Recollections of WW II

Then, one day, I noticed something different in the sky. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. The sky was literally filled with wave after wave of planes flying in perfect formation. I knew that the planes were war planes because I had seen them in books, and I had heard about the war from my parents and the radio. At the time, it seemed to me that the war was all people wanted to talk about. Of course, for me, most of the events taking place were simply various things happening somewhere else on a map. Such things as how or why all this was happening was beyond me. At the age of seven and eight, it is beyond our consciousness to superimpose the conditions and events of a far off land upon ourselves, via the imagination, without having first been prepared and conditioned by society in some manner or fashion. I had no such preparations. Before World War II, I had never thought about war. And, I am sure that I did not say to myself that day, "Oh look at the planes, it is now 2:30 p.m. March first, 1942; I wonder what mission they are on and how many bombs they will drop on the enemy."

So, what did I think? What did I feel back then when the scourges of war first knocked upon my childhood door? Not much at first. But then, war never does show its true face in the beginning. It always comes as a friend; sometimes as the protector, other times for national interest, still other times for honor and glory, but never as its true nature. Most of the time, we humans don't even know when the scourges of War first begin to alter our minds and our soul.

I remember how proud everyone was when my brother was drafted into the Army. He was among the first to be drafted. Suddenly, the family was drawn together under a common cause. Everyone was laughing, crying, hugging, and banding together in small groups in order to have their picture taken with my brother—I being the youngest was given the prize position in the family portrait of standing next to my brother with his arm on my shoulder. I had never felt so proud. Suddenly, we were somebody. We were no longer the downtrodden: the poor dirt farmers on rented land, the nobodies. We were important. We were among the first to defend our country.

But the years 1942 to 1946 were not a happy time in my life. I can only see and feel that period through a blur of emotion and a maze of confused time. Everything began to turn itself upside down during that period. Not only did the family begin to disintegrate, but my inner world of self-awareness began to explode before my very eyes.

First, there was one brother, then a second, and a third that was either drafted or enlisted into the military for a war and purpose beyond my understanding. The, there was the effect the war had on my parents and the community. All at once, there was more money, and people began to drink more, fight more, and spend a lot more time in the local beer joints and other eating establishments. Being the youngest, and the last to remain home, I was forced to be a non-participating observer of the rapid changes taking place about me—both directly and indirectly.

Frankly, I don't like to write about the negative aspects of my childhood, at least not in detail. I would prefer that some of my past would fade away into the distance. But it doesn't look like this is going to happen. On the other hand, if one has the ability to see and understand the faults and errors of his past, he has nothing to complain about—he has learned what not to do in life, and for this he should be grateful.

I remember being left alone during that period, out on the farm, miles from anyone I knew, with only the open sky to keep me company while my parents were in town drinking at the beer joints—until all hours of the night and morning. It was very lonely. I was afraid to stay in the house after dark, so I would go outside and sit on the highest hill, behind the house, where I could see the farthest distance and watch for approaching headlights on my parents car. My favorite though, was to go and sit on a hill in the pasture, about a half a mile from the house, under the stars, so that I could see the approaching lights from another direction. On occasion I would cry to myself and talk to God. I was always happy when I waw the approaching lights in the distance and all could be forgotten until another day.

Then, I remember going to Hastings, a town about twenty miles to the north, with my mother, oldest sister, and her husband, and having to walk the streets until the beer joints closed and they would finally be ready to go home. At other times, I would go to sleep in the car, but most of the time I would go to the train station which also had an all night café and listen to the juke box play the other customers' music. Sometimes I would put in a nickel myself so that I could listen to one of my favorites. I loved Tommy Dorsey and his band, and I especially liked the Tommy Dorsey Boogie. It made me feel alive and good all over—for that moment at least, I was completely in my own world of dreams. I remember telling a group of older boys once that I was in the ninth grade when I was actually in the eighth—I must have been eleven at the time.

Thank God we lived on a farm where I had the opportunity to balance some of my parents' negative behavior with concrete reality. Like most children, though, I must have blocked ninety percent of my parents' private war from my mind. When times were good, I was happy, and when times were bad, I was sad. But then, I don't ever remember a time when my parents took their anger or personal problems out on my physically. They always treated me nice and with respect. I don't ever remember being yelled at or shouted at by either of my parents. Come to think of it, the only thing that was way out of line, and beyond the invisible line of insanity, was my father's unbelievable capacity to rant and rave, curse and swear, cry and weep. There was no stopping him once he began. What a drama. I never did know what the problem was until years later, and then, only in part. Maybe that was good—a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing, especially in the mind of an emotionally wounded child.

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Recollections of WWII

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