohol.
          Dad went on to make the Army his career (hospital administration), serving 31 years. He never saw combat, but he saw its ravages.
          I enlisted and spent three years (1966-69) in the Army as a broadcaster. I was a little apprehensive as I took the oath in New York City, but I had good reason: I had enlisted in the Army, but all of a sudden a door opened to the room where I and several hundred new recruits were waiting and in walked a Marine drill instructor, who began pointing to people to follow him. I recall a sinking feeling that this will not go well if he comes up to me and announces that I am now in the Marines! However, he either knew I was already taken (Army) or he looked at me and thought, "No way we can make a Marine out of this slug," because I escaped and headed off to Fort Gordon, Ga. for basic training.
          Basic was a unique experience. I'll share two stories. I had some ROTC experience in college, so that made me squad leader material. That my dad was a lieutenant colonel assigned to West Point probably played a role, too. To set the stage: squad leaders got little sleep, making sure their men were squared away -- cot, foot locker, uniform, etc. One day we're out in a field for an exercise to distinguish sounds and movement by the enemy. As a squad leader, I was sent into the field to await the instructor's cue to stand up quickly and then drop back down to a position of cover. Other squad leaders were in the field, awaiting cues to fire off a round or make some kind of noise. It took a while for the instructor to get things going, so I got comfortable. The next thing I knew, a large boot was kicking me. I looked up and saw the instructor who had jarred me awake. I was embarrassed, but, for some reason, he didn't discipline me (I think he took pity).
          The other basic training story has to do with the best class I ever took in school: typing. Once they found out I could type, I was assigned to the company office to type orders for the hundreds of men about to graduate from basic. I missed the final forced march and bivouac -- and even the basic training graduation ceremony -- as I hammered out the paperwork that would take the men to their next military assignment.
          Fully expecting an assignment to Vietnam, I was surprised when I was sent to the other "war" zone - Korea. I was there when the Pueblo was taken and made two trips to Panmunjom in anticipation of the release of Cmdr. Lloyd Bucher and his crew. I still remember the day the ship was taken by North Korea: news people began pouring into the country from all over the world, and the Stars & Stripes carried the story on the front page with a huge headline -- but we at AFKN (Armed Forces Korea Network) were prohibited from even mentioning the incident and the resulting crisis on our radio and television broadcasts to American forces in Korea. That order was lifted two or three days later.
          From Seoul, I headed for the Panama Canal Zone, where I was the sports anchor on the evening newscasts. I had graduated from high school in the Zone and was excited to be back. It was where I had begun my journalism career -- editor of the high school paper, writing for a daily newspaper in Panama City, assisting military broadcasters with their telecasts of high school football games, and working summers in the Panama Canal Information Office. Once it became obvious that the enemy was not going to attack the canal while I was stationed there, the Army discharged me, and I began my broadcasting career in earnest.
          Military service at that time was nearly mandatory (depending on your draft number). I won't debate the merits -- or lack of -- the war in Vietnam, but being in the Army was a tremendous experience. It taught so many young men a skill that would translate to civilian life once they were out of harm's way. It exposed them to different cultures, different people, different ideas ... and it taught them how to get along with people. That's my take, anyway, and I am among those who believe that mandatory government service of some kind would not be a bad thing for this country. But that's another topic for another day in the 919 chronicles.
          To all of you who served in the military -- or supported others who did -- my hat is off to you. You are why this country has endured and will continue to do so.

          JANET LOWE writes:

          My most beloved Vet was my Aunt Virginia, who served as a WWII Army nurse in the Pacific. She would not talk about her experiences. Nevertheless she went on to become an important public health service employee in Kansas. At her funeral in 2000 in Topeka, the VFW did an honor guard for her. Their average age was 80. They shuffled down the church aisle, some of them dragging oxygen bottles. They solemnly went through the ceremony and presented us the flag. Afterward, other vets at the service spoke of Aunt Ginny and described her service, her head injuries evacuating soldiers from a field hospital during a Japanese attack and her recovery later at the Veteran's Hospital in Topeka. Aunt Ginny's flag is about 5 feet away from me at this moment.

          BILL HODGE writes:

          Rumors about Joe Hamelin:
          As some of you know, Joe and I are close friends. After leaving the Union, Joe became Sports Editor/Columnist for the Sacramento Bee. Years later, he joined Riverside as a columnist. Now retired, he still lives in Riverside. He co-authored a book, in its second printing, "To Fly and Fight: Memoirs of a Triple Ace" on Chuck Yeager. Another former Union sports writer and buddy, Ailene Voisin, is a columnist for the Bee after NBA coverage in Los Angeles and Atlanta.
          Joe's wife, Sandy, is a daughter of former Navy pilot Captain Howard Rutledge, who was flying an F8E Crusader off the carrier Bon Homme Richard in 1965 over Thanh Hoa, about 90 miles southwest of Hanoi, Viet Nam, when hit by anti-aircraft fire. He bailed out just before it exploded and then spent 7.5 years as a captive (five years in solitary).
          A Commander at the time, Rutledge was severely and brutally tortured over the years before being released with the last group of Americans from the Hanoi Hilton. He received three Silver Stars, two Legion of Merits and the Distinguished Flying Cross, among his other awards. Before his death from cancer, he wrote "In The Presence of Mine Enemies." It is incredible reading. Sandy and her mother were deeply involved in the national campaign to return the missing POWs. Sandy has his military things/photos, including the chipped cup her father used to tap code messages on cell walls to other captives. I only met her father once, a very slight and small man. Every time I visit Joe and Sandy, I hold that cup and feel honored.

