My mother wrote this

[Tab]

This is an account, written by my mother, of her memories as a child during WWII. She wrote it at the request of my brother. I asked her for permission to put it here. She was reluctant because she thought no one would be interested, and maybe the writing wasn't that great. I disagree. The writing has the feel of authenticity, and I've only corrected a few typos. I did, however, redact some names, because some of those people are still alive, and she was uncomfortable should one of their children stumble upon it.

The point of her feeling no one would be interested is, in and of itself, interesting. I had been reading of the 1918 flu, where we were stacking bodies all over the place and everyone wore masks in public and yet, no one in my generation (I'm mid-40's) had heard of it. It killed 20 million people. It came on the heels of WWI and was so devastating and since everyone went through it that basically no one talked about it. The problem was that subsequent generations didn't learn about it. It was sort of the "forgotten flu".

My mother's experiences in WWII (as a child) are certainly not unique; in fact, they are probably fairly unremarkable, but so few people write about the little things that I found it interesting. I hope you will too.

If you like it, and want to K or R it, maybe that will help someone else learn a little bit of our history too.

I might take the responses (if any) and send them on to her. She'd like that.
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WHAT IS THIS ?

Recent interest in the Second World War spurred on by the popularity of the movie, ‘War’, based on the book, ‘The War’ by Geoffrey C. Ward and Ken Burns occasioned some conversations with a couple of you regarding those times. World War II was a defining period of my generation, as well as my life as a child and most definitely in Mort’s life. It is because I wish he had spoken more of his time in the War that I have decided to put down my own memories of those years for they have never left my mind.

Now you will instantly realize that I cannot pretend to be a writer or to have the narrative skills or recording education of some of you. Rather, these are just some memories which may well be imperfect – certainly there are gaps and, I assume, items forgotten completely – but, which I decided to record – as much for me as for you – before I forget it all.

Keeping in mind that I was not in the War - but simply lived during war time.
Those events which I do remember are mundane – we were not bombed, we weren’t starving or poor, we didn’t lose our homes nor were there tragedies in our family but, there were adjustments to our lives, fear and occasional prejudice. And you might feel that they are rather superficially presented. However – I wanted to keep these short and do not wish to be over-dramatic or excessively emotional nor do I have the ability to give expression to these feelings.

Hopefully, when you read the many books and view the various movies, you will remember that those at home also lived and breathed this war even though in a fairly colorless way. While I am accompanying this with the book, ‘The War’, I have purposely not read it myself because I didn’t want to absorb something as a memory which is truly not my own.

Note that I was 8 when the war began for us in America and my future husband was already in the Army.

Children often misinterpret events - be that as it may - here are some of those memories -




PAINT SPLATTERED BEGINNING

Dec 7, 1941 - I was 8 ½ years old and Billy - almost 7. The radio was playing music,
with Dad doing his favorite thing, standing on a stool painting the kitchen ceiling while whistling.

When we heard a thud and yell, Billy and I ran to the kitchen only to find Dad on the floor, step-stool overturned and white paint splattered everywhere. Dad simply said – “My God – we’re at War “ This picture is burned in my mind.

I don’t believe I ever heard the word, War, before except as a card game. Billy and I didn’t quite understand. Then Dad said ‘The Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor’. That was even more obscure – who or what were the Japs and where is Pearl Harbor? I remember being totally confused. However, while we helped Dad and Mom clean up the spills, Billy and I listened to their conversation and slowly began to understand. We kept radio tuned to the news – by the end of the day I was very frightened. I believe it was the first time I had experienced fear – it was and still is quite palpable when I think of it.

Dad was not considered a candidate for the draft at that time being too old at age 37 as well as married, with children. The criteria for the Draft did become looser as the War continued but he fell into a lucky slot having been too young for the First World War and now, apparently, too old for the Second. Dad had three brothers – two older and one younger. Besides being overage for the Service, Fred, the eldest, was of dubious health and John, the next, had been in the Army during WW I . George, the youngest, had extremely poor eyesight so Dad’s brothers were safe.

Those of his friends who were unattached were not so fortunate. I especially remember Emerick, Dad’s close friend, who, because of his single status, was taken early. It is also possible that he actually enlisted as so many others did. I really don’t know.

Our street, Overbrook Place, was about 5 long city blocks with 5 – 8 houses on each side,
bracketed by woods at either end – sort of self contained. As the War progressed were one of the few homes on the street without an immediate family member in the Service.

We were lucky.




RATION COUPONS

Once a month we stood in line in Saint Anastacia’s Elementary School – a long line – Mother patiently, I less so and holding her hand, while she held her papers. This was the school in which I attended classes during the week. This time, however, we were there for food – or, at least, coupons for those foods needed for the ‘Boy’s Over There‘ and thus rationed to us. We received coupons for items such as butter, meat, sugar, milk etc. for the month according to the size and ages of the family.

So many coupons for meat, so many for butter, milk, sugar and, truthfully, I forget what else; there would be no more until the next month. When writing a shopping list – the amount of Ration Coupons on hand was always the deciding factor. Special events were carefully weighed as to importance, was it worth going the rest of the month without meat, to have Roast Beef that weekend? And woe to the Birthday girl (as it once happened to my cousin, Jeanne) if we ran out of sugar coupons just when a Birthday Cake needed to be made.

Mother quickly learned to improvise – I don’t know what was in some of the faux meat suppers we had but we learned not to question. Hash became a staple – steak or roast meats, a special treat. And, of course, no food was thrown out; left-overs always eaten.

Butter disappeared completely after awhile – no more butter coupons and no more butter. That’s when I first encountered Oleo – a clear plastic bag of thick, white, squishy stuff with
a yellow capsule in the middle. It was my chore to squeeze the bag to soften its contents and break the capsule until the yellow oozed out and then to knead the bag over and over again to distribute the color somewhat evenly so that eventually the material inside looked like butter. Turning Oleo yellow – no matter how uneven the color – didn’t make it taste any more like butter but somehow made it more acceptable.

When you eat something daily over a long time you accept its taste and forget what the original was like. After the War, when I finally had real butter again, it seemed too creamy, too rich. Perhaps that is why I really don’t mind the taste of margarine today. I do sometimes wonder if all that Oleo, which I assume had lots of trans-fat, is the cause of the high cholesterol in so many of us oldsters now.




AIR RAIDS AND MR. ASPINOL

We lived in Queens, a Borough of New York City, which everyone said that was particularly vulnerable to being bombed. After all, NYC and Washington DC were considered most likely to be the targets of air raids and Manhattan was narrow and – we
were right there – right next to it.

Each street or section in town had a designated Air Raid Warden – ours was Mr. Aspinol, a short, rotund, gruff sounding but very nice gentleman who had a loud belly laugh and always smoked a cigar. He and his wife lived across the street and down two houses from our house.

Every house was required to have black-out shades on all windows drawn every night and to keep their lights low lest some should show through the shades. No outdoor lights were allowed. Christmases were very dark indeed. Mr. Aspinol would patrol the streets at night looking for light leaks.

Periodically the Fire House siren would blow. This siren was used for fires and for air raids. I think the wavering one was for fire and the steady alarm meant, RAID. However, the moment the siren started (usually at night) we would all stop and listen to see which it was and if we could relax or should start to scan the sky. If it was an air raid warning, all house and street lights immediately went out, with the shades drawn and double checked for leaks. The sky would be crisscrossed by search lights looking for planes in every direction. I can still see them roaming the sky.

With lights out, Billy and I would peer out the window wondering if there would be planes this time, what they would look like and where the bombs would fall. We had a rule in the house that if we saw one plane or heard one boom, no matter how far away, we would all go to the basement. Fortunately it never happened, nevertheless we were both fascinated and extremely frightened!

Mr. Aspinol would strut up and down the street without his cigar but wearing a hard hat of some sort. In the house we would sit in the dark, sometimes stories would be told or, if the holidays, some singing would take place – but mostly I would curl up against my Dad while he reassured us with ‘Oh it is just a drill’ or a ‘False alarm’. I didn’t believe him but it was comforting to hear the words.



