Tete Arellano dressed for mission

By  Graciano “Tete” Arellano
As told to Chace Anderson 

Sonora and the Air Force…that’s where I’ve been.  You see, I’m 88 now, and for just about all my life other than the 22 years I spent in the service, I’ve been in Sonora. Oh I spent a year working in Okinawa right after World War II, but about everything else has been right here or else serving somewhere in the Air Force.  ­

I was still in high school, a senior I guess, when Pearl Harbor was bombed. I was born in Sonora, and I lived with my family a couple blocks above Washington Street in what we called Michigan Heights, right below the Odd Fellows Cemetery. I walked to Sonora High each day, just like I had walked to Sonora Grammar School. We heard on the radio what the Japanese had done, but I didn’t really know what Pearl Harbor was. Of course, like everyone else, I learned in a hurry.

I was the fourth of five brothers, and was called “Tete,” a word my brother who was older by a year found easier to pronounce than Graciano. Only my parents – my parents and Jimmy Hardin – called me Graciano. Jimmy Hardin became Judge James Hardin, and he thought it was funny; he used to say “Hey Graciano” every time he saw me. But to everyone else I was Tete.

Well, my three older brothers all got drafted, so after I graduated from high school in 1942, I thought maybe that would get me out of it. With three brothers already in, maybe I wouldn’t get drafted myself. Now my mother didn’t speak much English – she and my dad came to the States from Mexico in 1917 – and she didn’t understand all that was going on. But she prayed. She was worried for her boys, and she prayed all the time. But in the end I did get drafted after all, and I went in the Army in February of 1943. At one point the four oldest brothers were all in combat at the same time, and the youngest eventually volunteered for service.

Combat Training

I was processed at the induction center in Monterey and sent to Biloxi, Mississippi for basic training. After a month they asked me what I wanted to do. When I was at Sonora High, I had taken a radio course and enjoyed it, so I told them I wanted to be a radio operator. I then became part of the Army Air Corps, which later turned into the Air Force, and I was sent to Sioux Falls, South Dakota for radio operator training and to learn Morse code. As a radio operator, I would become a crewmember on a B-17 bomber.  Since all radio operators on bombers also had to man a machine gun, my next stop was Las Vegas for gunnery school.

The crews for the B-17 bombers were assembled at MacDill Field in Tampa, Florida, and that’s where we got ours together.  A crew was made up of ten men: the pilot, co-pilot, navigator, bombardier, radio operator, and gunners for the various turrets. Once a crew is put together, those men work as a unit and stay together until they finish their duty. They may fly different B-17s, but the crews stay together.

We trained in Tampa for three or four months, dropping dummy bombs in the ocean and doing navigation training. Another four months of training in Virginia put the final touches on our preparation, and we were ready for war.

My crew flew from Virginia to Massachusetts and then to Bangor, Maine, the takeoff point for overseas duty. We flew to Labrador to fuel up, to Iceland and then the final leg across the Atlantic to Scotland. My crew was assigned to Deenethorpe Field near the village of Benefield,  north of London in the center of England. The last leg of our journey there was by train.

Bombing Missions Over Germany  

Early in his service

My crew became part of the 401^st Bomb Group of the 8^th Air Force. At that time, if a crew completed 30 bombing missions, it could go home. At the beginning of the war in Europe, the goal had only been 25, and there were so many losses that not many crews even made that. But by late 1944 and early 1945 when my crew flew, there were improvements to the bombers, there were heated suits, and more important than anything else, there were P-51 Mustang fighter escorts. The original fighter escorts were ineffective because their range was so limited and they flew at low altitudes, but external fuel tanks and engine improvements enabled them to extend their protection. That’s why the limit was raised to 30 missions.

My first mission was to Anklam, Germany on August 4, 1944, and my 30^th and final mission was to Hamburg on February 16, 1945.

A Typical Mission  

Each bomber group had four squadrons of 12 planes, and three squadrons flew together on a mission.  My crew didn’t fly every day, but when we did, there were 36 planes flying toward the same target in Germany.  Generally we got up at 4 a.m. and went to the mess hall for breakfast. I remember always grabbing a couple pieces of fruit on my way out and stuffing them in my pocket for the flight. At the airstrip we had a briefing room, and when we would walk in, they had a big map covered up so we couldn’t see right away where we were going that day. The commander would come in, and we’d all pop to attention. He’d tell us where we were going and then move that screen back so we could see the target on the map.

I remember the day the target was Berlin, everybody said, “Oh my God, Berlin.” But to tell you the truth, I’d rather go there any day because there was almost no anti-aircraft fire from the ground.

B-17s in formation; USAF photo

We then headed out to our planes. The ground engineers had pre-flighted them, but the pilots would walk around and check everything again just to make sure.  Between six and seven o’clock they’d shoot a red flare, and the pilots would start their engines.  When we were the lead plane, we would take off first. We would circle the field and our squadron would start up to altitude while the next two squadrons of 12 bombers took off.  There were other airfields around, so at times planes were everywhere.  One time I looked out my little window and heard a huge roar.  Another plane came barreling right over the top of us!

As we climbed, we would go on oxygen at about 10,000 feet.  Once we got all 36 planes in formation, we’d head east at 36,000 feet.  The P-51 fighter escorts took off well after we were airborne.  A fully loaded B-17 might fly at 160 to 180 mph, but the P-51s might go 300 to 400 mph, so they could catch up in a hurry. They might not always accompany us the entire way, but they would pick us up again on our way home. I think our shortest mission was 6 ½ hours round trip, and the longest was 10 ½ hours.

As our bomb group approached the target, we’d drop to 27,000 feet and the pilot would turn the plane over to the bombardier.  The plane was then his to fly until the bomb bay doors opened, and he said “Bombs away.” When he said that, I would activate the onboard camera, which would then take a series of photographs as the bombs dropped and exploded. We would then return to base, and the first thing they’d do when we landed was grab that camera and take it away to see if we hit the target. In 30 missions, the 401^st Bomb Group set a record for accuracy based on the photo evidence.

After about five missions, my crew became the lead crew for our group.  That meant we would always take off first, and as radioman for our crew, I became the lead radio operator for the 36-plane group. Using Morse code, I would send back messages to the base, first letting them know when we left the English coast, then when we hit the continent, again when we started our bomb run, and another message when we completed the run and were heading home.

The B-17   

Guys became very attached to the B-17 bomber, or “Flying Fortress,” as it was often called. It was an amazing plane that always seemed to take care of the men it carried.  We often bragged to crews on B-24s that our plane was the best, but of course they felt the same way about theirs.

I’ve seen B-17s land with half the tail shot away, and we had the entire plastic nose of our plane knocked off by flak two days in a row.  Didn’t bother the guys up front. They had heated suits on and could move back into the plane. One time an anti-aircraft shell hit right below us. The guys in the plane behind us saw the burst and told us later they couldn’t believe it didn’t knock us down.

My plane was never shot down, and I never really crash-landed, but we did have a few close calls.  I wouldn’t count clipping some pine trees on a takeoff during training in Florida, but in Europe, we had a couple dicey moments.

On every one of our missions except the one to Berlin, we ran into flak.  Each one of us wore a flak jacket to protect us from flying shrapnel that would come through the shell of the plane. One time our waist gunner felt something hit him in the stomach, hit him right in his flak jacket. He looked down, and it was a piece of shrapnel about three or four inches long, shrapnel that had come right through the fuselage and hit him. We always had to have holes in the planes patched when we got back to England.

The fighter escorts did a good job of keeping the German Messerschmitts away from us, and an enemy fighter never attacked my plane.  But from a distance I did see Messerschmitts attacking other groups.

Tete with his crew

On our fifth mission we were headed to Leipzig.  My crew was not the lead yet, so we had to follow the lead of another crew.  As the squadron started the bomb run, the lead bombardier failed to drop his bombs.  I don’t know why.  You see, all the bombardiers drop on the lead bombardier, and if he doesn’t drop, no one does.  We usually have a secondary target to go to. But this time the bombardier in that lead plane ignored the secondary target and made a 360-degree turn, taking us back over the original target and into the anti-aircraft fire for a second time.

A bombing run may expose us to flak for about 15 minutes, but that day we faced flak for nearly 45 minutes straight. When we got back to the base, my plane had over 60 holes in it from pieces of shrapnel.

Three Engines Out

One of the scariest missions was to Frankfurt in December of 1944.  We were the lead crew by then, and as we approached the continent, we lost one of our engines.  It just quit on us, but our pilot said we could go on, so we did. Then as we headed to the IP (initial penetration) for the bomb run, we lost a second engine. We went over the target, dropped the bombs, and headed back. And then we lost a third one! Well, we knew we couldn’t keep up with the rest of the group on one engine, and we were steadily losing altitude.

Our pilot thought he could make it to Paris, but the weather there was lousy.  He then found out Brussels was close by and had been taken over by the British the week before, so that’s where he headed.  We all had our parachutes on and were ready to bail if we needed to.  I really thought we were going to buy the farm that time, but our pilot managed to reach Belgium, and we landed in pretty good shape.

We never figured out how three engines could fail on one mission, but we did find out a B-17 could fly on just one engine, at least for a while. We had to wait in Brussels for about a week until a C-47 could come over and pick us up. We were in friendly territory so there wasn’t really a problem.

Last Mission: Feb. 16, 1945 

Flak bursts beneath a B-17; USAF photo

I think every member of a bomber crew looked forward to the last mission, the one that would rotate him home. I know I certainly did, and I remember my last mission fairly well. On any given day, there might be many targets, but the day of my last mission, there were so many targets that just about every plane in the 401^st Bomb Group was up in the air, close to 1,000 planes.

Now for 29 missions, I had been with the same crew, the same guys. Six of us were enlisted men and the pilot, co-pilot, navigator, and bombardier were officers. But on the day of my last mission, we were told the target was Hamburg and that the base commander would fly in our plane. We also learned he was going to bring some other officers with him. As it turned out, on that flight only three of us were enlisted men: the waist gunner, the tail gunner, and me. Why they chose my plane I never knew. I was accustomed to being in the lead spot for 36 planes, but on that day, on our last mission, we lead just about the entire 8^th Air Force.

Well, everything went well. We made our bomb run on Hamburg and returned to base safely. I can tell you, it felt great.  It was over with. We had made it through our 30 missions and we knew we could go home.

Reunions

My B-17 crew had a reunion in September of 1991. I hadn’t kept track of where the guys were, but the bombardier decided he would find us. As it turned out, he learned the pilot had died and he couldn’t find one other guy, but he tracked down the rest of us, and the remaining eight got together in Oklahoma that year. It was really something to see them again after 46 years. Off and on I’ve tried to keep in touch since then, but this past year we lost the only survivor besides me. I’m the only one left.

I also learned about then that the 401^st Bomb Group has had reunions every two years. I traveled to a few of those, and they gave us a chance to see some nice places. We’ve been to Savannah, Georgia and to Dayton, Ohio. And we went to Boston one time.  I always looked forward to it when we did go. But so many of the guys have died now.

The families of the 401^st have kept the reunions going, and now it’s mainly the relatives who show up. I don’t really want to go anymore because I’m the only one left of our crew.