          DEAN WARINER writes:

          My memorial day remembrance was in 1966 when I was in the Imperial Valley and Wild Bill Parry asked me to get a feature for that day.
          Happened to pass the cemetery in Imperial and Boy Scouts had put up little flags on all the markers. I stopped to get a picture with my two and a quarter reflex but I couldn't see much until I got down on my belly and inched up to one of the flags. The ground view was great. Then I drove to Brawley and found a vet and his family playing softball. Bill ran to pictures big because the story was small, and I was much relieved I had discharged my duty. I watched the PBS special on Memorial Day and felt sad that so many lives were lost accomplishing so little.

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          REBER: The 919 Gang wishes Happy Birthday (May 31) to Bill Arballo and Barbara Moss. Have a great day, you each deserve one.

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          JIM OKERBLOM writes:

          Not sure if you have seen this, but I hadn't. Really brings home how big this thing was.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1389737/Joplin-MO-tornado-At-89-dead-twister-cuts-4-mile-swathe-Missouri-town.html

          REBER: This is a fantastic collection of photos, many before and after, plus a couple of videos. The destruction is almost unbelievable.

Jack Justus Reber

P.O. Box 2239
Ramona, CA 92065
U.S.A.

Remember

          Good evening, 919 Gang. Thanks again to Terri Spilecki for her suggestion that we tell stories related to Memorial Day.

          PAT ROGALLA writes:

          When Helen Zugelder was  “off” at the San Diego Union, it was my turn at the obits and returning Service column – the list of servicemen arriving in New York and returning to San Diego.  My husband, Ed, was one of the Army Air Corps soldiers on that list December 17, 1945.  He enlisted and graduated from the Air Corps Cadets at 18 in 1943.  Ed received his first Air Medal for “meritorious achievement against the enemy” when he was 19 years old.  At 20 he was awarded a cluster.  Later a Presidential Unit Citation.
          I wondered if he felt fear flying during the war.  “Once” he replied. (Twelve planes went down in his group.  Eleven men in each one including a good friend.  I met the friend at a reunion years later.  He survived in a hospital, but he lost a piece of his head and one eye.)
          VE Day Ed was “grounded” in Quidenham, England – all B-17s were.  Around the air base English farmers burned hay stacks to light up the sky.  Every building had lights on, the first time in seven years.  The ground crews shot up flares.  I once asked Ed what he thought at the time.  “I was glad to be alive” he said.  “I was going home.  It was all over”.
          Actually it wasn’t.  There was still Japan.  But for Ed there was a boat ride on the “Europa” – the pride of the German people and now in the hands of the United States – a spoil of war.
          We were living in San Francisco when Ed read in the newspaper a B-17 was flying into an airbase north of San Francisco.  He asked if I would like see the plane.  Of course I would.
          It was a gloomy day.  Suddenly the clouds parted and the sun shone through.  A big silver plane glittered in the sun’s rays.  I turned to Ed to say something like WOW and I saw this brave man with tears flowing down his face.
          Ed was the bombardier in the glass nose of the B-17.  They never knew the target until the morning (3 or 4 a.m.) briefing.  But the Germans knew.  They always circled the place of impact with anti-aircraft guns.  In the pilot’s seat on the B-17 was Capital Westernhoff whose grandmother lived on a hill in Germany.  After a bombing mission, if they were near her home, the pilot would circle her place several times dipping the wings.  His grandmother would run outside and wave.  (War has many stories.)
          And so on May 21 (Armed Forces Day) and May 30 (Memorial Day) my American Flag (courtesy of the “President and a Grateful Nation”) will wave in the wind in front of my house.  Not only for Ed, also for my cousin Carl, in the first draft, Hawaii, my father a soldier in the 29^th Balloon Company 1918 World War I, my stepfather a chief in the Navy World War II and a survivor of three ships the Japanese sank in WWII and Ed’s father who was “over there” as a medic in World War I.
          My Aunt Bulah visited her oldest son, Carl buried at Punch Bowl, Hawaii, (I also visited his grave) and her two younger sons, Ray buried in the U.S., wounded in Germany, Stanly wounded in Korea and buried in the U.S. I sat beside my aunt at her last son’s funeral.  When the Honor Guard presented the flag to her she said, “Please give the flag to someone else.  The President has given me two."
          The Honor Guards saluted my Aunt Bulah.