Occasionally we could hear Mr. Aspinol call out to a house to fix a shade or turn off a light – he was so loud that I always wondered if the planes could hear him. Once I was the object of one of his yells. After a few years, I had become used to these events and accepted that most of them were indeed drills. During one of these drill/raids I lit a candle in my bedroom to do some school work – assuming the shades were properly drawn as Billy and I were responsible for drawing our own shades in our rooms – when
I heard a roar from the street – “Jeanne, turn out that light before you get us all bombed”! You can bet I blew that candle out immediately. It was mortifying because now the whole street knew and I would be teased the next day – and I was.

I don’t know how many of these events were simply drills or how many were indeed triggered by planes over our air space nor do I truly know how long they lasted. It felt like an eternity and I was frightened every single time. The relief was immense when the ‘all clear’ siren blew.

To this day, whenever I hear a siren, I remember those times.




RED WAGONS

Almost every kid on the street had a red wagon but, when it was collection time, we used my brother Billy’s for his was newer, just a little wider and the wheels less squeaky.

Weekly, 5 or 6 of us would collect items needed to help ‘The War Effort’. Since it was his wagon, Billy would stay with the wagon and keep it organized while the rest of us went to the houses on our street.

Silver foil from cigarette packs was extremely important and households would save theirs. It was a testament to how prevalent smoking was in those days that every house would have a high stack of the foil ready for us to wad into balls of a specific size. We believed that the silver was used to make the bullets – and we thought that each bullet fired was made out of our silver. We liked that idea.

Cooking Grease we knew was sent to the munitions plants to make explosives. The grease was saved in cans, many of which were as sticky and greasy on the outside as well as on the inside. We needed to be most careful to keep the grease containers separate from the foil. Soon, as households learned to be more efficient at saving the stuff, the volume increased and it became impossible to keep the items separate. So we recruited Big Willy’s wagon. Big Willy lived down the street from us and was so called because he was – well- somewhat overweight whereas my brother Bill was called Billy Bones because he was – well - so skinny.

Thereafter, Billy would pull his wagon with the foil – followed by Big Willy with his wagon of grease and the rest of us would troop in and out of the houses. We collectors also split up into Foil and Grease for it wouldn’t do to have sticky greasy hands on the foil. I was Foil. We had quite an operation going for the duration of the War advised by Mr. Aspinol, the Air Raid Warden for our street.

All collections were taken to the Little Neck Fire House where they always praised us, which made us very proud of our work for we were helping the ‘Boys.’ It was such a good feeling!




THICK VS THIN

Rubber was definitely in short supply in the States. People patched and re-patched their car and bicycle tires praying that the patches would hold. We didn’t own a car but I remember my Uncle Walter having to wait for a couple months to replace a tire. Some neighbors put their cars up for the duration because they couldn’t get specific sizes.

I didn’t have a bicycle – neither did Billy. My best friend Barbara had one – it was a blue, girls Schwinn with huge balloon tires and a white basket in front. I was completely envious and begged and begged for years for a bike, even promising to run errands, go to the food and meat stores, anything in order to have one. But Dad felt a bike was too expensive at that time because of the scarcity of the rubber– truly I felt unfairly deprived.

Then one Christmas morning, as I came down the stairs, I noted the few gifts under the tree, fewer than usual. However there in the corner, were two bikes – a blue girl’s bike and a red boy’s bike. I stared at them and then began to sulk – it wasn’t the bike I imagined – the tires were very, very thin. I felt that it wasn’t a good bike, the tires would shred, I would be teased etc. Billy, on the other hand was thrilled – he didn’t care if the tires were thin or fat – this was a bike – he had a bike of his own !!!!! But, I, brat that I was, declared that I’d rather not have a bike then to have one with thin tires.

Dad was angry and walked out of the room. He must have been anticipating my happiness and was stunned and angry by my reaction. But Mom sat down with me and told me that they weren’t making bicycles with fat tires anymore because the rubber was needed ‘over there’. She said that all bikes would now have thin tires which actually were lighter and easier to pedal and therefore, faster. The clincher however was that I would be the first one on Overbrook Place to have one and that having thin tires helps the war effort.

In those days we children were all susceptible to patriotic bribery.




‘FEED THE BOYS’

“A well fed soldier is a strong fighter”, ‘Help the boys – grow your own’, ‘The more you grow at home – the more there is for our boys’. Except for the first one, I can’t put quotes around these sayings but that is the gist of what I heard over and over again on the radio and in the papers.

Thus – Victory Gardens were born.
Fresh and even canned vegetables were frequently scarce so everyone took a patch of their backyards – some larger than others – and dug, hoed and seeded. Like city farmers they tended and worried over each plant. Gossip took a back seat to queries about the status of one’s tomatoes and the War.

We had a Victory Garden – it seemed quite large to me at the time but looking at the yard as an adult I guess it was pretty small. I do remember peas, tomatoes, lettuce and green beans. Don’t remember the ubiquitous zucchini or cucumbers – or corn. I think if we did corn I would remember those tall stalks.

Neither Mother nor Dad really liked gardening so ours was tended haphazardly. In fact, Mom felt that fresh vegetables were too much work – she was very much an ‘out of the can’ cook. However, Mrs. Tichachek, who lived next door to us, loved to garden. She often planted flowers against the side of our house so she could see and enjoy them when looking out her kitchen window.

Mrs. Tichachek (that’s all I ever called her) had corn with tall, tall stalks and lots of veggies, all of which thrived under her thumb. She would tend our little patch for us at times and, in return, she took some of the produce which she didn’t have room for in her own Victory patch. I don’t know if there was a formal agreement or just a mutual understanding between her and my folks. I enjoyed working with her at times which may have led to my having a vegetable garden of my own for awhile when we had our own home.

One of the first things which changed at our house when the War ended and the market shelves were fully stocked again, was the garden. It was raked over, seeded and full of green grass fairly quickly – and the canned vegetables presided on our shelves once again. Mrs. Tichacheck kept her garden for many years afterwards.



EMERICK

Dad’s closest friend was Emerick. I really don’t know when or how they met or even his last name, but he frequently visited us arriving in some sort of convertible car with a rumble seat.

About Dad’s height, he was dapper with a smile which always crept up the side of his face. One of my favorite pictures is of Dad and Emerick clad in jackets, ties and knickers, leaning on canes, Emerick with a beret and Dad with a cap, posing against a rail on some Boardwalk. Two dandies on top of the world!

Emerick would always arrive with a Hershey Bar for Billy and me. He was full of jokes and laughter – his hugs were all encompassing. I particularly remember the last time I saw him. He was visiting when I was sick with something or other. Emerick sat on my bed – told some stories, made me laugh and slipped me an extra Hershey Bar – I was in Heaven !! But he was there as a farewell because he was going into the army – to war. He made light of it – said he was going to see if they had Hershey Bars in Europe and if they were as good as ours here.

One day my folks were particularly quiet during dinner – Dad especially. I thought that there would be another Gold Star in a window on the street. They didn’t say much and I didn’t ask. Immediately after dinner Dad went to the basement where he frequently spent hours at his workbench fixing, repairing, building or merely tinkering. When there, he always played his records (they were 78s then) mostly Big Band etc. This time however, he kept playing ‘Melancholy Baby’ over and over again and I couldn’t hear any tinkering.

I went down and found him just sitting – doing nothing – with a big tear on his cheek. When I asked who it was (expecting to hear a neighbor’s name), he told me that Emerick was killed in Europe and then he hugged me tightly and cried. I remember feeling extremely sad but don’t know if it was for Emerick or Dad. For a long time afterwards, whenever Dad worked at the bench, he played Melancholy Baby.

That was the only time I ever saw him cry and, to this day, whenever I hear that tune I choke up.


THE WAR – ON THE BIG SCREEN

Two features, a cartoon, a serial and the news – all for 25 cents. On Saturday’s we often walked to the movies (about a mile), many with little brothers and sisters in tow. The afternoon would start with a feature movie followed by a cartoon, then the News and ending with another feature movie or a serial (I really do remember the Perils of Pauline) – an entire afternoon’s worth.