Never Scared

Sometimes I’m asked if I was ever scared while flying those missions over Germany, and the answer is no. Now there were times when we’d talk to ground troops, and they’d tell us we were crazy to do what we did … fly up there with anti-aircraft guns firing at us. But I felt they were crazy doing what they did. I preferred the bombing missions in the Army Air Corps.

After that fifth mission to Leipzig, the one where we had so many holes shot in our plane, I just knew I was going to come back. I never had any qualms about it at all. I never hated going up. I just made up my mind that when the next mission came, we just had to go do it.

And I guess part of it is my faith. Before I went in the service, I always went to church. I was an altar boy at St. Patrick’s in Sonora, and I was raised by a very religious mother … both my parents were religious. During the war, whenever we went on a mission the base chaplain would come up and give all the Catholic boys communion. I always knew I’d come back safe and sound because of my faith. You know, both my pilot and co-pilot were Catholic boys, too.

After World War II  

At 1991 reunion with 8 of 10 from original crew

After that last mission to Hamburg in February 1945, we headed home. The crew split up and the Army sent me to Arizona. They asked me if I wanted to go to the South Pacific, and I said NO! Right about then, the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan. I had enough points from missions and time in service to get out, so they sent me to Camp Beale up by Sacramento, and I was discharged as a Tech Sergeant there.

Sonora was my hometown, and I naturally came back here. Everyone accepted returning soldiers, and it wasn’t hard to find a job. I could have gone back to school, but I wasn’t the school type. Standard Oil was by the Opera Hall, you know, next to the Bank of Stockton now, and I took a job there. After awhile someone said they needed help at the post office, so I worked there for 90 cents an hour. After a couple months, a friend of mine told me the construction company he worked for was going to extend an airstrip on Okinawa, and he said, “Tete, let’s go.” So we did; over there I drove a 30-yard dumpster for about a year.

About 1947 I returned to Sonora and worked for Mallard’s Grocery, and in 1950 married my first wife, Hezzy. When the Korean War broke out, I decided to go back in the Air Force and was trained to be an air traffic controller, a job I performed at various bases in the U.S. and for a year at a base near Seoul, South Korea during the conflict there.

I left the Air Force again in 1954, but went back in 1957. Between then and 1971, when I retired with over 22 years of service, I saw many places a good distance from Sonora. My son David and my daughter Kerry were both born while I was in the Air Force, and my family even lived with me during my second tour to Madrid, Spain. We were teaching the Spanish to be air traffic controllers, and my son graduated from high school while we were there.

Like everyone else in the service during the Vietnam War, I did a tour of duty there. In 1970 I was sent to Binh Thuy Air Base to teach the Army of the Republic of Vietnam to run a control tower.  I never felt in danger in either Korea or Vietnam … oh, they’d lob a few shells onto the field, but I was never scared.

After nine months in Vietnam, I was told my father was dying, so the Air Force let me come home. I tried to make it before he died, but I was late by a couple days. About then I decided to retire from the service, and did so as a Master Sergeant in 1971.

Life After the Air Force

Back in Sonora, I went to work in the maintenance department at Sonora High. I really enjoyed my time there. The teachers were always good to us, and I made many friends. I retired in 1985.

My life since then has been full. I volunteer at St. Patrick’s quite a bit. I’ve been an usher at church, I used to work with the altar boys, and I volunteered out at Interfaith for about 20 years.

There’s been some sadness, too. In 1996, Hezzy and I were involved in a head-on crash coming up the highway in Jamestown … a drunk driver. She was killed. We had been married 46 years. Again my church helped; it was at St. Patrick’s that I met Vicki, and we’ve been married now for 13 years. Life is good. Between us we share six children, 11 grandchildren, and five great grandchildren.

Mr. Arellano, January 2012

Reflections

So much changed from World War II to Vietnam. When I first went in the service I think we were a different breed. I remember later when I came home from Vietnam, we landed in New York, and the guys there told me to get out of my uniform because the people here didn’t like soldiers in uniform.

Yes, I think we were a different breed. We loved our country and we never questioned where they sent us. We just did it.

Commendations

Air Medal with four oak leaf clusters

European Theater of Operations Medal with four battle stars

World War II Victory Medal

Presidential Unit Citation

Good Conduct Medal with four bronze loops and gunners’ wings

Korean Defense Service Medal with bronze star

Republic of Vietnam Service Medal

Air Force Longevity Service Award with four oak leaf clusters

Advance Flying School , USAF photo

By Max Kernaghan
As told to Packy Maxwell

I spent about four years during World War II in the Army Air Corps (which became the U. S. Air Force after the war) which included operations in a war zone. I owe the service a lot. They took on a 19-year-old kid, housed, clothed, fed, and educated me, and gave me a structure in which to function.

The service made it possible for me to gain a college education, earning a salable skill and establishing a career path for most of the rest of my life. To this day I am very involved in veteran affairs in my community.

Early Years

I was born in the little town of Galena, Kansas in 1922. I was very young when my father left the family and my first memories are of living in Kansas City, Missouri with my mother, aunt and grandmother. Two of the ladies worked and one stayed home. My mother worked in a “Sweet Shop” selling chocolates and running the soda fountain. For a time she went out to the then-resort town of Colorado Springs to work as a waitress, during which time I was left with foster parents. The foster parents, the Dixons, were taking care of a number of other children as well.

In Santa Monica, circa 1940

My mother returned after a time. Life was reasonably comfortable and I had a group of like-minded pals. I continued my schooling and graduated from high school. I was 18. It was 1939.

I was attending junior college in Kansas City when I heard of a program offered by Douglas Aircraft.  It involved graduating from a metal-working course in Kansas City. Graduates got jobs at Douglas.  Four of us got a jalopy and headed down Route 66 to California. The thing I remember most about the trip were the sand dunes, which I think were in New Mexico, where the highway on top of the dunes was made out of 2-by-12 wooden planks wired together.

When we got to California we got jobs at Douglas.  I was working at a plant where they were building the A-20, a twin-engine light bomber. It was great to have a job and to be in an industry that was in the thick of things.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, I figured I’d better take action ahead of my draft board. I volunteered for the Navy. They said I had flat feet and rejected me. I didn’t know the Navy was doing a lot of marching.

I then volunteered for pilot training with the Army Air Corps. They also rejected me due to a deviated septum. That didn’t discourage me. A session with a doctor and a “chisel” and I was back talking to the Air Corps. I was accepted into their pilot training program, and graduated as a flight officer.

Basic Training

Training began with a sort of boot camp in Santa Ana, learning to be a soldier while at the same time mastering things like the Morse code and other Air Corps-related skills. From there, now as an Air Cadet, I moved to a college training detachment in the state of Washington. The pre-primary aircraft was the Piper Cub.  From there I moved on to various California locations flying increasingly larger single-engine aircraft.  I was under the impression

Training in a BT-13

the Air Corps had many more pilots in training that they had aircraft available.

What I remember most about the single-engine training was the flight instructor yelling through the communications tube at me to see if he could unnerve me during various maneuvers. I trained in a number of aircraft. One of the single-engine trainers was known as the “Vultee vibrator” and a multi-engine trainer as the “bamboo bomber” due to its frame and fabric body. Having by this time flown all the single-engine training craft, I moved on into multi-engine planes.

Finally in April of 1944 in Douglas, Arizona, my training was completed and I became a flight officer and was posted to the Ferry Command (later to become the Air Transport Command). I soon received my single bar as a 2nd lieutenant.

Ferry Command

Aircraft production was catching up with demand. My job was to ferry bombers and transport planes. After receiving four-engine training in Florida I was assigned to pick up multi-engine planes from Consolidated Aviation’s plant in Fort Worth, Texas. We would pick up a plane and fly to various locations around the country, leaving the aircraft for additional upgrades: outfitting with armaments, navigation instruments, and other modifications. We would ferry another plane from that location to the next facility. It was a kind of “round robin” all over the country. Then we would take a commercial flight back to Dallas.  The women’s ferrying operation, known as the WASPS, was doing some of the same work, although there was no fraternizing.

B-24, USAF photo

After a couple of months of this activity, I joined crews flying bombers to Natal on the northeastern coast of Brazil via Trinidad. There another crew would take the B-17 or B-24 to Ascension Island in the mid-south Atlantic, then northeast to Dakar on the West African coast and on to units in southern Europe and North Africa.

Some of the flights, however, only went as far as Great Falls, Montana, where the planes were turned over to the Russians. Although I had no contact with them, it was my understanding that Russian pilots picked up the planes there and flew them across the Bering Sea to Asiatic Russia.  Understand the Russians did not enter the war against Japan until shortly before VJ day.

It was now fall of 1944. D-Day had come and gone and it looked like I might not be going overseas.

Flying the Hump

For much of the war, there had been a somewhat isolated operation going on in support of the Chinese Army in South China near the Burma border. The Air Transport Command had been flying from various fields in India near the border with Burma carrying supplies, food and particularly aviation fuel for the Air Force unit under General Claire Chennault.

Originally this air group was a mercenary organization known as the Flying Tigers. It was hired by the Nationalist Chinese Government to provide air support for their ground operations. We understood that the pilots in this unit were independent contractors and were paid bonuses for a confirmed “kill” – a Japanese plane shot down – perhaps receiving $500 per kill. However, by the time I was involved, the unit had been incorporated into the US Air Force and had lost much of its swashbuckling reputation.  Many of its original pilots had left in one way or another.

In late ’44, I got orders to this supply operation and was posted to Dhaka, India (now Bangladesh) just north of Calcutta near the Burma border.  The orders took me by the earlier described southern route to North Africa and though the Middle East via Karachi and across India to Dhaka. I was to be a co-pilot in an aircraft that had been adapted from the B-24, a high-altitude bomber built by Consolidated Aircraft.

Max as young officer

The aircraft’s armament was removed, and it was refitted with eight fuel cells in what had been the bomb racks, all together holding 2,900 gallons of aviation fuel.  It was designated C-109 and was specifically adapted for use flying the “Hump.”

The B-24 had a somewhat troubled reputation as a bomber, since it was very light on protection armament and its fuel system was poorly designed. When used in low-level bombing operation in Europe it was extremely vulnerable. Fuel from where the wing tanks joined within the aircraft tended to leak aircraft fuel into the crew’s area. However, it was perfect for flying over the high mountains in the Himalayas know for such peaks as Mount Everest and K2. Until this modified bomber appeared, it was not possible to take a direct route over the top of the “Hump.”

Forbidding Terrain

The best way to describe the flight itself is to put my hand with fingers extended on the table between us. These extended fingers are ridges of mountains running down to the Indian Ocean. There is a weather condition called “adiabatic expansion,” which causes moisture off the ocean to rise up the ridges producing thunder heads over each of these ridge lines. They can rise up over 15,000 feet.

In the early days of flying The Hump, the C-46 aircraft used did not have the altitude capability to fly over these thunderheads.  Some tried to take on these monstrous thunderheads, leaving an “aluminum trail” of aircraft wreckage among the rocks, as the ridges were called. As a result, planes had to fly a route around the ridges with a number of stops and lighter payload.  However, the converted B-24 with its turbocharged engines could fly right over the top of the highest mountains further inland from these ridges in a safer and more direct route to Kunming.