          BILL HODGE writes:

          It is Memorial Day, and I'm thinking about my father. My parents have long passed away, and my stepmother's daughter has his casket flag and World War II items. He had three big trunks of army things. Mom also had a large trunk of magazines covering the war, and I loved to look at them. There were also boxes of short letters that Dad wrote her. He always included thoughts about accepting death if it meant their son (me) would never have to face what he is going through again for freedom. When he came home, I hid under the covers at night and always heard dad yelling while he was dreaming. The screams continued until the day he died.
          During Dad's later years, we would often play checkers on his screened back porch. He would never talk about the war, and I would never speak about my service during the Viet era. Whenever I won a game, it was because he let me.
          I was a toddler during ww-two, and we didn't see Dad for more than three years ... somewhere with the army in the Pacific. V-mail letters, often months late, or no contact at all. Mmom would put me on her lap and read them to me. Sometimes, even re-read them a month later. We stayed in Lost Nation, Iowa, and I used to sneak down to Main street every day to look at a huge white board with flags and name-plaques honoring all the local people in the services. Mom quickly discovered my secret trips and began to leash me to our big white husky, Toby, who loyally guarded me and wouldn't let me cross streets :). Fortunately, we didn't have to as Toby weighed 150 pounds, and I wasn't even in kindergarten. Lost Nation was a very little farm town, everyone knew each other, and people quickly began watching for us, waving and offering cookies/brownies/small cakes. Toby and I went at the same time in any weather, and he was always ready for snacks, including my share. Snow was no problem as Toby simply pulled me through the drifts. Sometimes even upright. One corner of the honor board, rimmed in black, was where the town council moved the plaques for deaths. I always looked at the corner first ... that way I knew for sure if Dad was still alive. In my little kid mind, that big white board was my only real link to him for all those years.

          ROY SCHNEIDER writes:

          I'll spare folks the "war stories," but I'm proud to report that I served as an Army Combat Engineer from 1968-71. Basic training at Fort Polk, La.; AIT training as a scoop loader/bulldozer operator at Fort Leonard Wood, Mo. But for the most part I just drove various sized trucks during my tour of duty. The only reason I didn't end up in 'Nam was because I was barely 17 when I joined, too young for combat service. Nonetheless, I serve my entire time overseas, including two tours in Germany. Spent my first year at Camp Casey, Korea, when we weren't out living in tents (ala the MASH TV show) pouring bunkers close to the DMZ. Though there was no open combat in Korea at the time, it was still considered a "hardship tour." Biggest memory was driving the ridge line along the DMZ during a very tense time. The North Koreans had captured our ship, The Pueblo, and its crew and was holding them captive. I remember driving that tense DMZ, looking into North Korea at the guard towers and knowing they were looking back...hopefully not through the scopes of their rifles.

          THANE McINTOSH writes:

          My military career was very similar to Chuck Boyd’s—drafted in ’57 and out in ’60—no overseas duty. I went to Fort Huachuca, Ariz., with a photographer MOS but soon found that the photo section of my battalion was being phased out. When my first sergeant found I could type well he quickly had my MOS changed and I became Headquarter Company clerk for the next 20 months. I loved Ft. Huachuca for its climate and isolation. Except for two months at Fort Bragg, Arizona was my only Army home. My induction in the Army at Fort Ord had one notable thing; they were transitioning from the olive drab Class A uniforms with the Eisenhower jackets into the blue//green bus driver type. When I showed up at Fort Huachuca in my ODs I had to spend a few days in the reception barracks until I got my new duds. They also gave me brown boots and two cans of black shoe polish so I spent the first part of my Arizona tour dying my boots.
          My most notable Army experience was in 1962 when I served a two-week reserve duty in San Francisco at the sixth Army headquarters at the Presidio. It was great, right next to downtown with make-work duties. Judy flew up from San Diego and we had a second honeymoon. But on the second week came the Cuban Missile Crisis and things got frantic. The command set radios up at all the offices, and we were ordered to listen to Jack Kennedy tell us that we might be going to war. It was quite a scene with the active duty troops looking very glum and worried. They immediately told all the reservists who had administrative MOSs that our reserve week might be extended because of the need to pull and process hundreds of reservist 201 files. They were getting ready to staff an army for a possible invasion of Cuba. They had a list, and we spent two days pulling and sorting personnel files. But the Russians caved, and WWIII was averted. No more excitement. A a  career  clerk I did not do much marching. That’s why I have a pair of boots with black polish flaking off over brown leather stuck back in one of my closets. On the inside top of each the boot is a smudged bit of writing “McIntosh, US56296192.

          LAUREL SCOTT writes:

          My dad, too, died on Memorial Day. He was a Korea veteran and very, very proud of his service (never an ex-Marine!) though he opted not to renew after he married and I came along. He'd come through Camp Pendleton and MCRD. After I bought a house in Santee, he finally agreed to visit me (a lifelong smoker with bad legs, travel was a misery for him) to make sure his little girl had made a good investment. I got to take him to the museum at MCRD and he bought a fatigue jacket he wore nearly daily the last years of his life. Blessings to all who serve and have served.