The News, which I think was called Movie Tone – or something like that - featured the War. It started with a Trumpet announcement, the tune of which I can almost recall but not quite. Anyway – it was a distinctive musical announcement followed by a sonorous, deep voice declaring ‘This is Movie Tone for the Week’, or words to that effect. The screen would fill with scenes of soldiers running, cannons booming and prisoners marching with hands up – in that funny jerky walk/run that movies had in those days - along with announcements of names of towns and numbers. The scenes were at times fuzzy and confusing, with places whose names I had never heard before. I do not remember seeing bodies or blood (of course this was in black and white). It was here, though, that the War did seem most real to me though still vague. And honestly – while walking home – I remember my friends and I discussing the ending of the serial – not the war pictures. And yet, they must have made an impression because I still see them in my mind’s eye and hear the trumpets and the tone of the Voice Over.

On the other hand, my folks and other Adults marveled that they could see the actual fighting and would go to the Movies just to see the News, after all, there was no TV in those days. I am not sure what the time lag from the recording of the event to the showing in local movies was but it was amazing to them. One neighbor told me she went with the hope that she would hear about the area her Son was in. She looked at each soldier for the face of her Son which she admitted was probably in vain – but still she went and searched.

It never occurred to us that some day we would be able to sit in our living rooms and watch a war in real time.



‘YOU DIRTY KRAUT!’

I especially remember J___, a short boy with really red hair whose nickname was ‘R___’, hurling those words in my face one day. J___’s father had been killed during D Day and he had been out of school for about a week. On his return I went to say something to him on the playground - when, with tears in his eyes, he yelled “Get away from me – your people killed my Father – you dirty Kraut’ I was stunned and humiliated and started to cry – the Nuns came and took us both away from the playground. I don’t know what they said to J___ but they tried to have me understand what he was going through and that I should forgive him for his words. He didn’t talk to me again and I never did actually forgive him.

The kids pretty much shunned me that day – all except for Mary Mifkovick – my friend.
I have always been grateful to her for standing with me – but, to my regret, I don’t think I ever thanked her for it.

It was not a good time to be German or to be of German heritage. My last name at the time was A____ – a good German (actually Austrian) name. I was often teased or abraded for it during the war. It didn’t matter that it was my Grandparents who came over from Germany or that my parents and I were born here. My Grandparents and Parents were always careful not to speak German in public; my Brother and I were not taught the German language – not even at home, for fear that we would speak it outside and we were frequently cautioned to be careful when talking with strangers. We were acutely aware of public feeling and took great pains to hide any hint of German-ness. There was no rock throwing or burning of Swastikas in our area but some of my friends were friends no longer –my Grandmother lost her baby-sitting job, the German Deli went out of business and the old gentleman (Mr. Heinz) one street over had to close his tailoring shop because of loss of customers.

I was stunned by J___’s invective – despite what the Nuns said about his grief over his Father’s death - I didn’t understand what it had to do with me. Neither I nor my family did this to him. It took a long while for me to connect my heavily accented Grandparents with R___ – but gradually I understood and became very cautious with people.


SHELL SHOCKED


Towards the end of the war there appeared a young man, rather nice looking I believe, who began walking our streets. He walked up and down the street with a rather blank look on his face, never smiling, never greeting anyone nor acknowledging a greeting. His walk was sluggish and halting. I didn’t know who he was but was somewhat frightened by him for he looked so odd and forbidding.

The word was that this man lived a few blocks over with his Mother and was - “Shelled Shocked you know – “. This was always whispered. According to the gossip, he never slept and spent all day walking up and down the streets of Douglaston. It was said he was hit by a shell in Italy and that he hasn’t been right ever since. It was also said that he had horrible scars all over his body and couldn’t see out of one eye.

I don’t know how much was true – but there is no denying his strange countenance - then, suddenly he was gone, gone as quickly as he had appeared. Nobody seemed to know what happened to him.

Probably, these days he would have had a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and been treated with drugs and psychotherapy but at that time then it was just accepted;
an unfortunate consequence of war.

To me, not being a reader of the papers at that age or a listener of the radio except for the stories like Green Hornet and the Shadow, he had become my daily reminder of the War – and, in a strange way – I missed seeing him.



A GOLD STAR IN THE WINDOW

There were approximately 50 homes on our street most of which had a family member in the service.

Periodically a home would display a Gold Star in its window which usually became obvious to us kids as we went on our collection rounds. I always made a point to tell my folks of the new Star. Sometimes they were already aware, other times surprised, but always saddened.

I knew this meant that someone, a son or a husband, had been killed. Neighbors would gather at the house offering help, support, whatever was needed. Commonly the living room would have lots of framed pictures of a young lad or an older gentleman in uniform. Sometimes I knew the boy – sometimes only the family. Occasionally collections were taken up to assist the family with some financial difficulty (I was never privy to the exact circumstances) especially if a husband was lost. I kept a small jar of nickels which I would draw from when a collection came around – it made me feel part of something bigger – I am not sure what – but somehow, more grown up.

We kids always respected a Gold Star house and family and never ran through their back yard or played loudly in front. Nobody chalked their sidewalk for hop-scotch or used their tree for hide & seek. Their homes were off limits at Halloween – it was as if the family itself was hallowed.

Truthfully, while I knew what these Gold Stars meant, I didn’t, at my young age particularly understand or appreciate the depth of anguish and loss they must have been experiencing. I had yet to experience loss in my family except for two Grandparents whom I didn’t see very often and to whom I was not particularly close. Now that I have had a husband and children of my own and have experienced deep personal loss, I can better understand their grief and the resultant heightening of the fears of the neighbors.

Gold Star Mothers were and highly esteemed – they had paid a high price for Victory. By the end of the war there were 8 windows that I remember with Gold Stars on Overbrook.

RUMORS



And then there were the rumors. . .

U-Boats were off the Long Island Shore, U-Boats were in the East River; a major raid was occurring on the weekend, in 2 days, that night; Germans were parachuting on Manhattan, the end of the Island, New Jersey; we had surrendered in France, Italy, Germany.

And the persistent rumors of spies among us – most notably Mrs. N’s____ husband, K___. He worked as a line man for the electric company but his hobby was as an Amateur Ham Radio Operator – using Morse Code- if I remember correctly. It was this which kept everyone suspicious, that plus the fact that he was visited occasionally by some men in uniform. I’m not sure who they were or what the uniforms were for they usually came when I was in school. However, his wife told us, ‘in strictest confidence’ that they were from the Government checking to see if K___ had ‘anything to report’. I never did find out what he actually did or what uniforms they wore for he never spoke of it. His Daughter, N____ (an absolutely beautiful girl – about 4 years older than I) was particularly shunned and taunted. She had a rough time, even after the War ended because of the unresolved suspicions.

Fragments of other rumors keep popping in and out of my head – as fast as these rumors
themselves lasted - but I can’t seem to latch on to them.

But they did, at times, frighten us because they ‘could be true’ yes????




IN BRIEF

There are particles of remembrances which I cannot flesh out, such as gas rationing.
I do recall that it was difficult to get gas but, not having a car, it didn’t impact us much.

And, surprisingly, though I have been trying to bring some forth (for I can’t believe they didn’t occur) I have no memories of any discussion of the War as part of school classes. Our school, Saint Anastacia, was a Grades 1 through 8 Catholic Elementary School contained in eight simple classrooms. Maybe we just stuck to the ABCs. - except for the Air Raid Drills when we crouched under our desks.

Posters: There were posters everywhere – big ones with pictures of Uncle Sam in red, white and blue with a goatee beard – pointing his finger straight at me –“Uncle Sam Needs You”. Another, of a strong looking woman, a kerchief holding her hair back, rolling up her sleeve and flexing her elbow to show an impressive, feminine Biceps – Rosie the Riveter – I don’t quite remember the exact words – something about
‘We can get the job done’ – but I remember the picture vividly. She impressed me more than Uncle Sam did. I do recall thinking that I wanted to be a riveter if the War was still going on when I was old enough.

Christmas: Each winter, Billy and I worried that Santa wouldn’t get to our house because of the War and each year (as long as we believed) we were amazed when he actually made it. I thought he was so fearless to brave the German Air Force to come to us at Christmas. But – the most exciting time came the first Xmas after the War’s end when, after years of Holiday darkness, all homes were brightly and colorfully lit. On tepid evenings we would walk around and revel in the lights and cheerfulness of it all. It was like a celebration of peace. I still enjoy driving around and looking at the brightly lit Holiday homes.





DISCLAIMER


So there you have it – an ordinary life in extraordinary times.