Military flying is best described as a modern activity comprised of hours of boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror. Described below are a couple of examples taken from personal experience.

A Good Flight

The crew is called up. The flight engineer has about 20 good “Hump” runs on his record. The First Pilot is a “Service Pilot,” meaning that he had earned a pilot license and has logged many hours in private planes, before entering the Air Corps. The co-pilot, age 22, is not a hot pilot, but moderately competent at navigation.

Takeoff set for 1800 hours (6 pm). First Pilot conducted a lengthy check list of the plane (the Air Force list plus his own list). Fuel has been loaded in all wing tanks and in the eight neoprene fuel cells located in the former bomb bay. All this well within prescribed load-weight limits. Weather: light mist, no cross-wind. Takeoff is noisy, but uneventful.  After gear-up and flaps up we adjusted our rate of climb to about 300 feet per minute on a heading of 95 degrees (East). At about 10,000 feet we broke out above the clouds, and went on oxygen.  Everything was clear with no turbulence.

In an hour we were over the first ridge in Burma at about 18,000 feet.   Flight engineer verified normal readings for engine temperatures, oil pressures, and fuel consumption. All four engines were synchronized. Co-pilot was tracking Rangoon’s commercial radio station on the directional loop antennae in order to compute headwind speed, since “dead reckoning navigation” uses heading, time, and ground speed, which is air speed minus headwind.  In about another hour we were at 27,000 ft. altitude over our halfway point. We could see it – pinpoints of light below us: Myitkyina, Burma (now held by British Forces, instead of Japanese.)

Radio conditions were just right. The Japanese propaganda radio station was coming through to us playing Glen Miller tunes, and with “Tokyo Rose” saying, “Hey GI Joe, your girlfriend is out tonight with that 4F (draft) guy from down the block. You’d better ditch this war and go home quick!”

The sky was black above with a zillion stars. The First Pilot was dozing in the back, the co-pilot, a little sleepy, but now “in charge” looked out and saw a RED LIGHT dead ahead. The specter of a mid-air collision popped into his head so he abruptly changed course. First Pilot roused to see what happened. When co-pilot pointed out the red light, First Pilot checked it then said, “Get back on course you idiot, that’s Mars!!”

Visibility was good over Kunming Lake and airport. We made a smooth landing and had a nice warm hour layover time, while the cargo fuel was being pumped out into storage tanks.  The flight to Kunming usually took five hours and the return an hour less.

Personal comfort on the flight was absent. We were flying at 27,000 to 30,000 feet in a freezing environment. To keep warm, we wore a cumbersome sheepskin-lined suit, gloves, a face mask for oxygen supply, and a set of ear phones. Since the earphones were shared with other pilots when they had the aircraft, there were occasions when another person’s fungus became yours and there were enough fungus to go around in the tropical environment.  There are no “facilities” on board.

But Then There was the Time

The crew: First Pilot, age 22, “wannabe” fighter pilot but assigned instead to Transport Command.  Flight engineer fairly new, co-pilot same as before.  Weather reported by pilots returning from China: a string of very active thunderhead clouds North-South across the route. Takeoff:  in rain, stayed under cloud base about 4,000 feet flying “contact” (visibility with ground).

Over Burma, far to the east, lightning flashed from several thunderheads. To clear the terrain in Burma we needed more altitude, so we climbed into the cloud layer hoping to break out above it. Soon we realized we were not achieving the required rate of climb, and we were getting turbulence.

The lightning we had seen created radio noise which soon put us out of radio contact. Flying on instruments in these clouds, we were aware that we had perfect conditions for icing of the wings. When air is saturated with moisture at near-freezing temperature, and encounters the leading edge of the wing, it freezes a little layer onto the wing.

As this process continues the layer gets thicker and destroys the correct “airfoil” shape.  At that point the lift decreases: You can’t climb very well.  Commonly a pilot will simply descend to a lower warmer altitude and be rid of the ice. We were not sure of our location or of the level of the mountains below, so descending was not a good option. The turbulence got much worse, and we experienced “Saint Elmo’s Fire” on the wingtips and trailing edges. This is a harmless but eerie electrical discharge.

The prospect of going further east into the known thunderheads was appalling. Were we scared? You betcha! Feverishly scanning the radio, we located a voice on “short wave” (low-power short distance) coming from a British unit holding an airfield near Myitkyina. Co-pilot relayed our mayday situation, and a friendly voice said, “Hold on chaps.”  In five minutes he came back and said, “We have a big searchlight which we will point straight up.  Maybe you can zero in on that.”  Even though we were totally engulfed in clouds we could see  a brighter side and a dimmer side and so, by steering a spiral path around that searchlight beam we were able to descend without fear, breaking out of the clouds at 500 feet, to circle and land.

Brits were right there with flares lighting the runway, and even though this was after midnight, they gave us hot drinks, congratulations and bunks for the night. I shall always hold a warm spot in my heart for the Brits. In the morning the weather cleared some and we took off for Kunming.

Life at Dhaka

The base at Dhaka was an old plantation with buildings taken over from the British. What I remember most were orchards of breadfruit and other exotic fruits which the natives enjoyed in season with puffed rice. I suspect the British may have been responsible for introducing the puffed rice. The natives would take the soft fruits and dip them in containers of puffed rice and that was their primary food.

The local laborers were from the poorer population and were all Muslim. They wore loin cloths, and head wrappings somewhat like a turban which contained their lunch. They prayed five times a day. When they washed before midday prayer, they would slip the tube-like head gear down over their body for modesty’s sake, remove their soiled loin cloth and put it on their head. All these steps were required before they could eat.

I was billeted in one of the British tents.  While the British had double-layered tents with a vent at the peak which kept them a bit cooler, the U.S. used standard-issue heavy canvas tents which were quite hot. The more senior officers used “Bashas” for their quarters and office spaces. These consisted of large diameter bamboo posts at the corners holding up a thick thatched roof with woven bamboo panels hanging from the frame.  They were cooler and took advantage of the available breezes. The thatched roof was host to a variety of native varmints.

My bed consisted of a four-poster made of rough teak, which was so dense it wouldn’t float. The teak frame was inset with a woven mat on which you placed your sleeping bag. We all put our boots upside down on the bedposts to keep out the scorpions.  Of course, there was mosquito netting suspended over the bed. When not flying, life was fairly peaceful, somewhat dull.  We ate fairly well on standard army food. We had plenty of fresh eggs. You can’t do much to make an egg unhealthy.

There was an enlisted men’s club, an officers’ club and a beer ration.  I didn’t drink so was able to make a bit selling my beer ration. As is the case with guys with time on their hands, there was a certain amount of gambling going on. One day an officer from CID (Criminal Investigation Division) who was a former professional gambler showed up at camp and conducted a session with us on how to uncover a cheat. Apparently there was a warrant officer in camp who, because of his rank as a noncommissioned officer, had access to both clubs. He was cheating at cards and was regularly sending money orders home in amounts three or four times his pay.  He was uncovered and disappeared.

The flight operations were not organized into permanent crews, so that aspect of camaraderie was missing. The flight personnel consisted of a flight engineer, co-pilot, and pilot, arbitrarily brought together for each flight. We were not made aware of casualties. It’s probably safe to say that the casualty rate after the modified B-24s were introduced was lower. While one might notice that someone was missing, they never knew if it was because they were rotated home or “hit the rocks.”

The Surrender

The Japanese surrendered on August 14, 1945 and things got pretty slow at Dhaka. However, shortly after the surrender I was detailed to join a C-54 (four-engine DC-4) as co-pilot and flew to Fuzhou on the coast opposite Taiwan to pick up Nationalist Chinese troops. They had little or no arms, and some had only wooden batons. We had a heck of a time getting them on the aircraft.  Most had never been this close to an aircraft much less to fly in one. After much work we loaded up about 50 of them. Many of the troops brought buckets with them which they needed for air sickness, etc.

We flew the troops into Shanghai.  Upon arrival, the troops formed a column with a sergeant in command and a Japanese sergeant at the rear and marched around Shanghai to installations guarded by Japanese troops accepting their surrender, taking their arms, and replacing them with Nationalist troops. The relieved Japanese troops formed up at the rear of the column behind their sergeant and so the column proceeded until the column was all Japanese except the Chinese sergeant and then they marched off to prison camp.  There was always a chance that one of these guys wanted to die for the Emperor and take someone with them but that didn’t happen as far as I know.  While I did not see this firsthand, I was told about the procedure at the time.

I was able to spend some time in Shanghai and saw a large number of refugees living in the gutters and on the streets of the city while life went on otherwise. The wealthy were pretty much living the same comfortable life as always. At some hotels in the city you could still have a steak dinner as long as you had the dollars to pay for it.

Homeward Bound

C-46A en route to China over Himalayas, USAF photo

In late 1945, 650 airmen from our operation, including me, were ordered to Calcutta for rotation home. There we boarded the troop ship USS General G. O. Squire (AP-130) for the trip back to the United States.  It was no “cruise.”

The ship, built in Richmond, California by Kaiser, was designed to carry over 3,000 troops.  It pitched and rolled on 20-second cycles and sea sickness was a given.

Space aboard was tight. Bunks were crammed together, six bunks high. The officers among the group (by now I was a 1st Lieutenant) were required to stand watch. That meant four hours on duty, below decks where men tended to get the most seasick, and eight hours off during a 24-hour cycle.  I was not happy. The only bright spot was the chow, which was better than anything we had in India.

We crossed the Indian Ocean, up the Red Sea to the Mediterranean and across the Atlantic toNew York.  For me the war was over. Having not faced the enemy directly, I did receive an Air Medal and a couple of ribbons showing my service in the CBI (China, Burma, Indian Campaign.)

Back Home

Mustered out, I returned to Kansas City and shortly thereafter married my high school sweetheart, Betty Burke.  I talked to TWA about a pilot’s job, but there were too many other returning pilots with more experience. Betty and I moved to Lawrence, Kansas and I enrolled at the University of Kansas under the G. I. Bill, which offered veterans’ tuition-free education and $90 a month (later boosted to $120 per month).

Betty had a good job while I earned a degree in three-and-a-half years as an electrical engineer. I immediately went to work for Bendix Aviation in Kansas City. The work involved the atomic bomb, which was very hush-hush at the time. Betty wanted to stay in Kansas City with family and friends close by. I had my eyes on California, where a lot of “defense work” was still being carried out.

I was finally able to talk Betty into moving west where, with my security clearance, I became involved with the development of the intercontinental ballistic missile. In order to evaluate the reliability of the equipment on board, we would fire up these rockets while they were anchored to a huge concrete stand, cooled by massive torrents of water.

I later joined Lockheed in Sunnyvale and worked on the Polaris submarine-launched missile. This missile, which was launched from a submerged submarine, popped to the surface of the ocean where it emerged, ignited, and took off. In the event the missile went in the wrong direction, they had a destruct device built in so it could be destroyed, if necessary. This involved using an electronic code. Because the Russians attempted to decipher the code, trying to destroy one of our missiles in flight, we changed the codes on these devices frequently. I was back in the middle of another war.  This time it was the “Cold War.”

Betty and I were divorced in 1980 and I remarried in 1982 to a woman who had family ties here in Tuolumne County. We moved here and I commuted to a job with General Electric Nuclear Power Division in San Jose and was home on the weekends. Getting up at 4 a.m. to drive to San Jose on Mondays got old, and I retired in 1989.