          MICHAEL GRANT writes:
          I was born in March, 1943. Slowly I became aware that I was living in a house with only women: my grandmother, my mother, and two aunts. No men. But there were men in the family, two uncles. Clyde, the elder, was in the Army in the South Pacific. He was a colonel in the old horse cavalry, which in WWII slowly morphed into the armored cavalry. Dick was in the Army in Europe. He was a sergeant in an anti-aircraft unit. His landing craft was shot out from beneath him on the approach to the Normandy beaches on June 6, 1944. I didn’t meet them until 1945-46, when they came home. They didn’t show much evidence of where they had been.
          Clyde, a reserved type, became manager of the utilities company, then was appointed postmaster. Dick, a playboy type, went back to college and became a geologist. Both were clear-eyed, and by all appearances content, and both looked after me, in their own ways. Later I came to understand that my father, a Colorado man, was also in the Army and had received basic training at Camp Barkeley, outside my home town, Abilene, Texas. My mother told me she met him at the USO downtown. She heard him singing first. He was an accomplished tenor and he was singing for the crowd when she walked in. They married in 1942. I am one of many Abilenians born because of the war, and Camp Barkeley’s presence on the outskirts. They were divorced in 1943, just before I was born, and I did not know of my father’s whereabouts, or meet him, until the summer of 1989.
          I was also in the Army, 1966-69, drafted but enlisted for Artillery OCS, then served two years in West Germany in a unit that fired not cannons, but nuclear-ready Honest John rockets. So I didn’t have to go to Vietnam. I always carried some guilt about that, until in the 1980s, in Washington, D.C., I visited the Memorial Wall there, with its names of the 55,000 Vietnam dead etched into its black granite. It’s a long story, but I left my guilt at the Wall that day. I walked away feeling simply lucky. Every Memorial Day, it’s the Wall I feel, and the sharp edges of the names etched into the reflective surface, catching my fingers.

          CAROLINE FENTON writes:

          Like Reenie Shea, I would like to honor my father, Otho Rolla Williams Jr., who served in World War II. He trained as an officer and landed in Normandy on D-Day Plus One. He was captured by the Germans and became a prisoner of war at Oflag 64 and Stalag III-A. Growing up I knew he was a POW. But the conversations were pretty simple -- usually while we were watching Hogan's Heros (one of his favorite shows) -- when I would ask "did you ever try to escape?" He said there were soldiers who planned escapes but no one ever made it.
          In addition to his writings, letters and military docs, I inherited his military medals and ribbons. He was awarded a bronze star and two purple hearts, but he never received the POW medal. This month, after help from Congressman Bilbray, I received the long-overdue recognition. It came in a thin cardboard box, pinned to a thin piece of white cardboard, and mailed to me from Congressman Bilbray with a nice letter. His purple hearts and bronze star came in nice, substantial "jewelry" quality boxes. Sign of the times, I guess.
          The time he endured as a POW are best described in his writings and military documents. The first excerpt is from a response to what I assume was a debriefing questionnaire that I do not have. My father was always as positive as he could be when writing home to his parents. These descriptions are the real truth:

          "Lived like pigs, sleeping on straw in farm house loft converted into PW cage for several days after capture. Then on March back to Alencon and Chartres we were totally dependent on French civilians to feed us besides green apples we would scrounge from orchards we passed. It was like this to Chalons, the Germans apparently having no setup to handle food, clothing and lodging for PWs – if, in truth, they wanted to be bothered. We were exhibited along one of those wide Parc Boulevards for several hours. The story was that we were waiting for the train to be found, but we figured the Gs wanted to impress the Fr that G was winning the war.

          "The Germans apparently had a clearly defined PW diet. It was monotonously insufficient to sustain life.. The German idea was to feed the PWs as little as possible and blame the lack of food on inability of G transport to move because of Allied air raids….Breakfast: ersatz coffee and that’s all. Lunch: a bowl of thin soup and tea, and no second helping. Dinner: two vegetables (usually rutabagas and potatoes) and a slice of German bread. Once, I remember, I was much surprised to find a scrap of meat in my soup. Another time – much too late – I found that the spotted peas in one brad of soup were really weevil infested.
          "Beds and bedding were lice-infested. At the time I returned to U.S. control, my waist was one big welt from many bites. We were handicapped in fighting the bugs by lack of DDT powder and unwillingness to give up our blankets even for a short time in the winter because of the cold."

          In a letter home, he described the road to freedom:

          "Our camp at Lukenwalde was liberated by the Russians on April 21 (1945). Not a shot was fired in the immediate camp area.