Perhaps you have gained some understanding of how simple, small things
can impact the most unimportant of lives.

As I initially indicated I have not read the book which precipitated this interest within you because I did not want to contaminate my own memory. However, at this time distance and during this exercise, one thing has become evident to me --

Memory is an imperfect means of communication.

Therefore, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of these stories – but they are, pure and simply, my war time memories.


May you always know peace.

[ScreamingMeemie]

1. Fascinating and really well written in my opinion.

I am always grateful for those who are willing to recount their lives. So the rest of us can learn from them and never forget. Thanks.

[roguevalley]

6. wonderful and lucky you to get it. hug your mama for me. what a

great story. people nowadays should have gone through that time and maybe they would be smarter than they are.

[NMDemDist2]

seems well written to me, I couldn't tear myself away til the end

thanks for sharing, K&N

[bigendian]

2. Thank you.

And thank your mom. War IS hell and should never be taken lightly. Damn Bush and his cronies!

[monmouth]

3. OMG, that was wonderful. Your mother has an exceptional memory.

I was born in '40 but even in '44 much of what she speaks of was our experience also. I remember my mother saving the grease, my father's attempt of planting potatoes in the sandy Jersey shore (tiny little potatoes were the result). I remember my dad worked for NJ Bell Telephone so he got more rations as I remember than most. What a wonderful post. www.live365.com is a wonderful station to listen to. I go to the "oldies" then click onto "40s'"..Maybe your mother will enjoy the shows from those days. "War Homefront Radio" is one of my favorites.

[1monster]

4. Having your mother write this down was a great idea. Your brother should be commended for his

suggestion and your mother for doing it.

We should all probably write down our memories of what our times mean/meant to us for posterity before we forget too much.

I have a computer journal of sorts... an everyday type thing consisting of some e-mails about happenings in our family, our town, sometimes our country, and our world sent out to others.

I think your post has inspired to enlarge on that journal of sorts.

Tell your mom to keep writing as memories come back ot her. Social history is just as important as what passes for history today. It is a history of the people who came before.

on edit: still reading it. Her memory of Emerick had me in tears.

[malaise]

5. That was beautiful

My mother's WWII experiences are the reason I have always had a vegetable garden. Mom lived in London during the war. The other thing she taught us was how to preserve when fruit and vegetables are plentiful.

Give your mom a hug - I really enjoyed that.

[asdjrocky]

7. Thank your Mom for me!

What a great account. Bookmarked for sure.

[Psst_Im_Not_Here]

8. I loved it!

I grew up hearing the war stories from my mother and grandmother, but, they lived it in Germany and Czechoslovakia. So this was a treat for me to hear the stories on the other side, Thank you!

[Divernan]

9. Really fascinating read. I was 2 months old when Pearl Harbor was attacked.

So don't have the depth of memories of your Mom. I do recall the Victory Garden, and that my dad's parents, who had a small farm in an adjoining state, would occasionally send us eggs packed in a special kind of wooden egg crate. It was a very big deal to get four dozen fresh eggs and they were shared with friends/neighbors. I remember the toy GI helmet my older brother had, and finding an easter egg under it during the back yard egg hunt. And I remember the beautiful portraits my other grandmother had of her two sons in their military uniforms - one an Army Air Corps pilot who flew Flying Boxcars "over the hump" (Burma?), and the Navy Lieutenant who was a PT boat commander like JFK and the expensive long distance phone calls to the extended family to read the latest letters when she heard from them - and the Gold Star flag in her window. And my brother made tons of model military planes and ships. I'm the last one of my little nuclear family - so the only one who remembers those things.

I have an older friend who was in London during the blitz - she was a driver and looked a knockout in her uniform. It was a very vital time to be alive, for sure, and the Brits were incredibly tough and brave.

[Voice for Peace]

10. K&R -- thank you!

[Uncle Joe]

11. Thank you for sharing your mother's memories, Tab.

:thumbsup:

Kicked and recommended.

[ScreamingMeemie]

12. Kick for a wonderful read...

[williesgirl]

13. Wonderful. Please thank your Mom for all of us. rec'd

[GreenPartyVoter]

14. I always did wonder why my Nana calls margarine Oleo. This was such a cool thing to read!

[rockymountaindem]

15. Thanks a lot for posting n/t

[RushIsRot]

16. What a fascinating collection of memories! Thanks for sharing.

I was also born 2 months prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor.

I can remember trying to separate foil from gum wrappers as well as cigarette wrappers. My young hands were not all that up to the task. I shredded more than I saved. I also remember my mother saving bacon grease. I didn't know what that was for. I eventually decided it was saved to use for cooking. I even saved bacon grease until I got married in 1962. Never used it.

I remember the remnants of the ration coupons that were kept in the top drawer of the chest of drawers.

I remember when the war ended, my mother ran outside and whooped it up in absolute glee.

Your mother's story sparked some long distant memories in me. Wow! Great writing!

[GoldenOldie]

18. I was Billy's age and lived accross the River in NJ

It seems your mother and I share similar memories with the exception that my father was also 37, had 4-children and was drafted. He worked at an aviation factory which repaired airplanes. The union he was a member of went out on strike and all male employees were immediately drafted, regardless of age, and number of children.....apparently that was the law during wartime. My father was placed in the Army Air Corp, as a flight navigator and was the oldest member of his flight crew. He flew bombers and his crew consisted of 18-21 year olds. His pilot being the oldest and celebrating his 21st birthday on a bombing mission somewhere over Germany.

The rationing coupons also included shoes, as I remember all to well my mother trying to keep her four kids from wearing out or outgrowing shoes until she could receive more coupons. I also remember US Savings Bond coupons. School children were encouraged to save their pennies and purchase $.10cent Savings Bond Stamps which would be pasted into a coupon folder. When the coupon folder was filled, it would then be replaced with a US Savings Bond. Funds were used to support the troops and schools made it a big event and children eagerly saved soda bottles to turn in for a few pennies refund.

I also will never forget the summer vacation spent with my favorite aunt in Pennsylvania. She lived in a big beautiful farmhouse, a full wrap-around porch and porch swings on each side. THe little blue-star banner proudly displayed in the front window. The dreaded messenger driving up the drive and handing my aunt the notice that my favorite Uncle Bill had been killed in France. The little blue-star banner was replaced with a gold-star banner. My aunt gave me his US flag that was delivered to her along with the military and presidential condolences. My aunt gave me his US flag, when she knew her life was almost over and I have been able to locate his name on a French memorial to Americans who died on their soil. I cherish the flag and the knowledge that his name lives on in France and in memorials in Pennsylvania.

I have never forgotten and when I now see the funeral services with flag-draped coffins of a US soldier with a wife, husband, mother, father and child/children standing beside, it not only brings back childhood memories but tears.

[Tab]

17. To everyone:

I think she will love this. It's the content that counts. I happen to know the street and the exact address, and although I wasn't there at the time (heck, I wasn't even born) I do remember my grandparents - her dad and mother - and can visualize a lot of this. Her dad was the sweetest guy on earth, and actually, what kind of took me by surprise, was the "you dirty kraut" section. I know I have a mixed French and German heritage, but I thought that was all over with by the time my grandparents emigrated here. My understanding was that their last name (redacted) was the full German name and their parents truncated it upon immigration. I was surprised to learn my mother still had the longer as a child - I thought it was long gone - and even more surprised to find she was vilified (if only temporarily) for her heritage. I don't think she ever thought of herself as German, and I'm not surprised she felt taken aback.

[Rhiannon12866]

47. I hope that your mother really enjoys all the kudos that she's received here. She sure deserves them

I also sent this to my mother, who must have been about the same age as yours, was a child and a young teen-ager during WWII. I told her that I thought she'd be very interested in this and that she should commit her memories to paper, as well...:-)

And I've also run across prejudices that shocked me, that I thought no longer existed. My BF's mother is somewhat older than mine, worked in a factory for the war effort during WWII. I once walked in on her and her friends having a heated conversation about the "Japs." I was shocked to hear such things coming from a liberal Democrat, but I understand that the bitterness is still just below the surface...:-(

[Tab]

50. PLEASE encourage her to write it down

One thing I found was that since EVERYONE went through it, no one would write about it (except in the grand sense - battles, etc) because no one thought their experience was remarkable.