Reflections

I have a moral conflict about killing and was never in a position to have to kill anybody, for which I am very thankful. This is based on the commandment from Moses that “thou shall not kill.”  I’m not sure what might happen in a situation where you have to get the enemy before they get you.

At home, January 2012

The only time I was shot at was during an incident in Lubbock, Texas. We were trying to get some additional flight hours by towing a target sleeve, a kind of windsock, behind our plane so fighter planes could practice their gunnery. The plane would come in toward the sock at a 90-degree angle, firing away. They were supposed to break away toward the rear of the sleeve. This one guy broke off toward our plane and we took a bullet in the fuselage. We got on the radio and gave him a few choice words.  But that was only a small ration of what he got when he returned to base.

Mr. Kernaghan, 89, was interviewed by volunteer Packy Maxwell in 2011 for the Tuolumne Veterans History Project.

By Denny Thompson 

I gazed down from the aircraft as we crossed the English Channel and saw hundreds of ships heading for the beaches of France.  It was June 6, 1944 and I knew that the troops were hitting the beaches on D-Day as we flew toward Lisieux, France to drop our load of bombs on the German headquarters.  I was 21 years old, on my sixth mission flying as a 1st Lt. Pilot-Bombardier in a B-24 Liberator for the 487th Bombardment Group of the Eighth Air Force.

Before I finished my 30th mission six months later, I would be wounded twice and earn two Distinguished Flying Crosses, four Air Medals, four Bronze Stars, the French Freedom Medal, and two Purple Hearts.

Early Days

I was born in Fargo, North Dakota on July 28, 1922 and later moved with my parents, three brothers and one sister to Staples, Minnesota. My dad was a motorcycle policeman in Fargo and later became a “cinder dick” – someone who tried to keep the hobos from riding the rails during the Depression Era – for the Northern Pacific Railway.  He had many interesting stories about his experiences policing the railroad.  My oldest brother, Vern, and I both worked for the railroad when we graduated from high school.

I got the flying bug during the Depression when the barnstormers came to town and the physician father of a friend paid for an airplane ride for the two of us.  It cost $1, was a thrill like no other, and I knew then that I wanted to learn to fly.

Family Service

When World War II started, my two older brothers joined the service.  Leroy was a staff sergeant in the South Pacific.  He spent three and a half years in New Guinea and earned two Purple Hearts.  Vernon, the brother just older than me, was a first lieutenant in the Army Signal Corps in North Africa, and saw action at the Anzio Beachhead.  He got hit in the back with shrapnel and earned one Purple Heart.  After I joined we were called the “Fighting Thompson Brothers” back home in Minnesota.  My youngest brother, Ronald, joined the service late in the war and never saw combat. 

Training

I joined the Aviation Cadets in 1943 to prepare for service in World War II.  After graduation, I joined the Army Air Corps. My early training was in Brady, Texas in PT-17 biplanes which had the cockpit up high and weren’t very stable. I was coming in just fine on my first solo landing until I ground-looped and touched the grass with a wingtip.  [A ground loop occurs when an aircraft is moving on the ground, and pilot error or aerodynamic forces cause one wing to rise and the other wingtip to touch the ground.]  The instructor, who like all the other instructors was a civilian, made me sit there for two hours watching the other pilots land.

Later training took place in Salt Lake City, Tucson, and Alamogordo, New Mexico. At first we were flying old B-24s and then a whole cadre of Women’s Air Force (WAF) pilots flew in with the brand new B-24’s. We used to find handwritten notes to the crew tucked into small places inside the planes from gals that worked in the factories building these planes.

As the new planes arrived in Alamogordo we’d do a “shake down” test flight. One very dark night as we were returning back to base from one of these flights, a fuse failed in our plane and all the fuel began pumping into the number two engine tank. Once it was full, the fuel began spewing out and even though we could see it happening we couldn’t stop it.  Three miles from the base runway we ran out of fuel and crash-landed. When I jumped out it was so dark I couldn’t even see the ground.  Sure enough when we checked the other fuel tanks, they were all empty.  No one was hurt but the plane was damaged beyond repair.

In March and early April of 1944, my crew flew our B-24 from Alamogordo by way of Trinidad, Brazil, across to Africa, and then up to England.  It’s amazing that less than 17 months from being a clerk on the railroad, I was flying across the English Channel with 10 guys in a 70,000-pound airplane. Since we were a new outfit, we flew into a brand-new base at Lavenham, about 60 miles north of London, where we trained for a month until we flew our first mission on May 6 or 7. We were under the command of Lt. Col. Bernie Lay, Jr.  After the war, he co-wrote the book “Twelve O’clock High,” which was made into a film starring Gregory Peck.

Bombing Runs

Denny and crew, Alamogordo, New Mexico

That first mission was to Liege, Belgium where we bombed a power plant.  On virtually every mission we were hit by flak put up by the Germans and their fighter planes that met us as we crossed the channel and stayed with us for the whole mission.  Since I flew late in the war, we had American fighter planes, P-51 Mustangs and P-47 Thunderbolts, that escorted us to the bomb site and provided protection from the German fighters.  The boys who flew in 1942 – ’43 had a lot more action from the German planes because they didn’t have the fighter escort protection we had.  The P-47s didn’t have the range to take the bombers clear to Germany, and the Allies didn’t have the P-51s until the spring of 1944.

We named our plane “Problem Child” because we so many things went wrong with it when it first arrived in Alamogordo. Almost every plane had a picture and a nickname painted on the sides.  I painted the design for “Problem Child” as well as a pair of dice on “Box Car” and a “Dragon Lady” on another one.  I was known as Lt. Thompson, the “nose artist.” After every mission we’d carefully paint another bomb on the plane, and I would put one on my leather jacket as well.

Despite the early problems we were often in the lead group as we took off on a bombing run.  We would depart from Lavenham and circle over the area for several hours while the rest of the bomb group took off and got into their place in the formation.  For the other planes to tell where we were to assemble, we had a special paint job and would shoot flares off above the fog at 16,000 to18, 000 feet.  Each mission involved three squadrons totaling 39 planes with nine or ten crew members each, so approximately 390 men were involved.  On some missions we put up 2,000 bombers, which is hard to imagine at this point, 67 years later.

Once everybody was gathered in formation, we’d cross the channel and, being heavily loaded with bombs, gradually gained altitude to about 25,000 feet.  I have a scar between my eyes where the oxygen mask froze to my face because it gets mighty cold at that high altitude, and to save weight the planes were not insulated.  That’s where we’d meet the German fighters, both Messerschmitt ME-109’s and Focke-Wulf 190s, which would be everywhere you looked in the sky above France and Germany. The ME-109 was small and light, but a tough little airplane and very fast and maneuverable.

Our missions were anywhere from five to 11 hours long. We carried a 6,000-pound bomb load except for the lead plane, which carried 3,000 pounds and had a “Tokyo” tank that carried extra gas because it had to fly in circles for two to three hours getting everyone into formation.  Our longer missions were to oil refineries, such as in Dresden; on one such mission we hit a German Tiger tank factory, and for that I received a Distinguished Flying Cross.  I can still see that factory in my mind as well as several other sites we bombed. We always flew in the daytime but the Brits flew at night.  They didn’t fly in formation like we did.

Casualties

We had plenty of energy and enthusiasm for the first 10 missions or so, but after losing a number of planes and crew members, our enthusiasm dwindled until we just wanted to get through our required 30 missions and go home.  Replacement crews would come in and we hardly wanted to get acquainted with them because the casualties were so high.  Every plane carried 10 or 11 crew members so every time one went down the casualties mounted up fast.

I saw dozens of airplanes go down, mostly from the enormous amount of antiaircraft fire that the Germans put up, but also from planes running into each other now and then.  We were raising cain on the German oilfields, so they were short on fuel, airplanes, and pilots by this time.  It was cheaper for the Germans to put young soldiers on the ground with the 88mm anti-aircraft guns than to send up their fighters.  The 88mm guns could fire straight up, so they were very efficient.  There were so many of them sticking up it was like looking at a porcupine.  We couldn’t bomb a gun position because it wasn’t worth it…you had to bomb a factory or a railroad yard, and we did.  We’d take out a whole rail yard, roundhouses and all, and huge factories because we had so many bombers flying that somebody would hit the target.

After 11 missions we exchanged our B-24s for B-17s, whose backbone was a walkway going all the way back through the middle of the plane.  This limited the number and kind of bombs we could carry so we loaded bombs from three-pound incendiaries in 500-pound bundles, 100 pounders, 250s, 500s and 1000-pounders, which were the largest we could carry in our bomb racks.  The British planes, however, were more like a fish with the backbone in the top so they could carry the monster bombs, some of them 16,000 pounds.  They tumbled end over end because they were flat at both ends, but they did enormous damage.  Once we saw a canal they had bombed and it was dry for 200 miles and all the surrounding land was flooded.  All the barges were sitting this way and that way in the dry canal.

When we were within a few miles of the target, the pilot tried to keep the plane level and at the required altitude, but the bombardier actually flew the plane and kept it in line for the target.  Initially we used the Sperry bombsight, which was not very accurate.  Later we got the top secret, much more accurate Norden Bombsight.  I practiced constantly on it until I got proficient, and I also studied a big book full of statistics about all the different bombs.  As a result, I was the bombardier in the lead plane on many of our missions.

Wounded

During my 27th mission we bombed a truck factory in Cologne; right on the Rhine River that prior to the war had belonged to General Motors. The flak was everywhere and our plane was hit a number of times.  Suddenly it felt as if someone had whacked me hard on the cheek. When I removed my big silk gloves and put my hand up to my face, I was bleeding badly. It didn’t hurt that much, but I got blood all over the instruments and switches, and on the guys behind me. We landed safely back at Lavenham, and I was put into the Purple Heart ward, where a number of men had been admitted just after the Battle of the Bulge.  It took me about 10 days to heal, and then I was back in the rotation.

My most harrowing mission was the 30th and last in November, 1944, when I was wounded in the arm by antiaircraft flak.  Our plane’s fuselage had three or four huge holes in it, and one shell had come through the center of the plane right behind the cockpit but didn’t explode and went up through the top.  On the way back to base, we threw out all the machine guns and took the fire axe to the ball turret beneath the plane to lower our weight.  When we landed, two of the four engines were out, the hydraulics weren’t working, we had a flat tire, and we counted over 200 holes just in the upright stabilizer.

On approach we shot off a red flare to indicate wounded aboard so the ambulance and the squadron doctor met the plane.  The doc said, “Not you again, Thompson,” and gave me a bottle of whiskey for finishing my 30th mission. We had just been issued beautiful brand-new heated flying suits, so when we arrived at the hospital, I wouldn’t let them cut it off to get to my wounded arm. I spent about two weeks in the hospital that time after they removed about 10 pieces of shrapnel. One piece was left in my arm and is still there.