          "Time passed very slowly as we awaited deliverance into American hands. Our release had to await diplomatic action, a very slow process… On May 18 we were still in Lukenwalde, and I decided to cross the Elbe into U.S. Control on my own. So off I went accompanied by two other officers.
          "We walked to the Reich Autobahn and hitched to the Elbe just west of Coswig. En route we fell in with some Dutch, Belgian and Swiss civilians who treated us perfectly well.
          "At the Elbe we watched some Russian troops build a pontoon bridge – the autobahn bridge having been destroyed by the Germans. After the bridge was completed we tried to cross over but were unsuccessful. It took a pass and of course, we had none.
          "We left our civilian buddies and headed west toward Dressau. Just outside that town we learned from some French that there was an American bridge across the Elbe at Barby – up the river a ways from Dressau. Then Darby became our destination.
          "On the way we passed Zerbst, a town of about 20 thousand with whole blocks completely devastated by aerial bombardment and American artillery – it was in the zone of that 9^th army bridgehead over the Elbe, but Americans had since withdrawn….
          "We went to Coswig, on the Elbe, and holed up at a French POW camp. The French treated us grandly, too. Our first fried potatoes and meat for ages… a day later we entered another camp in Coswig. Here there were two American sergeants and five British lads. One of our American NCOs spoke fluent Russian, so we were set…we had spring beds, sheets, maid service, meals in the room, fried potatoes, good soup, bread, sugar  - we were really riding high!
          "One more day passed. Then the Russian camp commandant loaded us on a truck and personally escorted us across the Elbe and across the Molde River and into American hands. From then on it was easy.
          "To Halle via truck. Then C-47s to Paris. At Paris I was re-outfitted and sent to an American camp outside La Havre. Camp Lucky Strike it was known as.
          "I must say a word about Paris. It is a really beautiful city. I was there only 24 hours, but I loved it on sight. I would like to return there someday…more about Paris when I’m home.
          "At Lucky Strike it seemed advisable to ship to the British Isles and thence home. I figured it would be quicker that way. I hope I’m right.
          "Today I’ve just finished a '7-day delay en route to the U.S.' it’s called. Two days hence I shall receive my movement orders. Probably I’ll be sent to a camp here and wait a week or two for shipment out…more about that when I find out.
          "Here I am in London. Like Paris, it is an enchanting city. But, unlike Paris, it has no wide streets, no chic women, no color, no dash. It is firm, stable, historic, and I like it – but in a different way from Paris.
          "I spent most of my leave in Cardiff renewing acquaintances first made just prior to D-Day 1944….if you know what I mean. Cardiff is a nice town, too.
          "I can’t promise, but I think I’ll be home in three weeks. And when I am home, it’ll be for 60 days. Can you stand me for that length of time? With my eggs every morning? Golf, etc.?
          "Get that Pontiac ready to move. Please relent, Dad, and give me plenty of gas.
          "Gosh, I want to see you. And you’re almost within arm’s reach this time….By the way, tell Gramp to get the fishing poles ready. Give him my best. I think of him so often.
          "Love to you both, Rolla."

          REBER: Rolla's letters are a treasure, Caroline. They should be preserved for generations to come.

          JOHN McPEEK recalls:

          (True story, so help me.) During the two years, two months, six days, nine hours and twenty-four minutes that I served in the Pacific during WWII, I fired a total of seven shots. They were triggered on newly invaded Emirau Island, at the tip of the Bismarck Archipelago, three degrees off the equator. It was early, a couple hours after storming ashore at dawn, just like in the movies. I, like everyone in my Navy amphibious radar unit, knew that we would be eating K-rations for an unknown time. I was assigned to watch over a roadside stash of equipment. While sitting on a box in solitary boredom, I heard a chicken clucking in familiar barnyard English. Wow! I could be wonderfully envied that evening as I ate a delightful chicken dinner. I whipped out my 45-Colt automatic and zeroed in on the chicken. With the barrel nearly stuffed up that chicken's rear end, I fired ... then fired again ... and again. The chicken ran, as all chickens tend to do when annoyed, in circles. Seven shots, each of which did little more than speed up the chicken. Humiliation of the first order. I returned to my seat on the box, thankful that no one had witnessed my disgraceful display of marksmanship.
          How I, a lowly radar operator, obtained a .45 automatic is another fascinating war story. And by the way, tiny Emirau Island was occupied only by a few natives, some of whom must have raised fleet-footed chickens.

          REBER: Thanks to all who wrote, and if there are more stories as good as these, we don't have to wait until the next Memorial Day to tell them.

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          JOHN FREEMAN writes:

          My father (Don Freeman) was going through some memorable photos he found in his desk at home. These shots hadn’t seen the light of day for many years, but they were in perfect condition. When he showed me this handful of 8 x 10 black-and-white glossies, I thought to myself, what an amazing career.
          There they were, perfectly preserved studio-quality shots from the ’50s that showed Dad conducting interviews with the likes of Groucho Marx, Marlene Dietrich, Perry Como, Ernie Kovacs, Benny Goodman and George Gobel. Quite an assortment. The last photo of the batch was the photo I’ve sent along. As you can see, it shows Dad, notepad duly in hand, intently listening to a fresh-faced, fast-rising singing sensation by the name of Elvis Presley.
          When I asked Dad when he thought that shot might’ve been taken, he wasn’t exactly sure. “Sometime in the ’50s” was his close-enough guess. Turns out, after a quick Google search, I learned that exact date was April 4, 1956 when Elvis came to town for a two-night stand at Glacier Garden, a 5,000-seat ice skating arena located downtown. More precisely, according to Wikipedia, it was located at the bayfront intersection of Eighth Avenue and Harbor Drive. I have a vague memory of seeing the Harlem Globetrotters perform there as a very young kid.
          So what was it like to interview Elvis? Dad put it this way: “He was a nice young Southern boy, very polite, but he really didn’t have much to say.” No great fan of what was to become known as rock ‘n roll, Dad didn’t stay for that night’s show. But apparently it caused quite a ruckus, given Elvis’ then-shocking gyrations and the resulting frenzy from his young female fans. There were arrests for bad behavior and the police chief defiantly vowed that he would never allow Elvis Presley to return.
          How do I know that? Well, as it turns out, The Reader a few months ago (March 30) published a short feature titled “Long Live the King.” Written by Jay Allen Sanford, the piece recalled Elvis’ first appearance in San Diego. Here’s the link: http://bit.ly/lD6yC5
          The article recalls how Elvis had performed the previous day (April 3) on TV’s “The Milton Berle Show” aboard the aircraft carrier USS Hancock, which was docked nearby. Elvis’s next two concerts were standing-room sellouts at Glacier Garden. He made $15,000 for his efforts.
          Sanford further reports that the day after his San Diego shows, Elvis signed a seven-year movie contract with Paramount. Three weeks later, Sanford writes, Elvis’s “Heartbreak Hotel” became the No. 1 single in the land.
          That was 55 years ago. We were all much younger then, but Elvis apparently lives forever.

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          REBER: Last night Michael Grant couldn't remember the name of the basketball fan sitting near him on the Union sports copy desk.

          DAN BERGER writes:

          Was Michael Grant thinking of Joe Hamelin, the NBA writer who ended up doing the same for the Sacto Bee?

          RICK SMITH writes:

          Jerry Magee probably was in Tokyo to cover the first NFL game outside North America...Chargers vs. St. Louis Cardinals, 1976. I think the wiry basketball guy was Joe Hamelin, who later became sports columnist in Riverside. I was at the CIF track meet yesterday with John (Big) Nettles, getting along fine with his prothesis. He happened to speak fondly of Michael Grant and how Mike aspired to be a columnist and had to move out of sports to be one. In the name of Bud Schrake, Gary Cartwright and other Texans, Union sports missed a good one. And whatever became of Jim Trinkle?

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          BOB ELLEDGE writes:

          Incredible perspective on the Joplin storm.
Satellite images of Joplin, Mo., before and after the tornado
          Source: latimes.com
          Use the slider to compare the landscapes before and after the tornado. Images courtesy Google, DigitalGlobe.

Jack Justus Reber

P.O. Box 2239
Ramona, CA 92065
U.S.A.

Thanks, Dad

          Good evening, 919 Gang. No chit-chat; let's get to it.
   
          REENIE SHEA writes:
          Terri Spilecki suggested we ask veterans about their tours of military service. This is a weekend we should honor all those before us and serving now who keep us safe.
          This may be inappropriate but I would like to honor my father who served 27 years in the U.S. Army. As a former military brat I am well aware of the hardships service members and families cope with when their loved one is serving in a war. Daddy served in World War II, Korea and Vietnam twice. He is interred at Ft. Rosecrans National Cemetery where my brother and I will visit with my 92-year-old mother on Monday. She will eventually rest with him. My father was of "the greatest generation" who never, ever spoke about duty much to the disappointment of my brothers. I watched my mother make the best of substandard housing provided on military bases giving us a cheery environment while her husband was in a foreign land. As self-involved children we did not realize how difficult it was for her, but now I appreciate her strength. Daddy spent a year at Walter Reed Army Medical Center recuperating and relearning how to walk after injuries suffered in Korea, but he always returned home.. When he was dying of cancer his devotion and concern for my mother was heartbreaking.
          Thank all of you who have served, and if you ever have the opportunity to visit the D-Day beaches in Normandy, France, please do. The visit is humbling and will make you realize the sacrifices unknown persons have made for you.

          CHUCK BOYD writes:

          When I hold monthly meetings of the photography group I formed 3 years ago, I usually mention I had been a newspaper staff photographer and a combat photographer in the Marine Corps. These are some of my credentials to the 275+ members who have joined.
          Once my MOS (Military Occupational Specialty) was established, I ventured forth with my 4x5 Speed Graphic to record the images of "combat" from 1957 - 1960. As you may recall that was a wonderful peaceful time in our military history, and the Marine Corps was doing more PR with cameras than filming fierce fighting. Whew.
          After boot camp at Parris Island and advanced infantry training at Camp Lejeune, N.C., I found myself in a line awaiting assignment of my permanent MOS. The 25 guys ahead of me had been told to report to MP school, and I hurriedly spoke up when it was my turn. "Sir, I am a published freelance photographer in LIFE and TIME magazines."
          I was told to report to the Base Photo Lab and, behind me, the MP school continued to receive more candidates.
          The Warrant Officer in charge of the Photo Lab appreciated my honesty when I explained that, while I had indeed used a Speed Graphic in high school, I had been in print only in the school newspaper and the annual Yearbook. My USMC assignments were to cover a lot of parades, changes of command and follow reservists around in the field during their annual two-week stint at Lejeune. I was attached for four months to a tank battalion and climbed down cargo nets during a pre-dawn landing during training at Vieques, an island off the coast of Puerto Rico.
          I also traveled with the Camp Lejeune varsity football team to bases all over the US for inter-service rivalry games. That led to me being in San Diego for a game against MCRD where I met a professor at USD who had taught me in South Carolina, and that led to my photo scholarship at the university when I finished my time with the Marines.
          Yes, Memorial Day brings back many pleasant memories for me.