And maybe it wasn't, compared to their contemporaries - but it's important for us (descendents, children) to know.

[Rhiannon12866]

56. Exactly! I sure agree! That's what I said to my mother, since she was also old enough to remember.

I e-mailed her your thread, said that I thought that she'd be very interested in your mother's account and experiences, since she shared them. She read Tom Brokaw's book "The Greatest Generation," so I read it too, fascinating stuff. I told her that she needs to share her memories, as well, commit them to paper as your mother has, so future generations will know what it was like. My mother likes to talk about the "good old days" *sigh*, so I'm hoping that she'll be flattered enough that somebody's interested to do it... :-)

I wish that I'd asked my father more questions, as well. He wasn't old enough to have served in the war, but he was drafted afterwards, served in the Navy on the USS Ranger. He was the radio operator, but I have no idea where he went except it must have been a tropical climate since he had some sort of foot fungus, years enough later that I knew about it, and that the doctors said that he must have picked it up that many years ago...I know the stories that he did tell by heart, but it wasn't his favorite experience, so there's a whole lot that I don't know... :-(

[Solly Mack]

19. Wow. Thank you!

I truly enjoyed this!

[lumpy]

20. I really enjoyed your Mom's writings. She did a great job

telling her impressions of those times. I can relate as I was a teenager during the war. So much that she had to say is the way it was. I was impressed with what she had to say about feeling fear for the first time in her life, I felt the same fear for the first time also. It's a pity that today's children grow up with fear of so many things in their lives. They can never know the freedom that we used to know in this country. Freedom to play and explore our world without the fear of being harmed in some way.

[Viva_La_Revolution]

21. please tell your mom I loved the stories.

kicked and recommended. :)

[Silver Gaia]

22. K&R Beautiful!

Please tell your Mom this for me: Our stories are important. Each and every one of them. They tell the truth of our lives as we lived them, which 'history' sometimes glosses over. We may know names and dates of important events, but without personal accounts from the people who lived through those events, we have no idea of what those events really meant to the people at the time. From the earliest days of the written word up to the present day, it is in the written accounts of real people who struggled, laughed, or cried through each day that we find meaning.

Memory may be imperfect, yet what resides there is still our truth. Accuracy is not always truth. For instance, it doesn't matter whether the weather reports say it was raining on a particularly memorable day for you. If, in your memory, it was raining that day, then, it WAS raining. For you. And that's all that's truly important. I'm taking a graduate course on writing memoir right now. I recently wrote this at the end of one of my own stories:

"Who knows why or how we remember the bits and pieces we do, which images from the past stand out to haunt us, and which fade, never to be retrieved. The process of remembering is not orderly. It isn’t tidy, clean, or neat. A chaotic jumble of images whirls just within reach, sometimes dancing close enough that we may catch them on our tongues. Sometimes not. We reach into the murky depths to grasp brittle shards of memory and drag them into the light. We unwrap them, gently shake off the cobwebs, and hold them in our hands to touch them, taste them. Turning them over carefully, we examine them, coax them, caress them, breathe new life into them, and mesh them together with a flesh of words. We do this—we must—lest they be swept away, forever forgotten."

Please tell your Mom that her stories are wonderful. With that first scene she described, where her father fell from the step-stool in the kitchen when he heard the news of the war, and how the paint splattered everywhere, she let me into her world. She let me see through her eyes. Tell her I am grateful for those glimpses and for what I learned from them. Give her my deepest thanks for sharing them with us. And tell her that I return to her the blessing with which she left us at the end: "May you always know peace." Beautiful.

[Tab]

25. I agree, it is what is is

and if no one tells us, we'll never know.

I've passed the comments on to my mom. She's traveling at the moment, but I'm sure she'll be gratified.

I myself was particularly taken with the writing. Not only that I know the place, but from a writer's point of view (and I write) sometimes the best stories are not the very elaborate ones, but the very simple ones. I found hers very compelling, and thought many here would too (which is why I asked her permission to post). No, there's nothing "special" in the story - she didn't run into a burning airplane and haul out a pilot or anything, but she writes about what we don't usually hear about - the simple day to day business of life during wartime.

[Silver Gaia]

32. Yes, You wrote in your introduction that

"The writing has the feel of authenticity" and this is absolutely true. That is what is at the heart of the stories she tells. It shines through. Well done. :)

Edited to correct typo.

[Vektor]

23. Beautifully written - exceptional. Thank you, to both you and your Mom.

What a touching, beautifully illustrated account.

Your Mother is an excellent writer, with an amazing ability to transport the reader to her Brooklyn neighborhood, during war time, through the eyes of a child.

An excellent piece, indeed.

[Skittles]

24. my mum survived bombing in England as a child

she won't talk about it much though

[trof]

28. My English friend, Tish, is terrified of thunderstorms.

Born in London in 1939, she's a very intelligent woman. Retired physician.
And she has what she knows is a totally unreasonable fear of thunderstorms. When we get a real 'boomer' she grabs a blanket and pillow and gets in the bathtub.

The other day she said "It just dawned on me. Thunderstorms remind me of the blitz and the buzzbombs...rockets...whatever they were. I was terified. That's what thunderstorms sound like to me. I know it's stupid, but I just can't help it."

Her house (or flat?) had no cellar and there was no bomb shelter nearby. So her parents would put her and her brother in the bathtub and cover them with blankets.

[nxylas]

51. Mine too

She hasn't told me much about it, but confirms that John Boorman's wonderful movie Hope and Glory is an accurate portrayal of life during wartime.

[lazyriver]

26. Wow. Very nicely written account of what life was like during

a difficult and important period. She did a fantastic job putting this together. It is difficult to relay the memories of childhood through the filters of the adult mind but she did so in such an authentic and eloquent way. The sights and sounds of that era jumped right off the page as I read this, making me feel like I was actually there and had witnessed the events with her.

[usrbs]

27. Thank you for sharing this

My mother, now deceased, was about the same as your mother. Unfortunately, she told us very little about those times, but what little she did reminds me of your mother's stories. How wonderful that your mother set this down on paper for you! I think it's well written and very evocative.

[trof]

29. Thanks for this. I was born in 1941.

I don't have many vivid memories of the war. Most of what I 'remember' was actually told to me by parents and grandparents.

I do know grandpa was an air raid warden. He had a white WW I type helmet with a civil defense emblem on the front.

And I still have some of the old ration books.
Also my mother's membership cards for various PXs and officers' clubs she had access to as we followed my father around the country prior to his 'shipping out'.

I am told I referred to Hitler as 'mean ol' Hitly'.
I do remember paper drives, but still not sure what that was all about. Maybe newsprint was in short supply?

Anyway, I enjoyed reading your mom's remembrances.
Thank you.

[Freedom Train]

30. Thank you for posting that

I'd recommend your post if I could. Thank your mom for me as well, it was a very interesting and humbling read.

[Just-plain-Kathy]

31. Wonderful, just wonderful. Thank you for sharing.

[Delphinus]

33. Kicking,

to read later.

[southern_belle]

34. Thank your mom for her fascinating

recollections. I couldn't take my eyes off of it until I completely finished it.

[Jennicut]

35. Your mother's writing was fascinating-especially the part about the "Gold Star" windows

That really struck a chord-and the children being extra careful not ot bother them. No matter what I went through as a child it was nothing compared to what children went through growing up during WWII. Her stories are amazing and she is wrong that no one would be interested.

[frogcycle]

36. Priceless

Superb writing. Congratulate and thank your mom for me.

I have a lot of stories in my head of tales told by my parents - he was "over there" and she was working in NY - I could not do them justice as your mother has, but this certainly inspires me to try!

Incidentally, I just read the influenza book you refer to - a fascinating bit of American history of which I had little or no knowledge. The characterizations of Wilson's crackdown on privacy and civil rights, and the general paranoia/hatred of Germans in WWI provides an interesting backdrop to the jingoism of today...

[RevCheesehead]

37. I'm in tears while reading this....

Two years ago, I lost my mother. She used to tell me stories of the war, of her two brothers who served, and things like that. Your mother's story reminds me so much of what Mom shared with me.

My dad served in Germany, and occasionally, he would tell us anecdotes. But he rarely talked about the war itself. He lost a brother, and it was devastating to the family, but they carried on. Dad was 25 when he went overseas.