End of the War   

When I was almost recovered the Commanding Officer gave me a chance to be immediately promoted and stay on as a Captain instead of being sent home. I turned it down because I didn’t want to fly any more missions. After my release I was sent to Prestwick, Scotland, for the trip home and in the middle of a crap game with about a dozen guys, someone came in and announced that anyone with two Purple Hearts got to fly home on an Air Transport back to the states. I grabbed my money and my bag and in a couple of hours I was in a C-54 on my way home. It wasn’t very comfortable as we sat along the edges of the plane, but it was sure better and a whole lot quicker than coming by ship.

We buzzed the Statue of Liberty and landed in Washington, D.C., where we were met by a brass band.  A couple of dozen “hero fighter pilots” were on that flight, some wounded like me (I had my arm in a cast) and we were treated like royalty. I stayed several days and then was put on a train with sleepers and a diner to travel back to Minnesota. I stayed home for a couple of weeks and then was sent to California to a rest camp. After that I spent a little time in Texas as a flight instructor, but before too long, the war was over.

When I got back home to Staples, I began trapping mink and fox which I’d done very successfully before the war. Since no one had been around to trap for several years and there were plenty of animals, I ended up catching about 120 mink that winter. My story was in the Minneapolis papers and people kept calling me wanting to be my partner, because I was getting $30 for a female mink and $40 for a male. The next year the trapping wasn’t as good, and so I went back to work on the railroad for $160 a month.

Alaska

I decided I wanted to get back into the Air Force, as a lot of ex-GIs did, since I had been getting $400 a month with flying pay, had nice clothes and lots of benefits.  When I went to apply, so many guys were trying to reenlist that they couldn’t take everyone and I was put on a waiting list as a second lieutenant.  They said it would be six months so in the meantime I decided to go to Seward, Alaska where dozens of my friends from the same small town of Staples, Minnesota, had gone.  I drove a Jeep and a trailer there in 1947 and shortly thereafter I bought an airplane and never came back to the lower 48 to reenlist.

I did join the Air Force reserve in Anchorage, but since I lived for the first 16 years in Seward, I never got called up.  I bought two fishing boats, started an air service, and owned quite a few of the buildings in Seward. Then I built a couple of hunting lodges, the first near McKinley Park called Susitna Lodge, and the second one on the southwestern Alaskan Peninsula called the Newhalen Lodge.

I was a guide and outfitter for almost 60 years and took hundreds of Germans on big game hunts.  Although I never took a German fighter pilot, I did guide five generals and the chief surgeon of the German army. One of my customers was Wernher von Braun, who shot a bear, a moose, and a caribou on this hunt. He was one of the leading figures in the development of German rocket technology in WWII. After the war, he and some of his team were taken to the U.S. and assimilated into NASA. He was credited with developing the Saturn V booster rocket that helped land the first men on the moon in July 1969. I never brought up the subject of the war with my German customers, as they were my clients and it just didn’t seem wise.

In the ’70s I guided Fritz Karl Flick, whose family owned Mercedes-Benz and who was one of the richest men in the world at that time. Flick scheduled a spring bear hunt in Alaska because he was pursuing the Weatherby Trophy, awarded to the person who, in a 12-month period, killed one of each species of big game on the planet. Unbeknownst to Flick, I had bombed the hell out of his family’s factories.

Flick shot a bear his first day out and insisted I make room for him on my last flight from camp back to Anchorage.  He was eager to fly his private plane back to Germany to go boar hunting. My Super Cub was already overloaded but I managed to stuff the industrialist in the back seat. It was late in the afternoon and the spring sun had caused the surface of the ice covering the lake to turn to a glue-like slush. I cranked the Cub’s engine up to full RPMs and raced across the lake attempting to take off but the skis stuck to the surface of the rotten ice and we couldn’t get airborne.

I bounced the plane a few times attempting to break free.  About the third bounce the overloaded plane suddenly broke through the ice, killing the engine.  The plane didn’t sink immediately because the wings were hung up on unbroken ice.  Ice water flooded into the cockpit as I scrambled out of the plane to the safety of the wing. Flick, accustomed to being waited on hand and foot, remained seated in the back of the sinking plane  I took one look at the dormant German and said, “Karl, your life is not worth a dime more than mine right now, so you better get your own ass out of this airplane.”

I also took the top sharpshooter from the Japanese Army on a hunt for polar bear and caribou. Over the course of those 50-plus years, I put in 25,000 hours on small airplanes, mostly Cessnas and Piper Cubs in Alaska.

Denny and Jeannie, Central African Republic

Africa

I also guided in Africa. There, my partner, Carroll Shelby, race driver and car designer whose projects included the Cobra and Mustang GTs, and I had a base in the Central African Republic, a landlocked nation located dead center in the middle of Africa. From there I flew Piper Senecas, which could hold six people on hunts for African big game.

We built a huge building with about 20 Land Rovers and trucks in it, and had about 13 professional hunters working for us. The last man I guided in Africa was an Indonesian prince who later invited me on a tiger hunt. I took him up on the offer, but never even saw a tiger.

Earthquake

At one point I had a list of every mission I had flown but in 1964 all my records and photos were destroyed by a magnitude 9.2 earthquake in Alaska. It occurred on March 27 in the Prince William Sound and the Gulf of Alaska and caused landslides, ground fissures, and many local tsunamis. One tidal wave washed over the Seward Airfield where I had stored all my stuff and two airplanes in hangars. I lost all my memorabilia except my leather flying jacket and uniform.

Fortunately both airplanes were out on polar bear hunts that day or I would have lost them, too.

Reunions

The 487th included about 6,000 men, and about 500 of them were flight crew members.  The remainder were “ground stompers,” our name for ground crew members. I’ve been to every reunion of the 487th, the last one in Fort Myers, Florida, and this year in October it was in Savannah, Georgia, where the big 8th Air Force Museum was built.

Now, however, there are fewer than a dozen guys left from my group out of about 2,500 men, and only the wives and children of the other airmen attend. Starting last year we combined our reunion with the 486th, our sister group who were stationed about six miles away from us in England, because the numbers were getting so low.

Marriage and Family

I met my first wife, Jean, when I was in high school in Staples and we married when I returned after the war. We later divorced and I married Marge, who lived in Alaska with me.

My third wife, Jeannie, was a lot younger than I and had worked as our babysitter. We fell in love and were married almost 30 years when she died of cancer four years ago.  We moved to Sonora in 1986, because I had guided and become friends with a number of people from this area. Also I had gone into partnership with one of those friends to build a mini-storage up at Camp Sunshine. That didn’t work out, and eventually I sold the property. However, I did keep a twin turbine plane at Columbia Airport and could fly from here to Anchorage in one day.

My family now consists of three sons and two daughters and their children. My two oldest sons, Denny Jr. and Lee, own airplanes in Alaska, and my other son, Mark, is a computer engineer for Hewlett Packard. My daughter, Jennifer, is a registered nurse in Alaska, and my other daughter, Janice, lives here in Sonora. I have nine grandchildren and one great-grandchild.

For years I used my two fishing boats to catch and deliver salmon to the “Dangerous Catch” boats anchored out in the ocean west of Alaska.  Three years ago I decided I was too damn old to be fishing anymore and sold both of my boats.  But this year I bought another one, a welded aluminum one like all the others – I guess it’s in my blood.  I still own a home and once again a 37-foot commercial fishing boat in King Salmon, Alaska.  When I went to Alaska in July 2011, I took my granddaughter Michaela’s boyfriend, a mechanic, with me to work on the boat and my 14-year-old grandson worked on one of the fishing boats there this past summer.

Reflections

My wife, Jeannie, and I returned to the American cemetery in Normandy in 1995 for the 50th D-Day anniversary and again for the 55th, 60th and by myself for the 65th.  God willing, I’ll be there for the 70th, too.  During the 55th commemoration ceremony at the American Cemetery where I had presented a wreath, I met a French civilian who was a child in Lisieux in 1944 and he clearly remembered the night of the bombing. The Allies had dropped leaflets in the night prior to the bomb run telling the people in the area to get out of town before the bombing began. He said his whole family went up the hills into the forest and could see everything that was happening to the town.

Recently I participated in an Honor Flight to Washington D.C. sponsored by the nonprofit Honor Flight Network which flies veterans from all over the country free of charge to the Capitol to see the memorials that have been erected in their honor. All of the vets who went were treated like royalty. When we returned to San Francisco we were greeted by several hundred people who were waving flags and cheering. It was a good feeling.

I can still wear the same uniform that I wore when I was discharged on Nov. 5, 1945. All of my children have been to see the area where I was stationed in England and the Normandy sites, and two years ago we took my 12-year-old twin grandchildren there.

My time in the Air Force provided me with leadership and flying skills, which allowed me to make a good living for the rest of my working days.  I made some good friends and enjoyed meeting with the ones who survived the war at our reunions. I remain active in WWII memorials and traveled to Washington, D.C. in the fall of 2011 as part of a cadre to honor the fallen men from that time. I am a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars and have walked in many parades here in Sonora.

I am proud to share the stories of my service with my family and friends so they can learn to appreciate the sacrifices made by so many to keep our country free.  Looking at photos and memorabilia is good, but by actually traveling to the historic places, the stories mean so much more to them now.

Mr. Thompson was interviewed in 2011 by Veterans History Project volunteers Bill and Celeste Boyd.

Our bones and muscles were designed to work together and help us keep moving, yet as we age, we often become more sedentary. Many people spend most of their days sitting, which further weakens muscles already declining due to normal aging. This can change our spine’s natural curves and cause permanent problems.

Kyphosis is excessive outward curvature of the spine seen in the neck or mid-back, sometimes referred to as chicken neck or humpback. Excessive inward curvature that affects the lower back, making a person appear swaybacked, is called lordosis.

These conditions can be caused by inactivity, poor standing and sitting habits, arthritis, neuropathy, recliners, chronic pain, injuries, poor balance, hobbies, computers, desk jobs and excess abdominal weight.

The song “Dem Bones” is a simple way to explain why ankle pain turns into back pain and so on: The body’s bones and muscles are connected, and each side of our body must be aligned for proper balance and posture. With poor posture or chronic pain, the body compensates, which can lead to falls, trouble breathing, neck strain, orthopedic pain – even poor self-image.

Proper posture places your ears, shoulders and hips in alignment. For some this can be a quick adjustment, but for others it may take time. The trick is to remind yourself throughout the day, every day, to adjust your posture.

While walking, standing or sitting, pull your shoulders back, tighten abdominal muscles and squeeze in the buttocks (just remember that advice, “Stand up straight!”) Adjust your car’s rear-view mirror at proper posture level; this will remind you when you start to slouch while driving.

We refer to the group of muscles supporting your spine as your core. These include the abdominals, buttocks, lower back, pelvis and hip muscles. An exercise program targeting these muscles is a great way to improve posture and prevent or reduce future back problems.

Diet also affects posture. Calcium-rich foods can help prevent osteoporosis and enhance weight loss. Spinach, kale, non-fat milk, fortified orange juice, soybeans, and enriched whole grain breads are great sources.

Improving your posture will help you radiate confidence and vitality, look younger, and feel better. Here are five simple exercises that can help:

1.   Pelvic tilt: Lie on back with knees bent. Tighten the buttocks and abdominal muscles, hold for 5 seconds; 2 sets of 10.

2.  Abdominal crunch: Lie on back with knees bent, support neck with hands, lift up and contract abdominal muscles; 2 sets of 10.

