The War Years, Part 2

My first memories are intimately associated with World War II. We were in Chicago because of the war; we went to New Haven because of the war; and most everything I remember, even a train ride and Thanksgivings seemed to circle around the gravid event.

Hitler sent his troops marching into Poland a few months before my birth. Canadian troops, the first from North America, landed in England the week I was born, and Pearl Harbor was bombed the same month I turned two. The War impacted all of our lives. The Nation was rightfully convinced that we were in a struggle for our existence and everybody was in the same boat. There was a sense of urgency and commitment so pervasive that it even penetrated the awareness of a three year old.

I was too young to understand the politics, follow the battles, or even to know what was happening, but the gravity of the War was inescapable. I grew up with the war. It shadowed my early memories, always there as the backdrop to my infant life. We were nine months in Chicago because of the war and nearly a year in New Haven, Connecticut.

It seemed like everybody was in uniform. I remember brother Don and me sitting on the laps of three servicemen we picked up while driving home from Connecticut. We were in the back seat of our 1936 Ford. They were hitchhiking home on leave; two wore army uniforms and one was a sailor.The house on Lafountain was the place we came home to - Mom Dad, Don, and me. Grandma Della Frank lived with us and was there to welcome us back each time.

Grandma Frank hung a small banner in her front bedroom window. It was about 6 by 10 inches with a white background bordered in red, and a blue star in the middle. Anyone who passed knew there was a person serving in uniform related to the people inside. There were a lot of those banners in a lot of windows. Our star was for my Uncle Joe Frank. He was thirty-two when the war began so he was one of the older soldiers. Uncle Joe served in New Guinea and the Philippines, and like most Vets, he never had much to say about it.

Certain names and phrases stick in my mind even yet: Iwo Jima, Tarawa, Guadalcanal, D-Day, and Omaha Beach for a few. Some houses had banners with two and three stars. One house in Iowa had five stars. The Sullivan brothers. All five, died in 1942 when their ship was torpedoed and sank in the Pacific.

I made my contribution to the war effort in 1945. There were a half dozen boys living on our block. I was the youngest at five. There others ranged from six on up to ten, though three were brother Don’s age of seven. One of the older came up with the idea that we should collect newspapers to sell. We took our wagons and went door-to-door gathering up old newspapers, and then towed them four blocks west on Broadway to the Mervis salvage yard. On the way one of the group suggested a plan in which each of us would put a foot on the scales so we could claim a greater profit.

That seemed easy, and we entered the yard with a light hearted confidence. The scales were five foot on a side and level with the floor, so we easily pulled our wagons onto it and dumped the newspapers. Then we hovered around the edge with one foot projecting onto the scale. There were six small shoes pressing a few more pounds. I wish I had a picture of that scene. Of course we did not get away with it. The old man running the scales told us we had to back off. He was only a little gruff, but I expect he was laughing inside. War profiteering can apparently start at a young age.

The war ended in August of 1945. Everybody in Kokomo was in the streets celebrating. Mom said that people tore up ration booklets and used the stamps as confetti. We drove all around town in our 1936 Ford. The town square was absolutely packed with people. They were dancing, and singing, and some were just yelling in jubilation. Mom and Dad decided that we needed a noise maker so Dad took the metal cover off the spare tire, tied it to the bumper with a rope, and dragged it through the streets. It did a fair job of clanking and banging while it lasted, but came loose in the south part of town, but we kept going. Mom said they didn’t get much sleep for next two or three days, and the celebration when on for week. I’ve never seen a bigger Thanksgiving.

The Things I Do Remember, Part 2 - New Haven, CT

Another photo is from a year later. It’s a black & white taken from the bottom of a very long, narrow staircase. The view looked steeply upward into a dimly lit void. I think we were in New Haven, Connecticut. Dad was then at Yale University, and still teaching for the military. It was probably our apartment building. There were two doors facing each other at the top, one on each side of the hall. There may have been more doors further along but I have no memory of any. I can remember standing alone at the top, anxious because I did not know the one to our place. Inside the apartment I could look out a window and down into a deep pit. The view was into a small courtyard. I could see a small grassy area hemmed in by four white walls. There was no way in or out. It scared me to think of being down there - trapped. How could I ever escape should the unthinkable happen? I think I went to that window frequently, fascinated by the sight, and then one day I saw a man down there with a garden hose.


There was a guy named Porge. I don’t know if that was his last name or a nick name. He was a student of Dad’s, and must have been rich for he had a large estate outside of New Haven at which he gave big parties. We went to several during our year in New Haven. It was a big place and there was always a lot of people, many in uniform. I don’t remember much more than that, but he had a round swimming pool with a sandy bottom. It might have been fed by a stream, because one day when I was in the pool something big came out of the inlet, and swam across the surface, exiting on the opposite side. I did not have any idea what it was but it had a lot of legs and looked menacing. I got out of the pool shortly thereafter and refused to go back.

There were some other fragmentary memories; a sailor with a rifle standing near a really giant anchor in front of an important looking building; the sight, on our kitchen table, of a sea star lying on its back, with its tube feet exposed. We were a bunch of flat-land foreigners, ignorant about the sea, and fearing a little, harmless, sea star. The four of us stood at a respectful distance, gawking at the alien creature that could not sting, but we did not know it.

Sometime during the year in Connecticut we took a train trip. There is no one any longer to ask about the trip, so I don’t know much other than it was during that year. I have a feeling it may have occurred when we were going to Connecticut. Dad might have already gone, and Mom, Don and I were joining him later. I have little memory of it save two frightful events. There was a metal plate covering the coupling between cars. It was constantly vibrating. Its shifting and bouncing was treacherous and I was hesitant about stepping onto it. An adult could probably span the distance in one long step, but I was little and my legs were short. Would I lose my footing? Would I be vibrated off the train? I don’t remember if I ever crossed it. Later I was sitting looking out the window. We were going through beautifully hilly country, a type I had never seen before. The train suddenly passed over a great void. There was nothing under us, and I looked down into a chasm to the forest floor hundreds of feet below. I know now we were crossing a train trestle, and we crossed others and some of them I must has seen as we approached on curves. I could not conceive how such a heavy thing as a train could be supported. I expected us to plunge to the bottom at each crossing. I was stoic. I never cried or said anything. I waited for the end that was sure to come.

GO TO: Part 3