Today, my dad is suffering with dementia (he's 89), and there are days when he can't remember much. I am going to print you mother's story for him to read and remember. I can't thank you enough for this precious, precious gift!!! PLEASE, tell your mom she did so much good; not just for connecting with me, but also my dad. I will also share it with the people in his senior residence facility, so many more people can reminisce.

God bless your mother, and you - for sharing her story. :hug:

[mntleo2]

43. Bring A Recorder with You Sometime

...when you visit with him in case he does remember something. Or take one with you when you visit other older relatives and "interview" them. My mother did this with her mother and tho it was years before I could bear to listen to them (it was painful to hear her voice as I remembered it), I can tell you it has been a precious thing to keep! Nowadays you can convert it to CD and give it to family who can give it to their children's teachers for history and culture insight, and also keep for their own precious memories of a loved one.

Love
Cat In Seattle

[RevCheesehead]

68. Thanks!

That's a wonderful idea!
I still have my mom's last message on my answering machine. Whenever I'm lonely and miss her, I play it and I feel better.

[OwnedByFerrets]

38. Very Important READ.....

I wish that every single person in Murika would be required to read this. Not everyone would get it, but it would be sure to touch some. This generation of chickenhawks has no idea what its like to sacrifice for war or what war really means. Nor do they care.

[redqueen]

39. Wow... thank you so much for sharing this.

And please thank your mom for me also.

[mntleo2]

40. Tell Your Mom From Cat In Seattle ...

...Are you kidding me that you think nobody would be interested? All you wrote was fascinating and it helped me to understand my own parents' generation (I am 55). Both of my parents are gone, but I sent this on to my aunt who also lived during that time in hopes she and her friends will also write about their memories of their time.

We actually have a memoir of my aunt and my father's paternal grandfather that the whole family has passed around over and over. Auntie typed it up in the late 1950's on the old blue sheets that you had to use to copy things (she was a teletypist in WWI for the service I think). It was her grandfather's account of his life in the mid and late 1800's and early 1900's in the Midwest. Great-Grandpa's accounts of life during his boyhood was read aloud by my teachers in class and my sons' teachers as well. It was a precious insight for several generations as to what life was like through the eyes of someone who actually lived it.

As I was writing this I am wondering if a forum for our parents and grandparents could be created where they could write their own accounts fo life through their eyes. What a wonderful legacy to leave for the coming generations if this were done!

Love,
Cat In Seattle

[myrna minx]

41. Thank you for posting and thank your mother

for sharing her memories with us.

[WilliamPitt]

42. That was extraordinary.

Thank you so much for sharing it.

:hug:

[kimmylavin]

44. Wow!

Please tell your mom that was excellent!
I really enjoyed reading her memories, and I was truly moved by them, as well...

[TheDoorbellRang]

45. Amazing collection of her recollections

You're so fortunate to have these written down, and so is history. I often wish my own mother had written down some of the stories she used to tell us about the war. She lived in Chicago during WWII and my dad was in the Pacific. One thing I remember her talking about were the telegraphs. Whenever they saw the telegraph delivery man on their street, they knew it would be bad news -- someone's son, husband, or dad killed in action. She told me that by the end of the war almost every boy she'd known in high school had been killed.

Boy, this is bringing back some memories...

[Rhiannon12866]

46. Wow! K&R! Amazing account! Please thank your mother for us.

And tell her that I was a professional writer and I think that it is worthy of being published. :applause:

We need to hear these accounts while we still can. I only wish that I'd asked my father to share more of his experiences with me. And I'm going to share this with my mother. I'm hoping that it'll prompt her to share more of her memories, since she must have been about the same age as yours. Her Dad owned a grocery store during WWII, so she remembers the impact of rationing... Thank you.:pals:

[fight4my3sons]

48. This is wonderful. Thank you for sharing it.

I was just speaking to my grandmother about WWII last night. My grandfather flew 70 successful missions during the war.

Thank you again. I loved reading your mom's memories.

[Road Scholar]

49. Great! I was born a year after Pearl Harbor but I grew up while some of

these type of memories lingered. Thank you very much for sharing.
K&R

[murbley40]

52. Wow! this was great!

It brought back memories for me. We lived in a small railroad town in Delaware and I remember
the coupons and rationing and the blackouts,the trailers at the movies about the war and the sirens, and those blackout blinds. My sister and I,(she is now deceased) used to snuggle up with our mom and she would tell us stories and sometimes we would sing until it was over. It was sometimes very scary. My sis and I used to fight over who was going to do the oleo.

Thanks for this.

[deadmessengers]

53. Anyone who compares Iraq to WW2 should have to read this first.

Our generation has tax cuts for the wealthy, and Halliburton. The WW2 generation had food rationing, victory gardens, and truly shared sacrifice. Any comparision between the two is ridiculous.

[vickitulsa]

54. So glad I read this!

You know that feeling you get once in awhile, when you click on a thread at DU and are so very happy that you did? This is one of those!

Your mother's memories brought back a flood of my own, although they're basically my mom's memories, and mine of her talking about "The War" so much all through her life. She is 85 now and has no memory left to speak of, but WWII was the primary event of her life and my dad's and always was very much evident in almost everything they did and said.

Mom was barely 19 when she married Dad, who was 24 at the time and had signed up with the Army after the attack on Pearl Harbor, as both his older brothers had joined a military service as well. Dad was "full-blood German," too, as his grandparents had immigrated to North Dakota, where he and his brothers were born, then moved to Iowa and then Oklahoma to the wheat fields here. Most of his older relatives and some of the younger ones still live around Kingfisher -- wheat farmers all.

So as an American soldier, Dad took his fair share of ribbing from his pals about his being a "kraut." I think it was good-natured, though. They did nickname him "Mike" in place of the German-sounding "Myron," though, and that name stuck for life. His entire name was VERY obviously German.

Mom and Dad's was a true "war marriage." She was waiting tables in the "Whiteway Diner" in a small town in Texas, near the base in Abilene where he was stationed. She was an 18-year-old girl just out of high school. He and many other soldiers would come into the cafe, and some would vie for her attention since she was a pretty girl and a friendly and happy one.

Dad came in one day with a buddy who had told him he was going to ask Mom out on a date. After seeing her, Dad told his buddy he would "flip a coin" with him for the privilege, and Dad won, so he asked Mom out -- and she accepted! Even knowing they had done this! I often teased her about it later, saying she had been "too easy" after they treated her so cheaply. Hah! My own Sixties attitude coming out, ya know.

It's amazing to me now just how much my folks identified all their lives with the war that shaped them as young adults. Mom actually had a date with another guy on the night that Dad asked her to marry him. She accepted his proposal, and they were preparing to leave because he was soon to ship out and they were going to ride a bus from her little Texas town to Enid where his folks lived. They stopped at El Reno along the way and got married before a Justice of the Peace!

When her mother asked my mom what to tell Johnny when he came to pick her up for their date, Mom said, "Tell him I've gone to get married!" :)

They were supposed to have three weeks to be together before he shipped out to an East Coast Army base, but as it turned out (that was in 1942), the Army called for him sooner, and they had only three days together as a married couple before he left. Then he was going to send for her to be with him for a few weeks there, but the Army told the guys, "Don't send for your wives, you're shipping out NOW."

So Mom married him, had three days with him as his wife, and then did not see him again for three years!

He had been such a dashing figure in those days, especially in his uniform (and was in fact always a handsome man). I can imagine how he looked to her! In fact, she had an 8X10 B&W portrait photo of him in his dress uniform, in a handsome glass frame that had black paint decorating the edges; and as a teenager I thought him so handsome in it that I put it up in my bedroom and let my girlfriends think he was MY boyfriend!

In ways such as this, my mother's and dad's memories permeated my own memories of my youth.

Also, both Mom and Dad talked very frequently about the War long after it was over, unlike so many. I heard all the stories about the rationing coupons and "rubber drives" and Gold Star families, about the Oleo and the gas shortages, that your mom shared in her delightful memoir. Everything she told about rings so very true!