3.  Upright rows: Use dumbbells (3-8 pounds). Palms facing you, lift weights up with elbows raised outward. 2 sets of 10. Emphasize pulling shoulders back.

4.  One-Leg stand: Stand with aligned posture on one leg. Hold 10 seconds and change.

5.  Yoga and tai chi: Both these exercise programs focus on posture.

Krista Howell is an exercise physiologist who teaches senior fitness and supervises cardiac rehab patients for Sonora Regional Medical Center.

© 2011 Friends and Neighbors Magazine

Dr. Arbore of Institute on Aging

Grief comes in layers and as we age, the layers pile up. A new loss can shockingly slam dunk us back into all of the losses in our past.

And yet, according to Patrick Arbore, 63, a gerontology expert with the Institute on Aging in San Francisco, aging baby boomers are perhaps less prepared to deal with grief than any prior generation.

“We don’t want to suffer at all,” says Arbore, who founded and directs the institute’s Center for Elderly Suicide Prevention and Grief Related Services. “We may have become a culture that tries not to feel.”

However, with aging and the life experiences of 40, 50, 60 or more years, loss and suffering are inevitable.

For those who haven’t been raised to understand suffering as a natural part of life, Arbore offers a reminder: Grief is not a disease. Feeling sad or depressed is a normal reaction to loss and life’s other struggles.

Arbore’s introduction to the continuum of life came during his childhood on a Pennsylvania farm. He witnessed the birth, lifespan and death of pets and farm animals, experiencing the natural pain and suffering that the loss of beloved animal companions could cause.

Arbore encourages those who are grieving to allow the natural process to unfold. “Sit in the sadness,” he advises. “Sit in the feelings. When emotions go unexpressed, we can become depressed, irritable and emotionally unavailable.”

“Men often have difficulty acknowledging depressed feelings,” he notes, “because men and boys are often discouraged from showing emotion.”

The grief process is a time to allow tears to flow and feelings of loss and sadness to emerge.

“Consider journaling or writing a letter to your dead loved one telling them how your life is now and since their death,” suggests Arbore. “Grief isn’t about forgetting, it is about integrating loss.”

When you have had enough sadness, it’s okay to take a break. “You need respite from strong emotion,” he says. Try going to the movies, getting lost in a good book, or taking a walk.

Reaching out to friends who are good listeners, a support group or a therapist can also help with the integration process, not only for the current loss, but for previous losses now demanding attention.

Grieving the suicide of a loved one can be especially challenging. For most, such loss is exacerbated by a deep sense of guilt. In Arbore’s experience, it takes lots of time and talking about it, to integrate the grief and reduce the guilt.

He also firmly believes that people die the way they want to. Neither he nor his brother was actually present when his mother died, although both would have chosen to be. “My mother was very private,” he says. “Sometimes very private people choose to die this way.”

While no one can predict the full impact of a loved one’s death, change for those left behind is inevitable. “When someone dies, everything changes,” says Arbore. “It’s not that you won’t be whole, but you will be different.”

He offers this advice: Know that grieving is not a straight line. You’ll go in and out of the various stages. It’s helpful to talk to someone who is able to just listen – friend or therapist. Consider a support group. Be alert to your own needs; if you don’t want to do something, don’t.

Use the word dead. Don’t water it down. The person is not on vacation, they are dead – feel the pain. Don’t worry if tears come with the memories: It’s part of the integration process. In fact, crying releases stress and produces endorphins that help reduce the pain of suffering.

Arbore reminds us not to place a time limit on grief. “It takes as long as it takes,” he says.

© 2011 Friends and Neighbors Magazine

Celia Seubert in dress uniform, 1944

By Celia Seubert
As told to Mary Louis

I was born in Cincinnati, Ohio to Ben and Cecelia Veronica Upchurch on Jan. 20, 1923. Shortly after, my family moved to Manhattan, New York, where my brother, Robert was born three and a half years later. My father traveled a lot because he was in the Merchant Marines but the family always stayed put. It wasn’t until graduation from high school that I moved to Annapolis, Maryland for business college at Annapolis Business College, or ABC for short.

My father, Ben Upchurch, was an inspiration to me. He was in the Merchant Marines, and when war was declared the Coast Guard took over the Merchant Marines in both WWI and WWII. Because of his lengthy experience with the Merchant Marines, he was made a Commander in the Guard. My sharpest memory of my father in his military uniform was while I was attending college in Annapolis.

While attending ABC, I met Joe Thoms, a sailor during a fun time while I was out “with the girls” from school. We married when I graduated from business school. He was shipped out by the Navy shortly after our marriage. Before he left he made arrangements for me to move to San Bernardino, California to live with his folks.

A woman named Melba Siefert befriended me while I was looking for work. I was grateful for her because I knew no one on the West Coast. She helped me find a job. I worked as a bookkeeper for a coal company. After a year’s deployment of sea duty in the Atlantic, Joe joined me at his parents. Joe worked as a pharmacist at a Navy hospital.

Duty Calls

I was home for lunch and heard the news of the Pearl Harbor attack on December 7, 1941. Right away I determined that I wanted to help in the war effort. I went to a Coast Guard recruiting office within a day or two. There was no question in my mind as to which branch of the service to join. Of course, it had to be the Coast Guard, like my father! The Coast Guard was not accepting women yet into their service but I completed letters of interest with them anyway. Meanwhile I continued working at the coal company.

But just filing papers of intent with the Coast Guard created problems for me on the home front. Joe’s parents disapproved of enlisted women so they encouraged Joe to divorce me. While visiting him at the hospital where he was assigned, he explained how upset his parents were with my enlistment, and that he thought a divorce would be better.

Finally, I received word that the Coast Guard was accepting women. I enlisted on March 1, 1943. My marriage ended due to in-law interference and my determination to serve my country in active military duty.

The divorce that was forced upon me was probably one of the best things that happened in my life, because otherwise I might have ended up in a lengthy marriage to a “mamma’s boy.” I was glad to escape the atmosphere of disapproval in Joe’s parents’ home and the dirt of the coal company. My parents were supportive of me when I divorced because they felt I married too young anyway. They were proud of me wanting to contribute to the war effort in the service. My father was especially proud because I chose the Coast Guard.

My brother, Robert, later enlisted in the Army for his own contribution to the war effort. Our parents were proud of his enlistment also. They held no hard feelings that he chose the Army over the Coast Guard.

I was sent to boot camp at Hunter College in New York City. That suited me fine, as most of my growing-up years were in Manhattan. I remember our “quarters” were in a seventh-floor walk-up. The drill sergeants seemed to enjoy blowing a whistle on the ground floor so everyone would come running down the stairs only to be told to return to quarters back upstairs. That was in addition to the regular drilling every day.

I was happy in boot camp because I enjoyed the camaraderie with the other young women there. There was also some sadness due to the war, which was ever present in our minds because we had to pull down the blackout shades before dark every night. The gang showers took a little getting used to, but boot camp did teach taught me to obey orders and to mingle with people from all walks of life. I still write to my first roommate, Norma, from boot camp, and we talk on the phone.

We women were officially known as the “Spars” from the Latin “Semper Paratus,” meaning “Always Ready.” Oklahoma might have been fine except that the training was from June through August. It was extremely hot! We would wet towels in the cool water fountain and then lay them on ourselves at night in order to sleep. This was our air conditioning!

We also honed our marching skills while learning to take orders. Being short, 5’ 1 ¼”, I was always first in line as the Right Guard. One time there were two dogs who were joined together as we marched in formation straight for them. I had to decide what to do as we headed their way. Some servicemen laughed at our predicament. Fortunately, the dogs finished their business by the time we reached them and ran away.

A good summary of boot camp and training is that I survived.

Contributing to the War Effort

After my Yeoman training, I returned to Southern California at Long Beach and worked with inventorying medical supplies and doing clerical work in medical clinics. I was also involved in recruiting for the Coast Guard and selling war bonds. During one of the war bond drives I met Lucille Ball who was lending her star power towards this effort.

From Long Beach I was transferred to Philadelphia. That situation was called a “subs and quarters” assignment at the Ben Franklin Hotel. We were given money for our meals and had to eat out all the time, which actually got a little boring. I continued working in the clerical medical field there. I was able to see my father in Philadelphia for dinner one night, which was nice.

I remember being warned by my supervisor against dating officers. They might have been interested in me, but when I referred to the gentleman with a Commander’s braid on his uniform in an elevator packed with midshipmen as “Daddy,” that ruined any chance of involvement with them.

From Philadelphia, I moved to Cape May, New Jersey (yes, the resort town!). I continued with my medical clerical work. I was in Cape May when Franklin Roosevelt died. That was a sad time.

The Long Train Ride

My next orders were for Alaska. To reach Alaska, I had to travel to our departure point at Port Townsend, Washington by train. The trip took four days and three nights from Philadelphia to Port Townsend. This train trip was memorable for several reasons. Most importantly, I met a young sailor who was en route to his next assignment in Seattle. We hit it off pretty well.  Little did I realize that Dwight Johnson would become my future husband. He was a good-looking blonde and his shy, quiet demeanor appealed to me. He was fresh off the farm in Nebraska, and that also attracted me. I had had enough of New York city slickers.

There was other entertainment on the train to distract me too. One night there was a well-known comedic group on board. Apparently one of them remembered my name. After his routine he enjoyed himself with a few drinks and went through the train cars calling out, “Celia, Celia!” I was grateful for the privacy of my berth and that he didn’t find me, because I was much more interested in a certain young sailor bound for Seattle as a carpenter’s mate.

On a more serious note, one morning I awakened and raised the shade of my berth to look out the window. Next to our train was a train heading the opposite direction full of military troops and heavy equipment. That gave me pause when I saw how young the men looked, and I wished them well in my heart.

Another poignant memory of that train ride is that I traveled with a number of young brides (mothers or mothers-to-be) who were going to meet their husbands to see them off to war. I thought, “I wonder if my going will help their husbands return and stay with their families, or is my enlistment taking them away from their families?” What a long and tedious trip for them.

Alaska

Leave Time

Depending upon where I was stationed, there was always plenty to do to keep me occupied during my leaves, usually one to two days a week. On base, the USO brought entertainers. At one USO dance, I remember, the Spars were not allowed to dance with the servicemen. I remember having to sit in the balcony and watch as “town girls” danced with them. That was irritating.

There were also wrestling matches on base in Alaska and I watched with a girlfriend of mine as we cheered for her boyfriend. Card games were another amusement in the evenings. When we had time to leave base, we went to movies and dances in town.

One dance I especially remember was from an earlier time, while I was still in Philadelphia. I danced with a soldier and when I put my arms around his neck, my finger slipped under what was a full head mask. Apparently, his face was so disfigured from his battle wounds that he had been fitted with this mask. It was so well made that I did not realize he was wearing a mask until my finger accidentally slipped under it. We danced every dance that night and in parting, I thanked him for asking me to dance. Even now this makes me weepy.

While I was in Philadelphia and in Ketchikan, I used to volunteer at local hospitals in the nursery. I especially fondly remember the cute little native babies in Alaska.

While in Cape May, a group of us organized a trip, which took us to Washington, DC and Maryland. We saw a lot of history on that trip.

The place that I could not leave base was in Oklahoma because that was my training period. We were told that there was nothing “good” off base anyway.