USMC reservists in the woods

Chuck then

Chuck now, with full-length PE shirt

          DON BAUDER writes:

          Terri Spilecki wants war stories. The 919ers will no doubt be showered with tales of heroism, valor. I want to spoil the party right now. I was in the National Guard for a mere six months of active duty. We were contemptuously called rinky-dinks by the older soldiers. I was a clerk-typist at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, a hell-hole. I did not win, nor did I deserve, a Purple Heart or Croix de guerre. When I was an undergrad, I was kicked out of ROTC with this report, "This man is not a military man." It's the greatest accolade I have ever received. Oh yes: thanks, Jack, for missing my birthday. You see, I turned 75 today (May 28) and don't like to be reminded of it.

          REBER: Lest I miss another, here are Happy Birthday (May 29) wishes to Scott Linnett.

          JOE GANDELMAN writes:

          Am getting ready to head out into the chaos that will be our highway system on Sunday because I have programs at two schools in Arbuckle, near Williams. (The good thing is I can eat at that WONDERFUL Italian restaurant in Williams and on the way back stop and stay over at Pea Soup Anderson's another one of my favorites).
          This is a kind of bittersweet weekend for me. Several years ago tomorrow is the anniversary of my father's death. He was a World War II vet and died on Memorial Day (after he was taken off the machines).
          My father didn't talk much about World War II except that in some ways it was a vital part of his life. His Dad had come down to see him off and then half way back returning home he told my grandmother that something told him he had to say goodbye to his son again. There was a car crash and only my grandfather died.
          My father never liked Ronald Reagan not due to politics but because he often told the story about Reagan giving the troops a speech that was rousing. Someone yelled out: "Hey, why don't you go over?" and my father said Reagan turned as white as a sheet (it turned out later there was a REASON Reagan could not fight) and discreetly moved off the stage.
          My father served all over and was in a boat that was bombed. He served a lot of time in Australia, and my mother could never make lamb. His housing was near the kitchen and he always told us about how they made lamb all the time, and he insisted they used old lambs that just up and died for food. My mother only made lamb when my father was home.
          But it was the year when Saving Private Ryan came out when we had a glimpse of my father's experience. He said he read about it and that he and others who served often preferred not to talk about what they saw since it was so hideous. He told me a little about the body parts strewn all over, etc., and that he'd never see the movie because it would trigger too many memories.
          World War II service was something he looked back on with enormous pride but even mores o because he and others in his generation knew they had to do it and it took precedence over anything else.
          I'll never forget seeing my father shortly after 911. He looked shaken and I realized what it was: He thought that with the end of World War II he and his generation had put an end to an international mass murderer and here was Osama bin Laden, potentially a new Hitler.
          I may do a blog post on this for Memorial Day, but it was always ironic that he passed away on a day that was truly sacred to him. He didn't go to the VFW, didn't advertise it or dwell on it.
          But he always kept and cherished his WWII photos, always kept his helmet, always kept the military jacket with the stripes on it. He saved all the love letters my mother wrote him. After he died my mother wanted to throw them out. I salvaged them.

          REBER: As Don Bauder mentioned, the Army picked hell-holes for bases, although I have to say I was really lucky to spend most of my time in Milwaukee. I loved it. On the other hand, I did a turn at Camp Roberts, Calif., in mid-summer where the heat was unbearable and the dust so bad you had to hold your M1 by the barrel and use your foot to work the lever. When I was drafted I had been supporting myself (generally precariously) for five years, and I decided I was going to go where I was sent and do what I was told but generally duck responsibilities and let someone else feed and shelter me. That didn't last long. I was sent to Milwaukee and a Nike missile battalion designed to protect the city from Russian planes and missiles coming over the pole. When my newspaper background was discovered, I was pressed to become the battalion information and education NCO. I resisted a while, and finally relented. It worked out great. I was the only one who knew what my job entailed and how to do it (just like at the U-T), so I was left alone to do my job. No KP and no guard duty. An Army sedan was available anytime I needed it for work, and I came and went on my own schedule. Promotions were easy. I went from E-1 to E-5 in 18 months, the legal minimum. The extra money was nice, plus I got a private room in the barracks. I didn't stay in that room very long because I met a beautiful girl who was teaching in Kenosha, and we married about the time I made E-5. We have valued friends from those Army days. I didn't want to go in the service, but where would I be if I had not met Mary?