In my case, my parents both lived through the Great Depression, too, and I heard about those years plenty as well. Dad grew up an Okie and remembers how times were so very tough even for his German farming family, who had it better than many. He recalls the dust storms and how many men were unemployed, the soup lines and the exodus out of Oklahoma that so many families made out of necessity. He also remembers having to give all the money he earned in little jobs at age 14 to his family so they could get by.

And Mom remembers as a child seeing her father, with seven kids to feed, sitting at the kitchen table and weeping, not knowing how he'd provide for them the next day.

From that, to the happy days as the Depression was loosening its grip and folks were working and thriving again -- to the bombing of Pearl Harbor. What times those must have been for Americans!

Dad ended up in an artillery battalion and shipped out first to North Africa and then was with the Salerno landing in Italy. He was the "sighter" in the turret of the tank, with two other guys who were the "loader" (a new younger guy named Escobar) and his sergeant, Smitty, the (non-com) "officer" in the tank.

After two years, two months, and twenty-two days in action in Italy, throughout which he had many adventures that he loved to talk about, the war was almost over in Italy. Four days before its end there, Dad's unit was moving through the countryside, "picking up a little rear action now and then," and his tank was near the rear. They were patrolling through farm country, and his tank was on a berm, where the dirt road was, next to an irrigation ditch.

As they approached a two-story farmhouse, they began taking machine gun fire from a window on the second floor, and several tanks stopped to deal with that. There were Nazi soldiers manning the machine gun, although it was an Italian farmhouse of course. There was also a huge haystack out beside the house; and while our troops' attention was on the machine gun firing at them, a German 88, well hidden in the haystack, was turning its big gun on Dad's tank.

Someone noticed this, and shouting ensued, with Smitty giving orders, and Dad's tank began turning their turret with its own big barrel toward the haystack and the big German gun. They knew what an 88 could do to a Sherman tank!

Before it fired at them, Dad's gun was in position where he had it lined up and sighted in, and he and the sarge were shouting at "the new guy" Escobar to get the shell shoved into the breech so they could fire. Dad always told this part of the story by saying that "Escobar was tossing this shell around like he had all the time in the world," and as it happened, before he had it in and they could shoot, the German 88 got them, right in the turret. The breech block decapitated Escobar and the explosion shattered Smitty's body, and both were killed instantly.

Dad was lucky. He caught a lot of shrapnel, and his hair and uniform were on fire as the ammo inside the turret began "cooking off." But he was not severely injured. He was deaf, however (and always had poor hearing through his life), and literally shell-shocked. Nonetheless, he did what he was trained to do, threw the hatch lid open and slung his leg out and rolled out of the turret.

He rolled down off the tank and then down the side of the berm, and right into the irrigation ditch -- which put out the fire on his body! He was blackened and bloody and looked like hell, of course, and knew he had to get out of there fast. He always told this part saying, "Did you ever try to RUN in two feet of water?"

Then, as he tried to make his way toward some of his fellow soldiers, they actually drew a bead on him with their guns, not knowing who he was at first! He said at the same time one of the other tanks had blown out the machine gun from its nest in the farmhouse, and "krauts" were streaming out of the house in all directions.

Other tanks took out the 88 in the haystack, so I'm sure it was quite a lot of chaos there for a bit.

Eventually things quieted down, and a medic briefly tended to Dad's minor wounds and patched him up. Then the general who had been at the head of their massive group arrived in his jeep to check out the results of their bit of action.

Dad said the general approached him and, seeing the awful condition he was in (though it appeared worse than it was, and Dad knew it), the general got out of his jeep and told Dad to get into HIS seat and ride back with the general's driver to get more medical treatment! Dad said the general had a special fancy pillow on his seat, and he didn't want to "get it all bloody"!

The general insisted, however, and of course Dad had to obey. He was taken to a MASH unit not far away and put on the ground on a small pile of hay, which served as the "bed."

Interestingly, Dad and his mischievous (and actually larcenous) buddies had a few days before this taken a safe from a small bank or store in an Italian village and managed to break it open somehow, and Dad had sewed his share of the Italian lira into his flak vest. When the shrapnel had penetrated this vest in many places, he said he noticed while lying on the hay in the medical unit that little pieces of lira were showing through and sticking out all over!

He was very afraid of being caught with this pilfered loot, so he pulled out all of the money from his vest and stashed it under the hay where he lay! Never saw it again, but I'm sure he was glad he just didn't get found out.

This sort of thing was probably not uncommon, and it was many years before I came to see that their theft was wrong; but it doesn't make it "okay" just because it was wartime and Italy was a part of the axis powers, an enemy.

Another part of this story from their "war years" that always fascinated me was how Mom learned of Dad's being wounded. She had been staying with her oldest sister, Reba, in Albuquerque at the time, as my cousin Bill, then an infant, had polio and had to be strapped to a board and specially cared for. Mom's sister was diabetic and not well, so Mom was helping out.

She and Reba were sitting on the couch reading on the day Dad's tank was hit, and suddenly Mom sat upright and said, "Myron's wounded!"

Now, my mother was about the most practical young woman in the world, and never has been the least bit "psychic" or interested in such things, ever. But she KNEW, she said, that he'd been wounded, right at the moment it happened, as it turned out!

She even knew that he wasn't badly hurt, which just astounds me to this day. She told Reba, "He's not dead, he'll be okay, but he's been hit."

Another weird part of this tale is that the V-mail or official government telegram notifying her that Dad had in fact been wounded did not arrive on schedule, and the first word she got from the Army was a follow-up note informing her that Dad was "improving."

So, she "knew" that he was wounded, then got the notice from the Army that he was "improving" BEFORE she received the original notification that he'd been hit in the first place! Is that eerie or what?

Only "psychic" event of her entire life.

By the time Dad got home, coming back on one of the "Flying Fortresses" that had had all the normal internals torn out to accommodate as many returning troops as possible, he had mostly healed of his shrapnel wounds, though little pieces of it continued to work their way out of his skin for many years. That's something I remember seeing with my own eyes, and it was just astonishing to me how it could do that.

Talk about having a longterm reminder of your experience in war!

One other very strange thing about that tank hit that killed Escobar and Dad's sergeant, who happened to be his best pal. Dad said that the night before it happened, they had been sitting around a little campfire, and Smitty told Dad, "You know, Myron, I don't think I'm gonna make it through this thing."

Dad told him, "Aw, hell, sure you will. The war's almost over here!" But Smitty must have had some sort of prescient sense that he was going to die. And he did, the very next day.

The "welcome home" guys like Dad received was so very different from what I remember from the Vietnam years, of course. Dramatically so, and on a daily, personal basis for each individual soldier and sailor. For one thing, they wore their uniforms proudly for a long time after arriving home, and Dad often said he "couldn't buy a cup of coffee or a meal" at a restaurant for many months. Someone in the place always paid for whatever he wanted, or else the cafe owner would simply refuse to allow him or any of the "boys" to pay, as a "thank you" for their service and sacrifices.

Dad was always a very talkative guy (guess where I got that?), and he was very unlike many veterans from WWII or any war who preferred not to talk about their experiences in combat. In fact, Mom told me that as soon as he got home, everyone in both their families wanted to see Dad, so they took a sort of "tour," visiting relatives all over Oklahoma and Texas. She said that at each stop, he would tell the story of the tank hit again, and in as much detail as anyone wanted to hear. They had lots of questions and he was glad to answer all of them.

I've always thought that probably did him (and maybe Mom, too) a lot of good, to just talk about it like that, with people who cared. It is also why Mom knew this story nearly as well as Dad himself did, and she could answer my many questions about his service experiences quite well.

But that bit of "therapy" he got talking about the war didn't last very long or do too much good, really -- largely, I presume, because OTHER people didn't really want to hear about it all for very long once the war in all of Europe and then Japan was OVER.

The celebration was great and went on for awhile, and we've all seen the pictures. But putting those horrendous, frightening and very sad times behind them was probably uppermost in most folks' minds.

Dad read books about WWII for the remainder of his life, though, and became somewhat of an expert on every aspect of that war on all the fronts. How many times I'd come in and he'd be sitting in his recliner with another hardback library book in his hands -- usually a very thick volume -- totally absorbed in it.

For the first 30 years of my own life, I remember frequent references to "life in the war years" from both my parents, and there was just a pervasive sense of how it affected and shaped their lives, so it helped to shape mine, too.