After the Service

The Coast Guard flew me to Los Angeles where I had enlisted in the service. I made my way back to San Bernardino to look for work. I initially found work as a secretary to a Colonel on an Army base near San Bernardino.  Dwight continued writing me there. He had moved back to Nebraska upon discharge from the Navy. His parents needed his emotional support because his brother had been killed in the war while serving in Germany. After I found work, Dwight joined me in San Bernardino and we were married in 1946.

We moved to San Leandro where I worked as a secretary at Frieden Calculating Machine Company. Dwight worked in construction. We had two children, Cathleen and then Ralph. Dwight became ill and was eventually admitted to the Palo Alto VA hospital with a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis. To be near the hospital, he was boarded in a furnished apartment. He was also helped in finding a job repairing radios. He remained there until his death 13 years later from a brain tumor. The children and I visited him every weekend during his illness. I was working as the chief admitting officer at Eden Hospital and then Laurel Grove Hospital in Castro Valley.

Following Dwight’s passing, I moved to South Lake Tahoe to manage an orthopedic clinic. I worked there for 18 years. I met Don Seubert at a Basque restaurant in Gardnerville while having dinner with friends from work. We dated awhile and then married. When I retired from the orthopedic clinic, I was given an Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. I thought it was better than a gold watch!

Upon retirement, I moved to Ashland, Oregon and worked in a motel coffee bar. I found that enjoyable because I was able to continue meeting the public. Also, I volunteered as a “pink lady” at a 503-bed hospital – Rogue Valley Medical Center in Medford – for a total of 4,817 hours over a period of 17 years.

I have known some sadness in retirement. A year after I settled in Oregon, my daughter, Cathy, passed away at the age of 37 from a lengthy illness, in the Bay Area where she lived. My husband, Don also passed away. And just a year ago, my brother, Robert, passed away in Ohio.

It might be true that a rolling stone gathers no moss, but after moving to Tuolumne County, I knew I had moved my last time. I moved to Sonora because my son, Ralph, lives locally. I have kept busy by volunteering at the Senior Center for the last nine years.

Reflections 

My daily life in the Guard served to mature me. I was able to keep in touch with my family and Dwight through letters. The food was fine except for that brief period in Philadelphia when I had to eat out three times a day every day.

I did not need any good luck charms to survive my contributions to the war effort. A good sense of humor and a few stern words in appropriate situations were all I needed.

I have attended one service reunion but I did not know anyone there so I never attended another one. I went to the VA Clinic here in town but saw so many young men that were obviously very badly injured, that I thought they need the help more than I do. I just receive my health care from private resources.

When asked about my feelings about war, I think it is terrible. I had a very good experience in service to my country but when I see so many young service personnel return now with such problems, I wish there could be no war. The only positive about war is that it provides jobs not only for those who enlist but for those at home too.

I am a realist. Until people can treat each other with respect, there will always be war.

Sources

1Information from “When the Wind Was a River: Aleut Evacuation in World War II,” by Dean Kohlhoff, published by University of Washing Press, 1995.

2Information, picture and quote from “U.S. Coast Guard History Program” internet site.

3Information obtained from “The Thousand Mile Warm World War II in Alaska and the Aleutians,” Brian Garfield, Bantam Books, pp. 160-161, January 1982.

I began to get the question as soon as I turned 65: “What’s on your bucket list?”

Life expectancy tables say I have less than two decades left before I shuffle off. So friends are wondering whether I want to skydive, cliff dive, scuba dive or dive headlong into any other death-defying, irrational pursuits befitting someone a fraction of my advancing age.

My question: Why did no one ask about my bucket list when I was irrational and immature enough to actually do some of those crazy things?

Blame George Bush, John Glenn, Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman.

Bush the elder celebrated his 80^th and 85^th birthdays by jumping out of a plane at 13,000 feet – and shaming the rest of us by bragging about it on TV.

But he couldn’t top John Glenn. In 1998, the pioneering Mercury astronaut became the oldest man in space when, at 77, he flew aboard the shuttle Discovery.

Nicholson and Freeman, however, may be the real culprits. Before they played two terminal cancer patients who climbed pyramids, flew over the North Pole and rode motorcycles on the Great Wall of China in the 2008 movie of the same name, “Bucket List” was not in the cultural vernacular.

Nor was there any guilt over having no bucket list, or having a boring, unsexy list that reads more like a scrawled column of groceries or the weekend’s honey-do orders.

So what are we list-less seniors to do?

We could cobble together bucket lists full of stuff we did in our younger years. Trouble is, few of us were rash or stupid enough to risk life, limb and job prospects by bungee jumping from bridges, free-climbing sheer cliffs or flying hang gliders into trees.

We Friends and Neighbors Boomer readers, presumably, were instead responsible young men and women. Doing 40 in a 25 or listening to Elvis or the Beatles in defiance of our parents was about as edgy as some of us got.

Others, like me, had somewhat embarrassing life lapses that might make for a retroactive list like this: 1. Down three pitchers of beer at a college bar and somehow drive home. 2. Go through sophomore and junior years without a date. 3. Get stopped for speeding in Nevada, where there isn’t supposed to be a limit. 4. Go through six jobs in less than two years. 5. Cream a nice-looking British sports car by ramming it into a deer.

In contrast, there are super-macho, over-the-top lists that maybe .0001 percent of older Americans take on: 1. Climb El Capitan. 2. Run a marathon. 3. Hike the Pacific Coast Trail. 4. Ace an IQ test, join Mensa and play genius-level chess. 5. Write a transcendent novel.

I have nothing against the few seniors with such abilities and ambitions, but to the rest of us I say, “Forget it.” We might as well set out to cure cancer, build a cold-fusion-powered car, win the Nobel Peace Prize or hang with Charlie Sheen and his stable of bimbos.

My advice will be heresy to coaches, teachers and that new generation of Tiger Moms and Dads: Aim low.

What, I ask, is wrong with this downscaled list? 1. Climb the stairs every day. 2. Lope through the local two-mile run. 3. Walk to the store. 4. Solve the Sunday crossword puzzle. 5. Write a letter.

Or what if your list is all about bringing you closer to your spouse, children, parents and dear friends? Who could fault that?

If this advice is too practical, here are a few more intriguing bucket-list options:

• Aim really low: The least ambitious among us likely don’t have the gumption to make a list. But if they did, it might look like this: 1. Stop short of minimum dietary requirements. 2. Achieve variety in life by changing channels. 3. Place a high priority on sleep — spend up to 20 hours a day either in bed or on a recliner. 4. Stay fit by watching sports on TV — the Tour de France is an especially good workout.  5.  Occasionally, but not too often, think about doing more.
• If money’s no object: Open your checkbook and try this list: 1. Book a space flight on Virgin Galactic. 2. Give your new, supermodel wife the Koh-i-Noor diamond, a Lamborghini, and, when the cash-strapped state sells it, Hearst Castle. 3. Leave the waitress at Jeb’s a $100,000 tip.  4. Food at your care home bland? Buy the place and bring in chefs from Chez Panisse. 5. Hire a crackerjack cryogenicist to freeze you, making that bucket list unnecessary.
• You can dream:  Nobody will fault your success rate if your list includes only the clearly impossible: 1. See our lawmakers put their differences and reelection ambitions aside and act only in our best interests. 2. Understand the fine print in insurance policies and medical bills. 3. Fill out an IRS return without professional help. 4. Figure out and use every last feature of a cell phone. 5. Be at Wrigley Field when the Chicago Cubs win the World Series.
• Second childhood: You can still live out what you only dreamed of as a kid. 1 Down a gallon of ice cream in one sitting. 2. Ride a fire engine. 3. Eat dinner every night for a month at Chucky Cheese. 4. Don’t go to school for the rest of your life. 5. Keep the TV on all the time and never clean up messes.
• Second adolescence:  This list would require a level of libido that few seniors have. This, and issues of taste and propriety, necessitate this somewhat abridged bucket list: 1., 2., 3., 4., 5.

Finally, being a new senior citizen, my research wouldn’t be complete without asking a veteran senior, my 93-year-old mother, for her views.

“Bucket list?” Betsy Bateman pondered. “Isn’t that the list of things you want to do after you die?”

If she’s right – and I dearly hope she is – all bets are off and all lists are possible.

© 2011 Friends and Neighbors

The Hunter's Dream

Returning from my 18-month Family History mission in Utah, I walked into the Carlo M. DeFerrari Archive in Sonora wondering, “What’s new?”  Directly in front of me was a huge painting called “The Hunter’s Dream.” To my left were several more paintings and artifacts, and to my right sat County Historian Carlo De Ferrari and archivist Charlie Dyer.

I knew I was about to hear a good story, and I wasn’t disappointed.

The artist who painted “The Hunter’s Dream” was Benjamin Willard Sears (1846-1906), son of William and Jane Sears. Ben was born in Connecticut in 1846, joining his father in 1862 in gold mines near Sonora. He came via Panama, which must have been a story in itself! Ben moved to San Francisco where he learned the “Black Art” – photography – but soon was intrigued by oil painting. Unable to afford proper canvases, he painted on anything he could find – pie tins, wood, saws, plaster walls, canvas from old buggies … even rocks.

Ben was one of Sonora’s early and very prolific painters, the proverbial starving artist trying to support his family. In archived journals you will find fond references to the curtain in Turn Verein Hall (at the site of today’s Courthouse Square in downtown Sonora), which was an oasis of culture in the mid-1850s. On the stage curtain, Sears painted a scene of a campfire with smoke lazily rising through pine trees, which fascinated our early residents as they waited for plays to start.

But back to “The Hunter’s Dream.” It was painted on buggy canvas, and the clock hanging on a tent in the scene points to 11 o’clock. “What is the significance of 11 o’clock?” I asked. Carlo told me it’s customary for Elks Lodge members to raise their glasses at 11pm to toast deceased members.

In this 36-by-55-inch painting, a small deer hangs in front of another tent while a huge elk – their dream elk – dominates the camp scene. This is a must-see. Did the Elks Lodge commission Sears to paint this? I didn’t get a definitive answer.

When Sonora’s City Hotel was taken down, a great effort was made to save the mural Sears painted on the wall, but it was impossible to keep the plaster wall in one piece.

Back to the archives: The paintings to my left are El Capitan, Upper Yosemite Falls and High Sierra Lake, also painted by Ben Sears. Until now, these have never been on public display: Give yourself a treat by taking a peek at them.

I want to point out that the painting called “High Sierra Lake” was damaged beyond repair – at least, that is what owners Carlo and Harriet De Ferrari thought. They had loaned it out for a public event and when returned, it was torn in four places with a piece missing from the center. Charlie showed me pictures of the damage, complete with attempted scotch-tape repairs. What a mess!

To the rescue: Dennis Garcia of Gemini Restorations. Just as we had great artists in the past, we have great artisans in the present. This craftsman took the painting to his Sonora shop and performed magic. If I hadn’t seen the “before” pictures and the finished product, I would not have believed it. Thank you, Dennis, for restoring a beautiful painting to us.

Ben Sears became good friends with William Hartvig, who was Harriet Hartvig De Ferrari’s uncle (Harriet is Carlo’s late wife).

