April 4, 1970-Something

I'd spent a long day working with my father at his law office on Washington Street in Salem, Massachusetts. By the time we were heading home to Epping, New Hampshire, it was dark and foggy as hell. We usually talked non-stop on the trips down and back from Salem. Sometimes Daddy would sing, making up the words he didn't know. The autumn leaves, they stop and flicker. Or he'd sing songs he made up himself. As I walked through the barroom door, I saw some blood upon the floor. I wish I could remember the rest. I know there was something about a young man and the barrel of a 45 and maybe whiskey, which was kind of funny considering he never drank. I guess I shouldn't say never. He'd have a beer now and then, or he'd get my mother to make him a hot buttered rum toddy if he was rereading Treasure Island, which he did every couple of years.

Dad in Beverly

Anyway, we were both quiet that night. I was so tired I could have fallen dead asleep. Without any kind of introductory statement (like Gee, this sure reminds me of another foggy ride.) Daddy started talking mid-way up 107, the road that would eventually kill him. I remember his first words verbatim. April 4, 1944. The rest of his story went something like this. We were flying back from a mission and couldn't see a thing in the fog. The plane crashed as we landed and skidded off the runway into a swamp. A fuel slick spread out around the plane and caught fire. The water was burning. I wasn't wearing a seat belt, and was the only one who made it out. The pilot was dead, and the radio gunner was unconscious. He was strapped in by that damn seat belt and I couldn't get it unbuckled. I could see guys in asbestos suits standing on the side of the runway and I yelled for them to come help, but they just stood there. I finally got the buckle undone, and dragged the radio gunner through the burning water. The flames were climbing up my pants like a stovepipe. The last thing I remember thinking before I passed out was, Next time you fly, tuck your pants in your boots.

I'd never heard that story before. It was the one and only time Daddy ever recounted anything substantial to me about his experiences during World War II. After his tale of terror, Daddy seemed to consciously bring himself back to the present. (I know that sounds melodramatic, but he really was in another place that night.) Daddy went on to talk about the dangers of wearing seat belts, which was kind of funny, considering not wearing a seat belt probably helped kill him in 1980. (Seriously, how many parents actively discourage the use of seat belts?) As we hurtled through the fog on our way home that night, I asked questions about the crash. I don't remember specifics, but I do remember Daddy giving rather vague answers and changing the conversation. If I heard that story for the first time today, I'm sure my reaction would be, You were only 20-years old. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

Today I was organizing a closet and decided to go through a strong box that had been on the shelf for years. I found three cardboard envelopes -- one labeled Crash Affidavits, another labeled Hearing Affidavits, and the third labeled Eyesight Affidavits. They were stuffed with testimonials about events that occurred while Daddy was in the Marines. He probably collected them to secure his Veterans Benefits. As I read through these aging missives, my mind shot back to that foggy ride up 107. I know we all didn't get to hear these stories directly from Daddy. I figured I'd post the affidavits and letters here. It's the closest we'll ever get to a firsthand account. You'll learn about his plane crash in 1944, an accident with a slick bomb in 1943, and the cumulative effects the noise he experienced as a turret gunner had on his hearing.

Let's start with Crash Affidavits.