Mom was a genuine "Rosie Riveter," too, by the way! Yep, for a short time, just before Dad was wounded and came home, and I assume when she was in Albuquerque, she worked as a riveter on P-38's. She literally WAS the lady in the red scarf on the posters!

She always said she was plenty glad when the war ended and she could return to being the homemaker she had always planned and wanted to be. Dad always said my older brother Steve was born "nine months and ten minutes" after he got back, and I came along three years later, in 1949.

But whatever good Dad got from the "therapy" of talking about his war experiences with relatives and friends, it didn't avert his rather severe PTSD from affecting our family profoundly. I used to say that "it was war at the supper table" at our house, as he had a terrible, hairtrigger temper and was an abusive and violent man most of his life. He became a Highway Patrolman soon after the war and wore another uniform, with another gun strapped to his side. Retired after 23 years, but always he was an angry man and I wondered how much of that personality he developed came from being in action for so long during the War and then getting blown out of that tank.

I've asked Mom about it many times, and she said he definitely came home "a different man" than he'd been when she married him. He couldn't sleep through the night for some years, would wake up and smoke Lucky Strikes one after the other after bad dreams, sitting in bed. Until my brother as a toddler started getting into the ashtrays and eating the ashes, blackening his mouth! Dad decided to quit, and he left a half-full carton of Luckies lying right on top of the dresser and stared it down, never relenting and smoking again. He had an iron will like that.

We all reacted differently to Dad's horrible temper and routinely angry ways. Mom was mostly submissive, but had her passive-aggressive ways, which my brother also adopted. I, on the other hand, had more of Dad's own disposition (how long it has taken me to admit that!) and was the only one who tried to stand up to him, even as a small child. So I got the brunt of his anger, of course. you just did NOT defy my dad!

Ironically, he had always been somewhat defiant, even in the Army. He went in as a private, was promoted many times and made it as far as sergeant before being busted down for insubordination repeatedly, and was a private again when he got out!

I know that if he were to have been analyzed and diagnosed in modern times, he would have been a clear case of PTSD. I feel his resentment at the loss of his best friend in that tank, and the horrors he witnessed inside that inferno, must have seriously affected him forever after, but there were plenty of other things he saw, too. And participated in.

I asked Mom why she didn't leave him if he came home so changed and angry, and since they'd only known each other a short while, anyway, before they married and then been together only three days before he left. She had admitted to me that he "scared her." She always said she felt sorry for him, for all he'd suffered in the war, and wanted to give him a chance to heal and get better. Sadly, he never really did, not emotionally.

Thus did WWII shape MY life, too, and my brother's. War has a way of doing that, not only to those who fight in it, but to their families. Most of us do not think a lot about how all the returning Iraqi vets (and those from Afghanistan as well) have a big impact on their entire families. I've personally known a lot of children of Vietnam vets whose lives were tremendously affected, and in many cases very negatively.

So many things my folks talked about and did for years, until Dad's death and then Mom's gradual loss of memory, were always about "the War."

Oddly, to them it always seemed like "the best of times, and the worst of times," for they clearly had many fond memories as well as plenty of tense and disturbing ones. The way the American public came together, supportive in every way of our "boys" and our government, sacrificing in the many ways your mother wrote about in her wonderful memoir, Tab.

I remember five years ago, just after Dubya launched his and Cheney/Rumsfeld's war in Iraq, when a reporter asked the president what the public could do to support the war effort. That idiot looked like it was the strangest idea in the world to him -- that the guy would think WE should do ANYTHING! Hell, Bu$h didn't want us to really NOTICE what a nightmare he was setting in motion, let alone get involved ourselves or be thinking about it a great deal!

"GO SHOPPING!" he said, after shrugging like a moron at the question. Man, what a sorry piece of crap he proved he was on that day, as on so many others. EVERY day!

If people had remained acutely aware of the ongoing war every day since he started it, he couldn't have gotten away with so much so easily, I'm sure is how he figures it.

Yeah? Well, how are we going to "go shopping" now that you've tanked our economy to pay for YOUR monstrous, illegal war, Georgie?? Tell me that, will ya?

What a different world it is from the years of World War Two, indeed.


Thank you, and especially I thank your mom, Tab, for sharing her memories of her childhood in those times. Truly a valuable record you can always treasure, and a lovely thing to share so that others can appreciate it, too!

[Juan_de_la_Dem]

55. I really enjoyed reading this. Thank you

[Maat]

57. Thanks, and give your mom a hug.

My uncle was fighting with the Americans, and he was of German ancestry. My grandmother (or great-grandmother, depending upon which story about my mother's birth you believe) was named "Eva Braun;" the family changed their name to "Brown." They had been in the U.S. for generations, but still faced great prejudice.

These accounts are invaluable to teach my daughter about history.

[driver8]

58. Wow -- that was really interesting! Your Mom is quite a story teller!

I enjoyed that...thanks for posting it.

[babydollhead]

59. tell your mom she should get this published.

my own mom told stories and we rolled our eyes, she was so patriotic and we grew up seeing right thru the flag waving and buying into "the man" I am going to let my kids read this.

[ConservativeDemocrat]

60. This shows exactly why Harry Truman dropped the atomic bomb

American casualties from invading Japan would have been horrific.
Tens of thousands more gold-star mothers. Instead, two bombs, and
the war was brought to a quick end.

Indeed, I'm quite sure that President Truman was entirely correct.
If he hadn't bombed Japan, he would have been impeached.

- C.D. Proud Member of the Reality Based Community

[ayeshahaqqiqa]

61. sounds very much like the experience of my family

I was born in 1951, the baby of the family--I was told of rationing, mixing up the oleo with the yellow color packet, of my great-grandmother giving my mother her shoe coupons so my brother, a baby at the time, could have shoes. My grandfather was a doctor and was also on the Draft Board--he got a commendation for his services signed by FDR--but he said it was hard, very hard, to send friends and neighbors to war. His little town raised the most War Bonds and was featured in Life Magazine for their efforts.

[Barb in Atl]

62. That was wonderful!

History is not just the words in books but the experiences lived.

Tell your mom - Thanks SO much!!!

Now I'm going to see if I can convince my mom to do the same. She was 10 at the time of Pearl Harbor.

[truedelphi]

63. K & R'ed n/t

[nadinbrzezinski]

64. thanks for posting and this is what a country at war looks like

This is what REAL national sacrifice mens... not the joke we see today

[Kindigger]

65. K&R

!

[diane in sf]

66. Thank you, this is a wonderful account. My mom talked about mashing oleo too.

And to think the disgusting Bush family was busy making money from this war...

[Festivito]

67. My ma survived the 1918 influenza. Dr. Wilson held her 6yo hand.

All night long.

That won't happen in this day. Too busy we are. Strangely too rich to afford such care anymore.

Mom died alone in a hospital bed. Probably aspirated on the overdriven food stuff they forced us into putting in her. But, I digress.

She told us stories. I now wish they were written. (Good for you guys!)

My dad left Sweden to bicycle Europe just as WWI ended. He designed tanks in Detroit for WWII.

There was a neighbor at that time long before my birth. A father of two boys, one in the German army, one in America's. "How's the war going today?" "Oh," he'd respond, "Half and half!" holding fingers of two hands to cross the middle.

Mom joined a German Lutheran church. Probably because its name started with an A in the phone book.

There was a man: Otto, his real name. Otto was German, with German accent, in a German church. Otto was in charge of the one powerhouse supplying the then largest industrial complex in the world. Yes, the world. During a war against Germany.

The head of the complex said: "Otto stays!" He did. And we won that war, in more ways than we seem to remember.

Mom recalled the rations, but lived through it as she had everything else.

It's good to read your story. Thank you.

[JNelson6563]

69. Bravo!

I really enjoyed reading that. You're mom sells hersself short, she's a very good writer.

Julie

[Dollface]

70. Her story is now being shared with a 4th grade class in Maine.

I sent it to my dad who served as a Marine in the Pacific in WWII and he sent it to one of his buddies who also survived. His buddy still teaches at 83 and is going to share it with kids who would be about the same age as your mom was. They both loved the story as it is what their families were experiencing when they were "gone to war." Thanks for sharing.

[Tab]

71. I'll let her know

I think this is beyond what she expected. Thanks!