Because of that friendship, we now have several of Sears’ paintings – referred to as the De Ferrari/Hartvig collection – in the De Ferrari Archive. The archive is behind the Tuolumne County Library, 480 Greenley Road. Hours are weekdays by appointment; call 536-1163.

One painting by William Hartvig, which Dyer calls “Golden Trees along the River,” is particularly intriguing. Born in 1846 in Louisiana, Hartvig married Louise Keefe. In Sonora, he was a Justice of the Peace and a city councilman, but he earned his living painting houses. The business shingle that hung in front of his shop is now on display in the archive.

Hartvig and Sears were often found painting on the rocks in Yosemite – that is, until the Army, then in charge of keeping order for the Park Service, caught them and made them scrub the rocks clean. (Does it hurt you as much as it hurts me to know how much we lost because of that order?)

Sharon Marovich gave us further insight into Sears not just as a painter, but as a poet, in a 1976 article in CHISPA, the county historical society’s quarterly publication. Sears’ poem reflecting his and our love for Tuolumne ends with these lines:

There is something nearer, dearer,
Than her mines of precious gold,
Something that we cannot tell you
And that never will be told.

It’s good to be home again! Until next time, good luck with your research.

Isabelle Drown

Included in the De Ferrari/Hartvig collection is a small, beautifully presented painting of what some believe to be Bret Harte’s cabin by Otheto Weston (1895-1990), a well-known Columbia artist and writer. The archive holds her “Portfolio of Sketches,” including those of historic buildings throughout the foothills. She was born in 1895 to Evelyn McCormick, a very well-known artist whose works now hang in the Monterey City Hall and other public offices.

A HISTORY MYSTERY: Who was Effie?

During one of her entertaining performances, Linda (Hardluck Lin) Clark was entrusted with an old diary for further research. She asked me for help finding its back-story. The diary covers the early history of James B. Sanford and the love he left behind when he came out West. Her name was Effie. He did marry someone else here in the West, but it is evident he always held a place in his heart for Effie. (Oh, I do love a good love story!).

Sanford worked in these places: Wisconsin Bar (there were two, one in El Dorado County and one in Amador) where he joined his cousins; Hangtown (Placerville), Wise Bar, Jimtown (Jamestown) and Strawberry Ease. Other names mentioned are Heriford, McColley, John and Jim Dallery, Ida Shirley, Sarrah Vamp and Emma Parker. Dates range from late 1854 through 1884. If anyone can help solve this mystery, contact Linda at hardlucklin.com.

© 2011 Friends and Neighbors

Bertha with brother Bobby, 1929

By Bertha Walsh

In 1933, California was a Prohibition state and there were men around making bootleg whiskey. Papa met one of these guys who lived not too far from us. Papa learned how to make corn whiskey. The revenuers got wind of this guy so he put the still in our barn and took off for the border. This guy was selling whiskey to the Watsonville Police Department, so Papa talked to them and we made whiskey all one winter and sold it to the Police Department. They would hide their bottles on the shore of the creek and Papa would fill them up.

One day about the last time Papa ran whiskey he had a 5-gallon bottle full and ready to go fill the Police Department’s bottles. Mama and I were sewing and I saw these two big fat women coming. We had a pea hamper that was cone shaped. They would pick the peas and ship them in these hampers. It was about as high as a table stool so I put it over the top of that 5 gallons of whiskey. One of these women sat down on it and for the next 30 minutes they preached to us of hell and damnation. Mama and I could hardly keep a straight face. While they were telling about all the bad things in life, including whiskey, they were sitting on a 5-gallon bottle of 90 proof.

We had a little red pig that we raised and she thought she was a dog. She was getting so big and we couldn’t let her run anymore. Well, Papa had a barrel of corn mash about ready to run and it was setting near Peggy’s pen (the pig’s name was Peggy). If anyone would see it they would think it was pig’s food. Papa said, don’t any of you kids feed any of that mash to the pig. Well, I don’t know for sure who did it but when Papa came home from work he sure raised heck. Peggy was drunk … That was the end of Papa’s bootlegging days …

The man Papa got the ranch from was going broke. The Depression was well on its way and he wanted the ranch back. Mama didn’t want to give it back and we didn’t have to but Papa kept at her until she gave up and signed the papers.  We had sold all the pigs. Pork was down to 1 cent a pound.

We left that ranch in July of 1933. Roosevelt came in as president and he began to make jobs and the country went better. Prohibition went out. Papa buried the still in the river bottom and it flooded and we never saw it again.

We went to San Jose to work the prunes again. We had just set up our tent and Mama’s bed when she went into labor. It didn’t take very long and Margie was born. I washed and dressed her. She was such a pretty baby. I was 15. I really spoiled that little girl.

We left San Jose and headed to Watsonville to pick apples. Papa, Ernie and Pat and I picked 150 boxes of apples and put them by the road for the owner to pick them up. That night someone came by with a truck and took all the boxes. Good thing we had already been paid.

The Year: 1934

In 1934 I was working three days a week and going to school two days. I was in the high school in Watsonville. I talked to my teacher and the counselor and told them I was quitting: I would turn 16 that May. He said he would look into my grades and see what he could do. My grades were really good, so he gave me a release from the last two weeks and he passed me for that year. I didn’t go to school anymore. I had finished my freshman year and most of my sophomore year. I sure hated to quit, I really liked school …

I worked picking young berries and raspberries for the rest of May. I could make a dollar a day if I worked 10 hours. I gave the money to Papa as we all had to put it together to live on …

There was a vacant piece of land that was owned by the railroad with water and a bathroom and they let people camp there who worked the harvest. Some of the town people called us fruit tramps, vagrants, tent tramps and a lot of other things, but without us the crops wouldn’t have been harvested …

All the people in the camp were in the same boat. They were not bums. They were farmers that lost their farms, lawyers, doctors and teachers that had lost everything. A lot were from California but some were from out of state. The Depression was in full swing now and we were just trying to exist.

At night someone would have a bonfire, there were always people around with a fiddle and guitars and harmonica … Everyone would gather and sing and tell stories of where they came from. We may not have had much, but we were a happy bunch. They were all good people; all they needed was a place to live, and food. We made a lot of friends on the road and we lost a lot of them a few years later when the war came.

Earl and Bertha Walsh, 2011

About the Author

This “Chapters of Life” installment draws from Montana native Bertha Walling Walsh’s 2007 memoir, “Fruit Tramps” (available at amazon.com).

In it, she recounts her family’s 1930s journey into and across California, following the harvest for a singular purpose: “If you wanted to eat, you had to work,” she says.

With family ties in the foothills, she and her husband, Henry, moved their auto parts business to Angels Camp in 1955. After his death, Bertha continued to run Williams Auto Parts – where she met her second husband, Earl – until retiring in 1998 at age 80. She later wrote her story on pieces of paper she stuck in a drawer. Her son, Kelly, put it into book form (online, visit fruittramps.com).

“You should always leave some kind of a record for your kids,” says Bertha, now 93. “We all make a story – some better, some worse.”

© 2011 Friends and Neighbors

Selling off man-made gold; this historic lithograph first appeared in 1850; courtesy Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley

Those who have dug gold in the Mother Lode – day after day for hours on end – know just how hard it is for a placer miner to earn an honest living, which is probably why so many 49ers chose to make their “pile” by shady and perfidious dealings.

Take Mr. Fletcher and his curious Gold-o-meter invention, for example.

“The Gold-o-meter consists of a rod three feet long with a ball at one end, twined around with silken thread,” wrote the Miners’ and Business Men’s Directory of 1857, published in Tuolumne County. “The rod is made of steel, cane or some other elastic substance. Fletcher says his instrument will not act in other hands, as it depends upon the peculiar electrical condition of his system. Still he will not let anyone examine it. Taking the lower end of the rod in both of his hands, the rod being in a perpendicular position, Fletcher walks over the ground. If there is gold in the vicinity, the rod bends or bows towards that particular locality.”

When there were two or more deposits in the area, the Gold-o-meter would gyrate wildly in semi-circles. Operating on the theory that gold washers were basically gullible people, Fletcher collected monthly royalties from naive miners for slightly over a year, mainly around the diggings of Sonora, Murphys and Carson Creek.

A few more stories of how hard-working miners were relieved of their golden harvests:

Synthetic gold: The 49ers paid for goods and services with gold dust, so it naturally follows that counterfeit yellow metal sometimes showed up on the market. One instance can be traced to Gold Springs, Tuolumne County, where in 1853 a storekeeper named Moffatt and an engineer named Darling produced man-made gold of such high quality that they were able to pass the stuff off in Sacramento as the real McCoy for nearly six months. They were eventually found out, but by boarding a steamer for South America in the nick of time they escaped wearing the hemp collar, according to an 1850s newspaper account.

Claim salting: This is an old practice – still used today – where suckers are bamboozled into thinking they’re buying a lucrative gold mine when actually they’re not. The only gold associated with such claims is secretly planted as a ruse. Often the seller loaded a shotgun with small nuggets, then fired the nuggets into the ground to make it appear as though the entire prospect is smothered in precious metal.

From San Andreas comes the story of a man who in 1855 salted his valueless claim in this manner, then sold it to another miner who soon realized his mistake. Quick to react, the new owner re-salted the claim with yet another shotgun, floated a rumor in the saloons that he had just struck a rich pocket, and sold the claim back to its original owner at a profit.

One of the Mother Lode’s most remarkable stories comes from Angels Camp, where Charles H. Lane bought a salted mine pit in 1880. For several years this notorious humbug failed to produce, but Lane undauntedly pressed on.

Why did he do this? Because a San Francisco palm reader kept telling him that the Utica Mine would someday make him a rich man. Oddly enough, the palm reader was right. Under Lane’s capable management the Utica became one of our nation’s “two most successful mining operations,” reads a plaque in Utica Park. It finally shut down in 1918, after its gold petered out.

These were the good old days, the simple old days, the low-tech computerless days of ages past. But what if such shysters could use the Internet?

Four years ago, a longtime Tuolumne County rancher who shall remain anonymous was sitting on his front porch and gazing out over his sizeable spread when suddenly a “big scary guy” came speeding up the road, honking his horn and waving frantically.

“He gets out of the car and tells me he just bought a gold mine on my property off eBay,” the rancher recounts. “Then he goes down by the ravine and camps there for about a week. I should have called the sheriff, come to think of it, but I didn’t.”

On further examination it turned out the big scary guy was quite sincere, having paid someone he never met $45,000 (his retirement plan) for a gold mine that doesn’t exist. Sadly, he sold his house and business on the East Coast with high hopes of striking it rich in California’s foothills.

Ironically, all the land in this strange but true story is a “patented claim,” under which both surface and mineral rights are part of the title. Such claims are a major non-starter for modern-day squatters with gold as their object. The matter is now in litigation.

“A few months later, a man and his wife come up the road with a truckload of mining tools and a bogus deed purchased over the Internet,” the rancher went on to lament. “They cut the lock on one of my gates and replaced it with their own, but they didn’t stick around very long. Shucks, there’s not much in the way of gold on this old ranch. If there were, I’d be out there digging it up myself.”

Moral: Get-rich-quick schemes are usually too good to be true, especially those synonymous with gold mines.

© 2011 Friends and Neighbors Magazine