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          BERNIE JONES writes:

          I was pleasantly surprised this morning to see Bill Hodge's posting to the 919 Gang. Hodge was news editor when I joined the desk from Baltimore in 1982. He was my boss for much of that time, but we eventually became friends. As many of you recall, Hodge left the paper at the time of the merger in early 1992, and for what seemed like an eternity, people would ask, “Have you heard from Hodge?” Sadly, I had to say, “No.” His note reminded me of our friendship but also the great years I spent as an assistant news editor, political editor and eventually news editor and all the wonderful, very professional people I worked with during that time.

          MICHAEL GRANT writes:
          Reading Bill Hodge’s piece yesterday reminded me of a lot of old-timey newspapering going on around the Union sports rim when Bill was in the slot. I can’t remember if we had paste pots or not -- probably not, by then (1972-73). We did have the phones to our ears a lot, taking dictation from press boxes around the country and from the dog track and jai alai fronton in Tijuana. I remember taking a story from Jerry Magee who was in Tokyo for some reason. I also remember Magee after the Holy Roller game, totally apoplectic, sitting at the rim thumbing frantically through the NFL rulebook. There was a sub slot, wiry, basketball fan, whose name I cannot remember. Joe somebody. I do remember Bill Hollohan, older, heavy smoker, who had terrible purple-faced coughing fits. And John Nettles was the clerk. He answered the phone with “gimme rewrite” flair: “Union sportsssss, Nettles speakingggg.” Fun. Some of us rimmers would go over at dinner time to Crystal T’s at the Town & Country and drink a couple of jumbo martinis and eat popcorn and come back for the evening hours as if we’d gone out for tea sandwiches. Hard-bitten, we were.

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          DIANA MORTENSON writes:

          Gary and I got back Friday from one of our cross-country jaunts. Last Sunday we were headed down Missouri around 5'ish looking for a hotel for the night in Joplin. We would have stayed there if not for a weather alert on the radio. We decided to keep going another 50 miles to Bentonville, Ark. Even there, there were severe storm alerts and sirens all evening long. We were glued to the TV and were amazed at the professionalism of those alerts. Minute by minute they could track each storm cell. They were promising everything ... tornadoes, severe thunderstorms, 100 mph winds, baseball-sized hail. You name it! There were a number of these slow-moving cells heading towards a number of cities and towns. They even printed a list of towns on the screen and listed how many minutes it would take the storm to reach each place. They were telling people to get to their safe spot now and if they were in a mobile home to get outside and dive into a ditch NOW.
          The hotel manager was calling everyone to come to the safe spot off their lobby which was nothing more than their breakfast room. Only a few of us came. It was hardly safe by any means. There was quite a thunder and lightning storm, and the rain was the heaviest we had ever seen ... like a monsoon. An old man driving down from the Joplin area ducked into our hotel to get away from the storm. He was very shaken at seeing several semi-trucks overturned on the highway.
          Eventually, we went back to our room for the rest of the evening listening to the sirens and watching the weather reports on TV. Our plan was to jump into the bathtub if the worst happened. We lucked out all around.
          Those poor people in Joplin!  It was upgraded to an EF-5 tornado that hit around dinner time, and it was estimated that it wiped out 25-30 percent of the city. It flattened Walmart and Home Depot stores, schools, churches, shopping centers and whole neighborhoods and destroyed a major hospital. The death toll keeps rising, but the latest is 142 and 100 more still missing. Also, an estimated 4,000 jobs destroyed.
          We have decided to rethink this idea of spring vacations.

          REBER: What an adventure. Glad to have the Mortensons back with us safe and sound. And I just know Diana has a load of photos from that trip. I always enjoyed looked at their vacation photos.

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          DAVID FARMER writes:

          I don't know why it irritates me so much, but I hate it when writers refer to a pistol as a revolver when it's actually a semi-automatic. For example, the following from a 1910 detective novel: "He opened a drawer and took out two black shining objects; the short barrels and blocky shapes showed that they were automatic revolvers."
          Believe me, authors have been making this mistake for at least 100 years and continue to do so today.
          Usually, writers are talking about semi-automatic, not automatic, pistols even when not calling them revolvers. Semi-automatics use a mechanism in which the gas produced by a bullet being fired prepares the gun for the next shot. The slugs come out one at a time. An automatic pistol fires continuously while the trigger is held back. There are indeed weapons like this, though I believe they are highly illegal in private hands -- even those of private detectives.
          It may be possible to make an automatic revolver; I don't know. Perhaps the Gatling Guns mounted on American warplanes qualify. But it would be hard to put one in your pocket.

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          REBER: Ordinarily I reprint Bob Laurence's Brooklyn reports, but I'm running late tonight, so I'll give you the link.

          BOB LAURENCE writes:

          Hi all: Here it is, your free bonus issue of Letters From Brooklyn.  Susan and I will be leaving New York soon,  but we've been pretty busy since I sent you Brooklyn 82, so here's Brooklyn 83, complete with a report from Brooklyn's cherry blossom festival, the inside story of a Broadway injury, and the fun New York tabloids have been having at the expense of a certain big-shot Frenchman.
          Until later (or maybe not),
          And read about our lives in Brooklyn:
http://lettersfrombrooklyn.com

Jack Justus Reber

P.O. Box 2239
Ramona, CA 92065
U.S.A.